Not My Daughter

‘Just in case, Matt.’

‘But she’s happy. She’s enjoying school. She’s doing well.’

‘She’s limping,’ I told him quietly. ‘Have you noticed?’ I’d been tracking it for the last week, and Alice’s gait had been consistently, troublingly uneven. ‘And sometimes she forgets words… easy words.’

‘Surely that’s normal, when she’s only four.’

I shook my head, because even though I wanted that to be the case, I knew in my clenched gut that it wasn’t. ‘Why wouldn’t you want to get this checked out?’ I asked. ‘Just in case?’

Matt stared at me for a long moment. ‘Because I’m scared,’ he said quietly, and it was a confession, not just of his fear, but of where we were – hurtling into space, having no idea where – or how – we would land. How far – especially Alice – might fall.

Twenty-Six

Anna

‘Milly.’ I stare at her in shock, still amazed, even after having buzzed her up, that she is standing in my doorway, that she is here. I am conscious of my bedhead, my pyjamas. If I had to see Milly again, this is definitely not how I would have planned it.

‘Sorry.’ She looks older, her dark, wild hair possessing a few grey streaks, deeper crow’s feet by her eyes. Yet essentially she looks the same – small and fierce, a bundle of nervous energy and purpose. ‘Did I wake you up?’

‘No… not exactly. What’s happened with Alice?’ It feels strange to say her name, especially to Milly. ‘Is she… is she…’ I can’t make myself say it, whether she is in trouble or sick or worse. So I just stare, waiting for Milly’s answer.

‘Do you mind if I… if I come in?’ she asks, deliberately not answering my question, and I shrug and step aside. She walks in slowly, taking in the changes in my flat in the last four years. ‘I wasn’t even sure you lived here anymore,’ she says as she comes into the living room. I changed the walls from deep terracotta to a more soothing ivory a few years ago. I also replaced the sofa with a big squashy one in grey suede. Winnie stretches and leaps off the sofa with a swish of her tail, avoiding Milly and disappearing into the kitchen.

‘Why wouldn’t I?’ I ask as I stand in the doorway. I want her to tell me what’s going on with Alice, not make chit-chat.

‘Only because I thought you might have moved. You changed your phone number…’ I don’t answer, and Milly narrows her eyes. ‘Didn’t you? Or was that you, telling me I’d got the wrong number?’

‘What’s happened to Alice?’

‘Nothing’s happened.’

‘You made it sound as if it was urgent, as if something was wrong.’ The adrenalin is still coursing through me, just from hearing Milly say those words. It’s about Alice. ‘Why are you here, Milly?’

‘I needed to talk to you. Something’s… come up.’

I arch an eyebrow, tense and waiting.

‘Are you still working in HR?’ she asks, and the words seem to hang in the air. Seriously? We’re going to just pick up where we left off, have a bit of a catch-up? I don’t reply and she bows her head. ‘Sorry,’ she mutters. ‘This is hard.’

‘Take a seat,’ I say, relenting a bit in my aggressive stance. Milly lowers herself into an armchair, and I notice how tired and anxious she looks. Fear needles me coldly. ‘What’s happened with Alice?’ I ask again.

‘I wish I could tell you.’ She sighs wearily and rubs a hand over her face. ‘But the truth is, we don’t know. We’re trying to find… Matt and I… We’ve started noticing things. Little things at first. Things that might not even be connected… I don’t know. It’s so hard to know. But we started to get worried, and then our GP referred her for some tests.’

My mind is whirling. ‘What kinds of things did you notice?’

‘Really little things.’ Milly shrugs, dabbing at the corner of one eye. ‘She’s a bit clumsy… she needed glasses… she was regressing in certain areas, verbal and motor skills… and then, last month, she started having seizures.’

‘Seizures…’ I can barely take it all in. Alice, lovely little Alice, whom, on some level, I still picture as a baby, having these issues. ‘So what tests has she had? What have you found out?’

‘That’s the problem. Nothing.’ She spreads her hands despairingly. ‘They’ve ruled out a bunch of disorders, thankfully, some serious, some not as serious.’

‘Such as?’

My bullet-like questions seem to take her aback, as if she hadn’t expected me to be so interested, so invested, still. But then I have no idea what Milly has thought about me these last four years – if she’s thought of me at all.

‘Epilepsy, ADD, something on the autism spectrum… but she’s never had those kinds of symptoms. At least, not until recently.’

My stomach plunges, icy with dread. ‘What’s happened recently?’