The Sister's Secret

by Penny Kline

  ‘What is it?’ Erin gave a gasp. ‘Are you . . . Is it . . . ?’

  She nodded.

  ‘That’s wonderful. It is wonderful, isn’t it? Yes, of course it is.’

  ‘I only told Ben last night. I know you wanted me to help you find Ollie, but I’ve had three miscarriages and I was so afraid I’d have another. Ben said he’d come to terms with not having a family, but it wasn’t true, he was just being kind. Only it’s almost twenty-one weeks now and the doctor says I can relax except I know I won’t be able to. Only the miscarriages were much earlier than this. I know what you thought of me.’

  ‘Oh, Jennie.’ Erin sat down opposite her, coffee and tea forgotten. ‘I’m so sorry. No, don’t look like that, the doctor’s right. I’m sure everything will be fine this time. Twenty-one weeks, that’s getting on for five months. How come nobody’s noticed? Surely Ben . . .’

  ‘I didn’t want to disappoint him all over again.’ She lifted her sweatshirt to show Erin the bump. ‘I slept in another bed. I know. He thought I’d gone off him.’

  All Erin could think was how she had kept going on about Claudia’s baby, and its chances of survival, and all the time Jennie had been frantic with worry. ‘I’m so sorry. If I’d known.’

  ‘I meant to wait a bit longer before I told Ben but I thought he’d guess. My first pregnancy lasted eleven weeks and by then they have eyelids and ear lobes. It seems wrong to be happy when you’re so worried about Phoebe.’

  ‘No, of course you must be happy. I’m happy for you too.’ All those weeks she had thought Jennie a self-absorbed hypochondriac. No wonder she had asked her to take the microwave to the basement flat. No wonder she had been reluctant to accompany her to the hospital. Now, all being well, she would carry the baby to term, whereas Phoebe was in an incubator, and still not out of danger.

  ‘I thought if anyone knew I would be more likely to miscarry. I know. You must think me stupidly superstitious.’

  ‘Actually Jennie, I don’t think that at all. In fact, I’d probably have done exactly the same myself.’

  Chapter 28

  When she reached the unit, a nurse Erin recognised by sight saw her coming through the swing doors.

  ‘Oh, you got the message all right?’

  ‘No.’ She should have checked her phone. How had she missed it? ‘What’s happened?

  ‘Baby developed an infection and tests showed it was more virulent than we thought. I’ll take you to her.’

  ‘She’s been moved?’ Erin’s heart began to thump.

  ‘Only to a different cubicle.’

  Why? How was it different from the other cubicle? Was it for very sick babies? Did it have more equipment? ‘Has she been given antibiotics?’

  ‘The doctor will be here soon.’

  Because of Phoebe, or because it was time for his normal round?

  She was lying on her tummy, with just a nappy and her knitted hat, and her arms and legs out to one side, her legs bent at the knees. Her hands were almost translucent, her skin so thin Erin could see the veins, and she looked smaller, thinner, but how could she be? Premature babies sometimes lost weight. Putting on weight was a good sign. Losing it meant . . .

  ‘Babies as small as Phoebe have hardly any fat.’ The nurse was talking as though it was Erin’s first visit. ‘And she’s fed through a tube because her reflex to suck has not yet developed. There’s a lot to take in all at once. You can sit with her, stay as long as you like.’

  Sit with her? As long as you like? Everything the nurse said was laden with doom. ‘How long does it take for the antibiotics to work?’

  ‘The doctor will be here quite soon.’

  ‘Is she in danger?’

  ‘Talk to the doctor, he’ll be able to explain.’

  The nurse left and Erin pulled up a chair and began talking to Phoebe, not like the last time, more like when she had talked to Claudia. No, that was wrong. Phoebe was alive. She was going to be all right. She had to be. Where was the doctor? Had anyone bothered to tell him she was here? If she had been Phoebe’s mother, they would have taken more trouble to keep in touch. No, that was unfair. But she needed someone to blame – for Claudia’s death, for Phoebe’s precarious hold on life, for Jon lying to her, for Jennie being so happy.

  A sudden movement caught her eye. Phoebe had stiffened then gone limp. Erin knew this was because her nervous system was not fully developed, but it still frightened her. Surely a nurse ought to be with her all the time. They said she could recognise voices. Did that mean there was nothing wrong with her hearing, or were they talking about babies in general? In the book, it said they could recognise their mother by her smell, but Phoebe had no mother, just a series of nurses and doctors.

  ‘How do you do?’ The man who had come through the door was short and stocky, with thick, dark hair and bushy eyebrows.

  Erin started to stand up but he gestured to her to stay where she was. ‘My name is Doctor Samood and you, I believe, are Phoebe’s aunt and guardian.’

  ‘Her mother’s dead and her father’s gone missing.’

  ‘Leaving you holding the baby. As I’m sure you are aware, with premature babies we take each day as it comes. Infections are not uncommon and the baby may be doing well one day and quite sick the next.’

  ‘How ill is she? When will you know if she’s going to get better?’

  ‘We have your telephone number and I believe you live quite nearby. Phoebe is a pretty name.’

  ‘Can I ask you something?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Is she going to die? Please tell me the truth. Will the antibiotics work?’

  ‘By tomorrow we will know more.’ He bent towards the incubator. ‘Such a sad thing – your sister – but you are here which is a blessing.’

  After he left, she told Phoebe how beautiful she was, and how she was going to get better because people loved her. An alarm went off and Erin sprang up, leaving the cubicle just as a nurse she had not met before arrived.

  ‘Nothing to worry about.’ She adjusted a pad on Phoebe’s tiny chest. ‘You must be Erin. I heard you talking to her. Voice, touch, another human being’s presence, it all helps.’

  During the day, nurses came and went, and a different doctor made checks. Erin’s research had covered infections but she struggled to remember what she had read. Breast feeding was important for premature babies because the live cells provided protection. Claudia had been going to breast feed. If she was alive, she could have expressed the milk. In the past, Erin had thought that sounded horrible, like milking a cow. Now she would have given anything for Phoebe to have the advantage of breast milk, except she could be having it already, provided by a mother, who had too much for her own baby.

  ‘How is she?’ She kept asking, finally giving up when a nurse told her there was unlikely to be any change for several hours.

  Phoebe looked different, less alert, less active, or was she imagining it? How had she developed the infection? Everyone was so careful. Was it her fault? Three days ago, she had touched her hand, but only after she had washed her own hands meticulously. Once, she thought she stopped breathing and ran out of the cubicle to fetch a nurse, but it was a false alarm. Time passed painfully slowly and she had no means of knowing if the antibiotics were helping or not. If Phoebe died, she would have lost everything, first Claudia, then her baby. How did anyone ever get over the loss of a baby? If a baby was going to die, it was given to the mother so she could say goodbye, wrapped in a shawl with only its tiny face showing.

  If Phoebe died that would mean Ollie had never seen her. Would he be relieved? Would her death justify his wish for her and her mother to die in peace? What a coward he was, disappearing and not even phoning. Even if someone else was the father, he could at least have talked to her, told her what had happened. In fact, if he knew he was not the father, he could have asked for a DNA test that would let him off the hook. Off the hook – how typical of a man. But not all men would have behaved as badly as Ollie had d
one. He was so immature, she wondered what Claudia had seen in him.

  Aware that she was digging her nails into the palms of her hand, she made a supreme effort to breathe slowly and relax. Anger with Ollie was not going to help. He had opted out and no longer had any rights. Phoebe was her child.

  One of the nurses appeared, with the offer of a cup of tea.

  ‘No, thank you.’ It was a long time since she had eaten anything, or had a drink, and her mouth was dry, but accepting a cup of tea was like joining the normal world and she had no wish to join it, not until she knew. A doctor looked in, but left, having carried out fewer checks than she expected. Was that a good sign, or because it was hopeless? Phoebe gave a small shudder, then relaxed again and resumed breathing more evenly. One of the nurses suggested Erin go home and return in the morning, but she shook her head. She was exhausted but there was no way she was going to fall asleep.

  She did, of course, but not for long, waking with a jolt to check if Phoebe was still breathing. She ached all over, but she was glad. If Phoebe had to suffer, she wanted to suffer with her. It was dark outside, and would not be light for ages. It was only three in the morning. Phoebe’s head moved and she yawned. It was a yawn. Erin was sure it was. And that was a good sign. It must be. She longed to pick her up. If she held her she would know if the antibiotics were working. Phoebe would open her eyes and she would be able to tell.

  She must have dozed on and off because next time she checked her watch, it was five-forty, and six felt like the home straight towards a time when Dr Samood would come back on duty. Was that right? When did one shift end and another begin? Groggy with fatigue, she reluctantly accepted the cup of tea a nurse put down on a small table next to her. Had the table been there before? She had no memory of it. Footsteps approached and she held her breath, but they moved on and the sound was replaced by the noise of a trolley. How long was it since one of the nurses had checked? Surely they ought to come more often.

  Phoebe stretched out the fingers of one hand and moved her left leg, the one with her name band round her ankle. Was she in pain? She had no idea where she was. Or what was happening to her. Or who her mother was or . . . More footsteps, and Dr Samood’s head came round the door.

  ‘Good morning. Oh, you poor thing, look at you. Have you been here all night?’

  As he studied the charts, Erin held her breath. The expression on his face told her nothing. Was Phoebe worse? Was there no hope? He inspected her, holding her head steady and listening to her heart, or was it her lungs, then turning to Erin with a smile. ‘She’s responding well.’

  ‘Is she? Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, she’s a beautiful little thing. All babies are beautiful but some especially so. Time for you to go home, I think, and get some well-earned rest.’

  Chapter 29

  February, the twentieth and a few spring flowers had come up in Claudia’s garden. Weeds too, but what did that matter? Nothing mattered now, except Phoebe. And Ollie, of course, but he was an adult and should be acting more responsibly. Not true. She worried about him, wanted him to know about Phoebe, wanted to talk to him, wanted him to be safe.

  At the preliminary inquest, the coroner ruled that Claudia’s funeral could go ahead. A quiet, low-key affair. Ben and Jennie came to the crematorium. Also, Ava and Kent, but obviously not Jon. Erin knew she should have tried to contact Claudia’s friends – the people at the indoor market, or anyone else who might like to have come – but because of the long gap since the accident, it had felt too difficult. And too upsetting. In spite of the anguish it caused her, Erin hoped several of Claudia’s organs had been used for successful transplants. She could have asked the hospital, but had decided it was better not to think about it. What happened? Did they remove the organs then sew up the body? Had they taken her eyes? Knowing was always better than not knowing but, in this case, that might not be true?

  Ava and Kent had brought expensive white lilies – and Ben and Jennie had chosen roses. Erin’s contribution was a large bunch of the primulas that had survived Claudia’s lack of gardening. Would the gesture, that Erin found comforting, have appealed to her sister or would she have made a remark about saving money? Only joking, Erin.

  Claudia had been the only person who could remember their parents, the good times they had all shared, and the not so good. Birthdays, Christmases, starting school, having chicken pox. Claudia had been born when Erin was still a baby, and the two of them had shared a bedroom during their early years, whispering to each other after the light was turned off, playing games with zoo and farm animals, and separate dolls houses – their father had been diplomatic enough to make two. Now she was alone.

  After the short service, they had lunch in a pub in Totterdown. Going back to Claudia’s house had felt wrong – the pub had been Jennie’s idea and no one had raised objections – and Ava and Ben competed to tell anecdotes, and Erin and Jennie pretended to find them funny. Nothing was said about Jennie’s pregnancy and Erin certainly had no intention of mentioning it, except to Ben who she had congratulated earlier, while reassuring him she was sure it was going to be all right this time, and agreeing it was no wonder poor Jennie had been behaving oddly. Neither did she mention how ill Phoebe had been. They would have asked if she was better and Erin would have said she was “as well as could be expected” and they would have looked relieved and changed the subject. Because Phoebe was not that important to them. And it was perfectly possible she would pick up another infection. And if she did, Erin would sit with her again, all day and all night, keeping watch.

  Walking up her road, the following day, Erin’s heart sank as she saw Harold Lord approaching. He was wearing a deerstalker hat and carrying his usual bag of shopping, and it was clear he was hoping for a chat.

  ‘A little warmer today.’ He opened the bag to show her the vegetables he had bought. ‘To make a casserole,’ he explained. ‘Keeps me going for several days.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I was hoping I’d see you. You wanted to know if I’d seen any suspicious characters hanging about. Think I may be able to help. Not an immigrant. Didn’t look like one. But not English, could have been of Mexican origin. I have Icelandic ancestors although you wouldn’t know from my appearance. If I see him again, I’ll put a note through your door, shall I?’

  ‘You saw his face?’

  ‘Not exactly. Wearing one of those hooded jackets, zipped right up to the chin. But you get an impression, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ He knew nothing, just wanted an excuse to chat. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Jon standing outside Claudia’s house, and rage rose up in her. She could walk away, or drive off in her car, but it was no good, sooner or later she would have listen to his squalid explanation.

  Harold had seen him and was moving on, reluctantly. ‘Could have been Turkish,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘or possibly Albanian.’

  Jon hurried towards her. ‘The baby?’

  ‘She had an infection.’

  ‘A girl? I thought it was a boy. But she’s better? She’s all right? I know you don’t want to speak to me, but it’s not what you think.’

  As she put her key in the lock, she remembered how she had intended to have a mortise one fitted. Tomorrow she would ask Jennie and Ben if they knew the number of a locksmith, get it fixed, without fail.

  ‘Five minutes.’ She jerked her head to indicate Jon could go on ahead, and he gave a long, slow sigh and started up the stairs.

  Once in the loft, she crossed to her easel and began studying the rabbit painting, tracing her finger round the shape of their paws. Some were eating, one was scratching its ear, and another was lying on its side, asleep.

  Jon closed the door. ‘Ollie ought to be here. He ought to know.’

  ‘As far as I’m concerned, he’s lost all rights to her.’ Not true. How could it be if he was the biological father? If he was the father. And if not, who was it? Did Hoshi know? Did anyone know?

  Jon was telling her something but she had
not been listening. ‘Go on then,’ she said, ‘but whatever it is won’t make any difference. I’m only talking to you because of Maeve.’

  ‘I don’t know where to start.’

  At the beginning, she felt like shouting, but there was no way she was going to help him out. People found silence difficult to bear. Preferred to fill the air with meaningless small talk rather than endure the tension silence produced.

  ‘Diana,’ he said. ‘She’s not Maeve’s mother.’

  ‘What do you mean, not her mother? Maeve thinks she is. Oh, she’s adopted but you haven’t told her. No wonder she thinks you’re keeping something from her. What happened? You kept putting off telling her and then it never seemed like the right time and—’

  ‘She’s not adopted.’

  ‘All right then, she had a surrogate mother. How did you manage that? I thought they made meticulous investigations. They’d have found out—’

  ‘Maeve’s my daughter but Diana’s not her mother.’

  ‘So who is? And why haven’t you told her?’ Erin sat on the bed and leaned against the wall, hugging her knees. ‘All this past week I’ve been imagining . . . Why didn’t you tell me before?’

  ‘You thought it was something about Claudia.’

  ‘I didn’t know. How could I? You kept talking in riddles.’

  ‘If the hospital hadn’t phoned . . . Phoebe’s all right? I’m so glad. I checked with Ben.’

  ‘Hang on, I can hear Miss Havisham. I’ll have to go down and feed her.’

  He made a move to accompany her, but she shook her head. She needed time on her own, time to absorb what he had told her, time to adjust. She had been unfair, but it was his own fault. He could have explained weeks ago. Why had he left it so long? But she knew the answer to that? Because if he told her he would have to tell Maeve.

  ‘Claudia,’ he called after her.

  ‘They switched off her life support.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Down in Claudia’s kitchen, she scraped meat from a tin and added it to the remains of the dry biscuits in the cat’s bowl. It had greeted her ecstatically. Cupboard love, but who cared? She wished it was one of those soppy cats that sit on your lap and purr. So Jon and Diana had looked after Maeve since she was a baby, letting her think Diana was her mother. Where was her real mother? Married to someone else? No, that made no sense. She had gone ahead with the pregnancy and Jon had stood by her. Perhaps she had other children. Perhaps she was a drug addict, or an alcoholic and Jon had used this against her.