Not My Daughter

‘Yes, darling?’

‘Mummy, am I going to get better?’ The question is soft, slurred, but all too understandable. I prevaricate, because the alternative still feels impossible, even after all this time.

‘The new medication should help, darling. That’s what the doctor said.’

Alice, my lovely Alice, shakes her head. ‘No. Am I going to get better?’ And she waits for my answer, the answer my heart cries out not to give, even now. Especially now. And yet I know she deserves the truth. She’s been so patient, so brave, so trusting. And even though she’s only five years old, I see an understanding in her eyes that humbles me.

‘The things you’ve been feeling, Alice… the symptoms… they’ll never go away.’ I take her hand. ‘I’m so sorry, sweetheart. So, so sorry.’

She is silent for a long moment, lost in thought, but I have no idea what she is thinking. Then she looks at me again, those sea-green eyes startlingly direct. ‘Am I going to die?’

My eyes fill with tears as my heart lodges itself in my throat. I hold her hand like an anchor. I’m not ready for this moment. I didn’t think she’d ask; I didn’t think she’d know. She’s still so very little. And yet, looking at her, I can see that she does. ‘One day, Alice,’ I say quietly. ‘Yes. But Daddy and I will be with you. We’ll never leave you alone, I promise. We’ll stay with you the whole time, and you won’t need to be scared at all.’

She nods slowly, her expression so serious. ‘Will it hurt?’

A small sob threatens to escape me, but I choke it down. ‘I promise you, Alice, it won’t hurt. The doctors will make sure it doesn’t. It will be like falling asleep, and it’s not going to happen for a long time.’ God willing. God willing, we still have years with her, even if those are years of loss, of a certain kind of grief. She’ll still be with us, and there will still be joy.

‘And then I’ll go to heaven?’ The question surprises me, because we’re not particularly religious, but then I remember that her primary school is Church of England, and they must talk about these things there. If ever there was a time to believe in heaven, to hope and trust that there is a God who loves her, it is now.

‘Yes, darling. You’ll go to heaven.’

She nods slowly, accepting this along with everything else. Perhaps the realisation, the rage and the tears will come later. At least in this moment there is peace. ‘That’s all right, then.’

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Perhaps she is too young to realise all the losses she faces – all the moments and milestones she’ll never know. That I’ll never see. Perhaps she will be spared that, and it will only be my grief to bear, mine and Matt’s. And Anna’s. The thought slips in and takes root. Anna.

I have not seen Anna since that night in the wine bar, although she continues to leave meals for us every so often, and sends the occasional text. I always send one back, thanking her, but it’s clear there is still a distance between us, a distance Matt and I have put there.

After that first seizure, I didn’t have the wherewithal to engineer a visit with her as I’d planned, with all its accompanying stresses, but now, as Alice falls asleep, I wonder at myself. Can I really deny Anna so much, simply because I don’t feel up to it?

Now, as I watch Alice’s face soften into sleep, her chest rise and fall, I realise something I should have understood a long time ago. Anna needs to see Alice. While Alice is still seeing, talking, walking, being,

Anna needs to know her daughter.

Thirty-Six

Anna

‘Hello, Anna.’

Milly’s voice sounds quiet rather than anxious, and for a second my heart seems to stop, my phone becoming slick in my hand, as the potential implication punches me in the chest. No matter how much I’ve told myself I’ve let go, in this moment I am one hundred per cent invested.

‘It’s not Alice…?’ Surely it can’t be the end already. Please God, no.

Milly lets out a wavery sound, something caught between a laugh and a sob. ‘No, it’s not Alice. At least… not that way. Not yet.’ She pauses to draw a quick, even breath. ‘She’s been in and out of the hospital lately, having her medication adjusted, but she came home a few days ago.’

‘Okay…’

‘And I thought you might like to see her.’

For a moment I can’t speak. I’m trying to process what Milly said, and more importantly, why she said it. And then I realise that none of it actually matters. She’s asking me if I want to see Alice, and there is only one answer to that.

‘Yes, I would love to see her. When is a good time?’

‘Saturday afternoon? If the weather’s nice, we could have a barbecue.’

‘I’ll be there.’

‘Great.’