by Carol Mason
I tell Grace, as calmly as I can, to dial 999. But she stands there, stunned, inert.
‘Do it,’ I roar, as I hurry past her. Toby is squealing, thrashing about in my arms. ‘Put me on speakerphone so I can talk to them.’
‘Okay!’ She finally comes to her senses, as I rush him into the bathroom.
I set him on the toilet seat while I fiddle with the bathtub taps until the water coming from the mixer is lukewarm. ‘I know, Toby. I’m so sorry. I’m going to make you feel better. Okay? Come on, baby.’ I lift him. He squirms, squeals and thrashes again. ‘This is for your own good. This is going to help you.’ I try to hold him under the running water. He resists with every ounce of his will. ‘Please, Toby,’ I say. ‘Please let me do this.’ I can’t hold him at this awkward angle, so I’ve no choice but to climb in with him. My flip-flops meet the bathmat, almost suctioning, my knees going down, the weight of water in my tracksuit bottoms almost pulling them off me. ‘Shshshsh . . .’ I try to soothe him. ‘Please stay still. I know, I know . . .’
Grace hovers in the doorway as the call handler comes on the line. I try to hold him so there’s a continuous flow of water on his scalded skin and to recount to this woman precisely what’s happened. I inform her I’m a doctor and I want to bring him in as an emergency. My voice is serrated from the struggle of trying to keep him under the taps.
It feels like the longest twenty minutes of my life, but finally help arrives. I’ve managed to dry him off, wrap him carefully in a fresh towel. In no time at all, we are off to hospital in the ambulance. I try to hold on to his good hand; his tiny fingers are curled into a fist, his knuckles pressed into my palm. His other hand and arm have been mummified in cling film like a piece of raw meat to keep his body from losing heat, an IV delivering a painkiller. Grace sits on the seat immediately behind me. She is still too shocked to say much. Toby’s pupils are dilated, eyes slightly unrecognising.
Eventually, when we’re about halfway there, his cries lose their ferocity and plateau to a long, low whimper. I try to tenderly cajole him but it’s like I’m a stranger. ‘Mummy. Mummy. Mummy,’ he keeps saying, over and over. I press a hand to my mouth. The sound of him longing for the comfort of his mother’s arms almost breaks my heart.
‘It’s Dad,’ Grace croaks, her voice full of nerves and dread. She holds out my mobile. At first I’m confused, but then I remember I tried to ring him and he wasn’t picking up.
‘Hi.’ I clutch the phone with a sweating hand, tell him there’s been an accident.
I’m aware of a drawn-out silence. Then he says, ‘Accident? Who?’
I stare at the scalded child before me, this little boy who had finally learned to trust me, even though he never actually knew it was a journey he had to take.
‘Toby,’ I tell him. I explain how it happened.
‘Jesus Christ!’ His tone is riddled with accusation as much as alarm.
I tell him the name of the hospital and that the paramedics have everything under control.
‘Right then,’ he says, and then, ‘I’m on my way.’
I am no stranger to hospitals. But not from the perspective of hard plastic seats outside a room where Grace and I have been instructed to sit, like we are dispossessed. ‘The doctor will want to examine him alone,’ the nurse said. Code for: we need the physical evidence to corroborate your story. In situations like these, no doctor goes looking for cause to be suspicious, but it’s there – part of the training – the need to rule out intentional harm. Grace’s tears are a soft slur. We wait what feels like a cruel amount of time.
So this is what it’s like on the other side, I think.
And then the double doors groan open, and through them walk my husband and his ex-wife. Is it symbolic that, while they’ve hailed from opposite ends of London, they’ve arrived together? Just the very sight of Meredith makes my stomach flip. She spots me before Joe, her eyes dropping to my hand laid over her daughter’s.
And then she says, ‘My God, what have you done now?’
On seeing her dad, Grace jumps to her feet and throws herself into his outstretched arms.
For the first time in my life, I recognise the utter inadequacy of words.
She trusted me with her child. Toby got scalded on my watch. It wasn’t his mum he bulldozed into. Wasn’t his mum he knocked off balance. Wasn’t his mum whose hand slipped. It was me. It was mine.
Tears spring to my eyes. A sudden rush of realisation that in years to come, Toby might not remember much about his early years, but he will remember today.
Joe is still holding his daughter. I register their solidarity – the three of them standing there, on the other side of some invisible barrier that has been re-erected, that will probably always be there, no matter how I try to break it down.
We are saved by the arrival of the doctor.
He appears from around the corner, in pale green scrubs and a soft cotton shirt with sleeves pushed halfway up his arms. A uniform I’m used to. A stance I recognise. An expression of utter exhaustion in his eyes that I have also felt. Only I don’t know this doctor. This is not my hospital.
‘Are you Toby’s parents?’ he asks, meeting no one’s eyes in particular.
‘Yes,’ Joe and Meredith say together.
‘Would you both please come this way?’
By the gravity of his tone, and the slight flex of the muscles of his neck, I have a feeling it’s going to be worse than I thought.
THIRTY-SEVEN
I take an Uber home alone, in a blur. The driver is chatty. I barely hear a word. Eventually he gives up and I stare out of the window, not realising we’ve even arrived at my door until he says, ‘Er . . . Lauren. This is it, right?’
When I get inside I stare at the pan on the kitchen floor, the pool of water, a few remaining pasta bows that the dog didn’t eat. Then I march straight to the toilet, and throw up.
Once I’ve retched until there’s nothing left, I go back into the kitchen. I should mop up, but all I can do is sink on to a stool and relive what just happened.
Arrive alive! Toby’s little hand in mine. Can we find out how Russell is doing? His excitement, the utter trust, as he threw himself at me.
Could I have reacted faster? Managed to at least get the pan out of the way somehow?
Reaction time. Humanly impossible to be faster than between 150 and 300 milliseconds. In the instant my brain processed what was happening, it was already too late. I couldn’t stop time or control a different outcome.
I drop my forehead on to the island and I cry.
After what feels like a fair amount of time has passed, and I’ve cleaned up the kitchen and sat on the patio while the dog sniffed around and peed, I realise I need to find out what’s going on. I try Joe’s phone but it’s off. Meredith’s too.
I text Grace. What’s happening? How is Toby?
I see the message is read, the three little moving dots that appear soon after.
Not sure. Mum made me Uber home.
Hmmm. You’re at home now? On your own? Would you rather come here?
There’s a longer wait for a reply this time. And then it arrives. It’s okay.
Finally, a long time later, after I’ve walked Mozart around the block, mainly for distraction, and then attempted to eat a piece of dry toast, Joe walks through the door.
He slumps into the chair, unable to be bothered to even stroke the dog, who nudges his limp hand.
‘How is he?’ I ask.
‘He’s fine. They’re going to keep him in for a night. He’s in some pain still.’ After a pause he says, ‘The doctor said something about possible second- and third-degree burns to his right hand.’ His voice is tired and flat. ‘They won’t know if he’ll need a skin graft for a while – until it starts to heal, I think. Meredith insisted they transfer him to the burns unit for a more specialised opinion. She didn’t seem to think the doctor knew what he was talking about.’
Suddenly the reality of this hits me. Toby may be
scarred. Toby may have impaired use of his right hand. An injury for life. ‘What did the doctor say exactly? About his injuries?’
He shakes his head. ‘To be honest, I don’t entirely remember. Pretty much just what I told you, I think.’
I press my fingers to my lips and gasp. He watches me, his eyes holding steady on my face.
Then he says, ‘Can you explain it to me again? How it happened. I just need to have a clearer picture.’
I don’t know what I can add that’s any different from what I’ve already said, so I just repeat it. There is a moment or two when he doesn’t comment. And then he says, ‘So he was running around? I’ve told you he’s not allowed to run in the flat. Do you know how many accidents happen that way with kids?’
‘He wasn’t running around!’ I have a vague memory of us talking about the bird, of him standing there by the breakfast bar, doing something with Godfrey. I think. ‘He was with Grace and then he came over to where I was, in the kitchen.’
‘But if he threw himself into you, like he does sometimes . . . I’m confused. I just need clarity on the details.’
The harder I try to remember, the more muddy my memory becomes. ‘Joe, I . . .’
‘Your hand slipped.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘He took me a little off balance.’ I can vividly recall the feeling of the pan in my hand, my struggle to keep it steady, the water spilling.
I try to look away from the distressing memory. He is staring at me, measuring me.
‘What is it?’ I ask.
There’s a long pause, and then he says, ‘Well, the thing is . . . Meredith told the doctor she didn’t believe it was an accident.’
THIRTY-EIGHT
His words circle the air, unable to land. ‘What?’
‘She’s talking about reporting you to Social Services, to the General Medical Council and possibly even suing you for negligence.’
‘Suing me?’ I almost bolt off the chair. I can’t be hearing straight. ‘But it was an accident!’ The words come out emphatically but I almost sound like I’m beseeching him to believe me. ‘She thinks I threw water on him deliberately? Boiling water? Is this some sort of joke? You can’t be serious!’
When he just drops his gaze to the floor, I say, ‘Grace was there. Didn’t anyone ask her?’
‘She said she was on the sofa. She wasn’t paying attention. All she heard was his screaming.’
It’s true. She wasn’t exactly right there.
‘Oh my God.’ My legs are about to give out. I have to sit down again. ‘She’s going to report me to Social Services . . .’ I try to visualise what this means. ‘How can she – or anyone – think I’d want to hurt a child?’
‘Lauren,’ he says, matter-of-factly, coldly. ‘You went on a public forum. You pretty much admitted you hate them.’
I cannot believe my ears. ‘She’s going to use that against me? What I said on a forum? She’s going to attempt to destroy my career with this? My life?’ Adrenaline is blazing. The blood pounding in my head.
I search his face for some sign of sympathy, or outrage. But there is nothing. Instead, he studies me for a while, then he says, ‘She believes the environment was . . . unsafe. You had a duty of care towards him, and she thinks you failed in that regard.’
‘And what do you think?’ I ask.
His lack of an immediate response is pretty much all the answer I need.
‘Wow,’ I say. ‘You actually agree with her. You think I deliberately tried to hurt him . . .’ My voice breaks. I look at him properly now but there is something impassive and shut down in his expression. I can’t gain entry.
‘I don’t think you deliberately tried to hurt him. Of course I don’t . . . But you can’t be handling pans of boiling water when there’s a four-year-old darting around the place! I mean . . . for God’s sake, Lauren! How can you not know that?’
‘But he wasn’t darting . . . !’
‘It’s a basic . . . Such a basic thing. You don’t have to be a parent, you don’t have to be anything . . . It’s something anyone would intuitively know!’ He sounds so mystified, like he just can’t fathom the degree of my incompetence. ‘How could you put him in harm’s way like that?’
Harm’s way?
I suck in air, but I cannot let the breath back out. It’s all just trapped, locked there. When I can recover a part of myself, I say, ‘I need air. I have to get out of here.’
I don’t even wait for another word from him, cannot face hearing another single accusation. I bolt from the sofa, grab my keys, and rush out of the door.
THIRTY-NINE
I am sitting in my car watching the rain roll down the windscreen. None of this feels real. My mind tries to play it all back but it’s all scrambled.
I’m startled by the loud ping of a text notification. I glance at my phone sitting on the passenger seat. Sophie.
I click on her message. So sorry it’s late in the day! HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!! Hope you’re having an amazing day! Can we talk?
I stare at the words HAPPY BIRTHDAY. All the exclamation marks. It’s an olive branch and my eyes well up. Once I can gather myself, I dial her number. But the second I hear the comforting familiarity of her voice, I burst into tears. It takes me a while to be able to compose myself enough to tell her what’s gone on.
‘What are you doing right this second?’ she asks, in that no-nonsense way of hers.
‘Sitting in my car, a few streets away from my flat,’ I tell her.
‘You need to drive over to our place. Right now.’ And then she says, ‘In fact, don’t drive. Get an Uber.’ When she senses I’m dithering she says, ‘Lauren. Get yourself over here right now. Or, alternatively, tell me precisely where you are and I’ll come and get you.’
‘I’ll get an Uber,’ I tell her.
Over a curry I can barely stomach looking at, let alone eating, and a beer that feels like it’s just sitting in a fizzy puddle in my oesophagus, we try to get our heads around what happened and where I stand.
If Meredith goes ahead with her complaint, I know from my knowledge of hospital procedure the first step will be a formal report. Then Social Services will get involved. If the allegation seems substantial then maybe the police will also feature. Then . . . it either comes to nothing, or the worst-case scenario happens and I am charged. That would lead to a hearing, a possible conviction, a sentence, a criminal record. I would no longer be able to practise medicine. My life would be ruined.
I can barely come out from hiding my head in my hands.
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ Charlie says, as I repeat all this. ‘We know all this is possible, but whether it’s likely is a whole other ball of wax. You didn’t do anything wrong. If it was this easy to break the law, we’d all be in prison!’ He sounds furious on my behalf and I find myself hanging on to his logic, trying to believe it for the sake of my sanity. ‘Even if she’s the best barrister on the planet, she’s got to have some sort of proof. And some daft shit you wrote in a forum is hardly going to stand up in court!’ He cracks open another beer and passes it to me.
‘I’m sure you’re right. But even if there’s no criminal case . . .’ I can’t believe I’ve just uttered the word criminal in the context of myself. ‘If she sues me in civil court she could ruin me financially.’ I’d done a quick google while they were ordering the food. ‘You think uni debt is bad! I could be stuck paying legal fees, damages . . . I could be in debt for the rest of my life!’
Oh my God, this is a nightmare. I jump up and pace the floor. I have to calm down or I’m going to combust.
‘I seriously cannot imagine she’s going to go to that extreme, Lauren!’ Sophie says. ‘You have to remember she’s furious right now. She suffered a terrible shock. I’m sure once she’s calmed down she’ll see sense.’
I gaze from one face to the other. ‘I hope you’re both right. I don’t see her as a person to make idle threats, but maybe I’m wrong. And she’s never liked me from day one. Not really . . . Maybe she’
s been waiting for an opportunity like this . . .’ I remember the day she told me about the case she was working on – malicious mother syndrome. It seems more than a little ironic that I’m sitting here wondering if Meredith might be a malicious mother herself.
‘Look, keep a level head. Getting freaked out about it isn’t going to help,’ Charlie says. ‘It was an accident that could have happened to anyone. You did nothing wrong in the eyes of the law or the GMC! Or in the eyes of anybody else! End of.’
End of?
I want to be optimistic but I can’t help thinking this is just the beginning of.
FORTY
When I get back to the flat the next morning after crashing on Sophie and Charlie’s sofa, Joe is finishing up a business call. When he hangs up, he doesn’t ask where I’ve been all night, just looks at me tiredly – like he doesn’t much care.
‘How is Toby?’ I ask. ‘And Grace? Is she okay?’ I think of how frozen she was, how terrified. Grace may not be the most openly demonstrative big sister, but she was grief-stricken to see her little brother hurt, and I feel so awful about that.
He sighs, sends a hand through his hair. ‘Grace is fine. I talked to her earlier. She’s going into school because there’s nothing to be gained by staying at home . . . I’m going in to see Toby now actually. Meredith has to get to court.’
‘Can I come?’ I ask. And before he can protest, I add, ‘I’d obviously like to see with my own eyes how he’s doing.’
I’m almost one hundred per cent certain he’ll say that’s really not a good idea.
But instead he says, ‘Sure.’
Toby is sitting up in bed in his private room while a young nurse has a bit of banter with him. My heart sinks at the sight of his lower arm and hand swaddled in bandages.
‘Daddy!’ he says, surprisingly cheery. ‘Where’s Mummy?’
