by Ali Mercer
After a while I went upstairs to run Daisy’s bath. I could hear someone talking, and at first I thought it was Mark watching TV in his office. Then I realised it was him, on the phone to someone.
He came to bed late, and I didn’t get the chance to ask him who he’d been talking to till the following morning, when he was about to leave for work.
‘I rang my mother,’ he said. ‘Do you have a problem with that?’
He slammed the front door on the way out. It was actually a relief to be alone with Daisy.
* * *
The report came home in Daisy’s bookbag a couple of days later, in a sealed brown envelope. After I’d read it, I set it aside to present to Mark after dinner. But when I gave it to him he yawned, protested, said how tired he was, and wondered if he really had to read it just then, since he had a lot of work to do that evening.
‘You can read it whenever suits you, but I would have thought you’d want to read it sooner rather than later.’
He pulled a face as if I was being unreasonable. ‘Yes, well, some of us actually have to earn some money round here.’
‘Oh, come on. I work too.’
‘You work part-time, and it’s hardly demanding, is it? A bit of putting in full stops and taking out commas, a couple of days a week. You only started doing it so you could pay to leave Daisy with a childminder. Maybe if you’d focused on her, we wouldn’t be where we are now.’
‘Don’t you dare blame me.’
‘You’re the one who spends the most time with her.’
‘Yes, and it wouldn’t hurt you to take a bit more of an interest. I see other dads out with their kids all the time, in the park or whatever. You never do anything with her.’
‘That’s because it’s so bloody impossible!’
Daisy stopped pressing the button on the keyboard that played ‘Greensleeves’ and let out a long, high-pitched shriek.
‘You shouldn’t have raised your voice,’ I hissed at Mark as I rushed to reassure her. ‘She’s very sensitive to noise.’
A few minutes later I heard the front door slam.
I couldn’t believe it. How dare he? And where the hell had he gone?
He didn’t come back till much later, by which time I was more anxious than angry. I’d managed to get Daisy off to sleep and was in bed myself, waiting up for him, wondering whether I should start calling people to track down where he was, and trying and failing to read.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said as he came into the bedroom. ‘I just had to get out. If I didn’t I was going to kill somebody.’
‘Oh. And that’s meant to make me feel better?’
‘No,’ he said, taking his dressing-gown off the hook. ‘It’s meant to be the truth.’
‘Where have you been, anyway? I was worried.’
‘I went to the pub.’
‘Oh. That must have been nice. I’m sure some of us would love to go off to the pub once in a while.’
‘Well, if you hadn’t totally alienated my mother you might have a willing babysitter. But as it is, I don’t think anybody else would be up for dealing with Daisy, so you’re a bit stuck, aren’t you?’
And with that he went off to take a shower.
He’d started with an apology. Why hadn’t I tried to be nicer to him? But then, with his next breath he’d been talking about murder. It wasn’t much of a way to make peace.
I looked round at the bedroom: the framed photographs of our wedding and of us with Daisy trying to look happy, the designer dressing table Mark had picked out for me that I’d never used, and the mementoes of past foreign holidays: the vase from Turkey, the wood carving from New Zealand, the Italian glass candlesticks. So much stuff, so carefully curated: a life built out of perfect little things.
If this was how it was going to be between us… how on earth could we stay together?
Suddenly I could foresee a future in which everything around us would vanish, and Daisy and I would have to face the rest of the world alone. It felt like being poised to step off the edge of a cliff.
* * *
A few days later, while Mark was at work, I stole into his office to look for the report.
He had clearly not read it. It wasn’t that he hadn’t got round to it; he had decided to bury it. It was at the bottom of a small, orderly pile that included a brochure from the nearby gardening centre, his annual pension statement and a guide to the best PCs and laptops on the market.
That night he was back late; Daisy was already in the bath by the time he pulled up in the drive. It had occurred to me that he was putting in extra hours just to get out of spending time at home. I wasn’t sure whether it was me or Daisy he was keener to avoid… or both of us.
I called down to tell him there was a pasta bake in the oven, and got Daisy out of the bath and cleared up the water she’d splashed everywhere. By the time we came down he’d finished eating and had nearly polished off a big glass of wine.
‘Do you want some? There’s plenty left,’ he said.
I poured myself some wine and sat down opposite him. This was how we’d done it in the old days, wasn’t it? Sharing a bottle of wine on a Friday night, a bit of conversation, a box set, sex… no interruptions? Well, we ought to be all right for a bit – Daisy had gone straight to her keyboard, and its tinny electronic version of ‘Greensleeves’ was playing yet again.
‘I see my daughter couldn’t keep herself from rushing in to say goodnight to Daddy,’ Mark said.
It took an effort to suppress the urge to chuck my glass of wine over his too-handsome, self-pitying face.
‘You could always go and say goodnight to her yourself if you’re so keen.’
‘Oh, come on,’ Mark said. ‘You must hate it too. Don’t you? Don’t pretend you don’t.’
‘I don’t hate Daisy, if that’s what you mean.’
‘I mean her being the way she is. With this thing that there’s no cure for.’
‘Hang on a minute. Last I knew, you weren’t even willing to talk about this until she’d had the diagnosis.’
‘Yes, well, I still had a little bit of hope then. I wasn’t ready to admit how completely screwed she is. She’s never going to be able to lead a normal life, Paula. Never.’ He downed the rest of his glass of wine. ‘You know what I was thinking the other day? How nice it would be to book a summer holiday. I’ve been working hard, I deserve a break. But then I started thinking, where on earth can we go? With her? The truth is, we can’t go anywhere. We’re screwed, too.’
‘That is not true.’
Mark refilled his glass. ‘It is, and you know it.’
‘Is this what you’ve got out of talking to your mother? I should have guessed that she’d just make everything worse.’
‘Don’t talk about her like that. She’s just a realist. You might choose to see this whole thing through rose-tinted spectacles, but I’m not going to.’
‘You can’t just give up.’
‘I’m not giving up. There’s nothing to give up.’
‘Mark, if only you’d read that report, there was some advice for us, some ideas for things to try…’
‘Don’t nag me, OK? None of that’s going to cure her, is it? There isn’t a cure.’
‘Well, no. But there are still things we can do that might help.’
‘Really? Like what?’
My mind had gone blank. ‘Well, one of them was to play turn-taking games… like catch…’
He rolled his eyes. ‘I’ve tried that. She can’t do it,’ he said. ‘So is this your thing now? The self-sacrificing special needs mum, bravely soldering on? Bit of a new look for you, playing the virtue card.’
‘If that’s you getting at me for having a crush on someone else about a decade ago, then you’re even more pathetic than I thought.’
‘Oh, I’m pathetic now, am I? Then why are you still married to me?’ He pointed in the direction of the living room, where Daisy had turned up the volume the keyboard to maximum volume. ‘If you’re being so
honest now, why don’t you just admit it’s because of that? You’re the one who wanted her. It wasn’t my idea.’
‘That is unforgivable!’
‘Then don’t forgive me. I’m past caring.’
He scooped up his wine glass and strode off in the direction of the office, and I heard the slam of the door even over the blaring of Daisy’s toy.
* * *
The next day I steeled myself to call my mum. She was full of her own news, so the first part of the conversation was fine. She had broken up with the boyfriend who owned the houseboat and was sub-letting a tiny bedsit above a sex shop in Soho, and had just started a long-distance relationship with an Australian sheep farmer she’d met online. She was already making plans to fly out to meet him in the flesh.
Eventually I brought myself to tell her what Mary Greengage had said.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ she exclaimed. ‘What is this mania with sticking labels on children? Look, are you worried about her?’
‘Well… yes.’
‘Well, try not to be, is my advice. I mean, is she happy? That’s all that really matters, isn’t it? Not whether she’s got the five times table down pat.’
Daisy hadn’t yet learned to count to ten and didn’t have much language beyond yes, no, a series of useful nouns and the ability to echo back what other people had said, but I decided not to point this out.
‘She isn’t always happy,’ I said. ‘Sometimes she gets really stressed out, and has these awful meltdowns where she’s just beside herself.’
‘Oh, you used to have tantrums too. I’m sure she’ll grow out of it. And they put them under a lot of pressure at a very young age these days, don’t they? I mean, once upon a time, she’d still have been at home, and you wouldn’t have had anybody poking round paying you visits. She’s not even five yet. Look, Paula, forgive me for being blunt, but are you sure you don’t just want to be let off the hook? Because, you know, if you manage to do this, if you succeed in having Daisy labelled in this way… doesn’t that mean nobody will ever expect anything more of her, or of you?’
‘Screw you, Mum,’ I said, perfectly calmly, and hung up.
I was astonished by what I’d said to her, and I knew she wouldn’t be quick to forgive me – she was likely to be sniffy for months, especially if I didn’t go out of my way to apologise. But when I reflected on it, I was rather pleased with myself. I just didn’t have the energy to spare for letting her get to me.
Somewhere along the line, I’d begun to develop tunnel vision. Daisy and I were in the tunnel, and everybody else was on the outside, and unless what they were saying was helpful to us, I rejected it or ignored it.
I knew Mark hated the way I’d frozen him out. But it was necessary. By this stage, the only way I could protect myself and Daisy was by refusing to take what he’d said on board. He looked as if he felt very hard done by almost all the time. But as far as I was concerned, if he wanted to feel close to me again, he’d have to learn to offload his fear and anger elsewhere, and he’d shown no sign of being willing to do that. He seemed to think it was my job to deal with his feelings, in much the same way that I was meant to shop and cook and clean and weed the garden.
I’d hardened. It didn’t seem like such a bad thing. It seemed necessary. After all, someone had to care for Daisy, and I couldn’t leave much of that to her father… or either of her grandmothers.
It was time to face facts; I might not be up to much, I might not be the best and most dedicated parent out there, but when it came to Daisy there was no one who could be her mum as well as well as I could, however flawed or inadequate I might be.
* * *
Finally, in May, Mark came with me to a meeting about Daisy for the first time. It was the session at which we were to discover whether or not she had been given an official diagnosis.
The diagnosis meeting came at the end of a full multidisciplinary assessment at the hospital in Oxford, a series of appointments spread across five days. Daisy didn’t join us; one of the hospital playworkers was looking after her in the nursery across the corridor, which was reserved purely for the use of children going through the assessment process. The meeting took place in a small, bare, tiled room furnished with a circle of chairs. Mark and I sat next to each other, each of us with a sheaf of papers on our knees, waiting to hear what the professionals sitting around the room had to say about Daisy.
The paediatric consultant led the meeting. She ran through the summaries of the various reports and gave her conclusion: a diagnosis of autism spectrum disorder, just as Mary Greengage had suggested months before.
Despite the long wait, it felt weirdly like an anti-climax. Mark and I were given the opportunity to give our views. Mark cleared his throat, and said, ‘Do you have any idea what caused it?’
The consultant shook her head. ‘No. It’s very common to want to look for a reason, to try to find someone or something to blame. But this is not anyone’s fault.’
I looked at Mark, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes.
The consultant turned to me. ‘Mrs Walsh? Any questions?’
I shook my head and said it was what I had been expecting.
The consultant said she’d ring us in a couple of weeks to see how we were getting on and would see us again in her clinic for a check-up in a year’s time. Daisy had been referred for speech and language therapy, and someone would be in touch about that. And we could go on the waiting list for a parenting course, but it might be a while before we were offered a place.
Then she passed us both a handful of leaflets and a list of support groups. Mark murmured a polite thank you and put the information away in his briefcase, along with his copies of the reports about Daisy. I could tell by the expression on his face that he was never going to look at any of it.
I stuffed all my paperwork into the bag I’d brought with Daisy’s emergency snacks, change of clothes and favourite toy of the moment, a bear with a button on its tummy that lit up and played soothing lullabies when you pressed it. I supposed I’d have to file everything. Get organised. As if I was at work and Daisy was a project, with targets and milestones and measurable progress, and an archive of important records.
And that was it. The meeting was over. We had our diagnosis, and we were free to take Daisy home.
It was a bit like the moment when she’d been discharged from hospital as a newborn: now it was up to us. The monumental responsibility of figuring out what to do for the best, of looking after her, caring for her, loving her, stretched ahead for years and years, and was ours and ours alone.
It was a beautiful sunny day. Blue skies, big white clouds. The world didn’t even look that different. Just a little bit, in a way it was hard to put your finger on.
Mark drove, and we didn’t talk. Daisy slept in the back. By the time we made it to Kettlebridge the school run traffic had died down and the rush hour hadn’t yet got going. It was quiet, and our road, which was bordered by a small patch of woodland on one side, looked idyllic. The backdrop for a perfect childhood. Safe, friendly, neighbourly, with a little bit of nature to look at: wildness on a manageable scale.
Mark parked on the driveway and we went inside, and everything was just as we’d left it that morning.
I made tea and sat in the sitting room to drink it, and Mark went off to his office to catch up on emails and Daisy lay down on the sofa and fell asleep in the sunlight. She always seemed to be tired out after spending time in the hospital. I sympathised; I was exhausted, too.
Nothing had changed, really, had it? She was the same little girl, after all.
I thought about ringing Mum to tell her, but decided against it. It would keep. And she’d been funny with me lately, ever since I’d been rude to her on the phone. Problem was, if she said the wrong thing, I couldn’t guarantee that I wouldn’t be rude to her again.
Instead I sat and drank my tea and gazed at the sunlight on the wall and allowed myself to think of nothing. I left all the reports on the side; I co
uldn’t even summon up the energy to file them. It was as if I’d been emptied out of everything that had once made me who I was.
I was vaguely conscious of Mark moving round upstairs, of a few thuds as if he was moving something heavy, and of the bedroom floorboards creaking as he paced about. What on earth was he doing? Spring cleaning? Building a bonfire in readiness to torch the place? Sitting next to him in the diagnosis meeting, I’d almost been sorry for him. He’d looked so forlorn. But I knew that he felt absolutely no sympathy for me.
He blamed me. Still. Even though he must have realised it wasn’t rational, or fair. And I couldn’t accept the blame. It would have killed me. So where could we go from there?
After what seemed like a long time he came heavily downstairs into the hallway, and I hurried out to catch him before he could slip out of the front door.
He had a suitcase with him. Not the overnight case. The big one.
I said, ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
He said, ‘I’m going to stay with my mother for a couple of days.’
‘You mean, after everything that happened today, you’re going to run away?’
‘Nothing happened today. Nothing that hadn’t already happened a long time ago. We both knew what they were going to say.’
‘So why are you going now?’
‘Because I can’t do this any more.’
‘What do you mean, you can’t do this?’
‘I want a family, Paula. A normal family life, like everybody else has. And this isn’t it, and it never will be. Daisy’s never going to graduate, or get a job, and as for getting married and having children… Forget it. She’s probably never even going to be able to leave home. I should be able to look forward to walking my daughter down the aisle one day. Instead I think about the future and it fills me with despair.’
‘Is that really your idea of what being a parent is all about? Getting to be father of the bride?’
‘Do you know what, Paula? It is, actually. It’s not the only thing, but it’s part of it. And it would be for any man.’
