The Other Child

by Lucy Atkins

  ‘Does it?’

  ‘Well, could it be?’ Nell says. ‘I mean, I know Greg’s a compartmentalizer and doesn’t like to talk about the past and all that, but I do think it’s odd how little he’s told you about his life before he got to England. Could there be some rabid ex hanging around out there?’

  ‘From his student days?’

  ‘Maybe. Has he told you anything at all about Harvard?’

  ‘Of course he has. But there’s not much to tell – all he did was work. He graduated top of his year, which is freakish really. He did have girlfriends, but they always split up because he basically didn’t have time for them. I’m sure there was nothing big to tell, or he’d have told me.’

  ‘Would he?’ Nell yawns, and her voice stretches with tiredness. ‘Well, I think you should ask him anyway.’

  As she hangs up she realizes that this isn’t the first time Nell has questioned Greg’s past. It was just before the movers came and they were in Nell’s kitchen with the boys thudding around upstairs, excited about a sleepover, making the ceiling shudder. Nell was at the stove, in jeans and a stripy top, her hair scooped up messily, some of the dark curls loose, and she turned, one hand on the teapot. ‘Has Greg really never been married before?’

  They hadn’t even been talking about Greg. There was no preamble. The question had obviously been on Nell’s mind for a while.

  ‘You know he hasn’t.’

  ‘I know, but it’s just … I can’t stop wondering why not? I mean, look at him: he’s a brilliant surgeon, gorgeous, caring, solvent and, what, forty-seven? It’s just odd, that’s all – isn’t it? – that he wouldn’t have been married at least once. Don’t you find it odd?’

  ‘I haven’t been married before either.’

  ‘Yes, well, I suppose you’re tolerably pretty and definitely not stupid, but you’re only thirty-nine and you and David might as well have been married – you were together for six years.’

  ‘OK, well, thanks for that, but you can stop worrying. He’s had plenty of relationships. A few of them were quite serious – he was with one woman for almost four years.’

  ‘Why didn’t he marry her?’

  ‘Oh my God, Nell, what are you like? He didn’t love her enough.’

  In fact she knew, because Greg had told her, that his relationship with this particular woman, an academic at UCL, had ended because she wanted a baby and he did not. He told her that most of his serious relationships had ended for this reason. She is not sure, now, why she couldn’t admit this small fact to Nell.

  *

  It is really late by the time she hears the electronic doors buzz and Greg’s car roll into the garage beneath the house. She isn’t hungry anymore, she is heavy-limbed and headachy, ready for sleep. She hauls herself off the sofa, but before she can get to the basement door he is thumping on it.

  ‘Tess?’

  She slides the bolt back.

  ‘Good idea to lock it.’ He kisses her. He seems to fill the hallway, taller and broader and darker than he should be. As he hugs her she catches a whiff of coffee on his breath, a hint of soap on his skin and something else – an odd, unfamiliar smell that makes her pull away.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ he says. ‘I got the emergency call just as I touched down at Logan. It was a newborn, hypoplastic left heart syndrome … They sent a car for me. But just look at you, you poor thing – you look really pale. Have you managed to get some rest since yesterday? Did you? Are you OK? God, I hated leaving you like that.’

  ‘I didn’t know where you were.’

  ‘But surely you got the call? It was critical.’

  ‘I didn’t get any call. I was expecting you hours and hours ago. How on earth did you end up in surgery? I thought you were coming straight home from the airport.’ She closes the basement door behind him and bolts it, suddenly furious.

  ‘I couldn’t call you, I was on the phone from the moment the plane touched down all the way to the hospital, then I had to scrub the minute I got there, but I asked the circulating nurse to let you know what was happening – didn’t she call you?’

  She dimly remembers hearing the phone ringing while she was working and ignoring it, assuming it would be another silent call.

  ‘I didn’t get a message.’ She glances across the kitchen to the answerphone. It is blinking.

  ‘Oh, you poor thing.’ He reaches for her. ‘You must have felt completely abandoned.’

  There is no way, now, no possible way to be angry with him, because of course a newborn with a hypoplastic left heart, whatever that may be, outweighs everything else.

  ‘Is the baby all right?’

  ‘Well, she’s stable right now, she’s probably going to be OK.’ He runs a hand through his hair and blinks. She recognizes this look. It is not just physical fatigue, it is more complicated than that. Greg has done things tonight that no human being is supposed to do, and he needs to transition back to domesticity, to home, to her. There is no point blaming him for not being here.

  They walk into the kitchen together.

  ‘I loved watching you get your prize,’ she pushes aside the resentment. ‘You were great. And there were so many people there. Have you come back down to earth yet?’

  ‘There’s nothing like emergency surgery for that.’ He steps towards her, reaching for her from behind and pulling her to his chest. ‘Are you OK, really?’ he says. ‘No more bleeding? Is the baby moving?’

  ‘I’m fine, apart from mad letters. Did you get my message about that?’ she says. ‘Someone dropped an envelope off, here, while I was in the shower.’

  ‘I only picked up your message about that just now. I called you from the car but you were on the phone.’

  ‘I was talking to Nell.’ She moves away from him, picks up the letter from the countertop, turns and hands it to him.

  He takes it and she watches his face as he reads it, but his expression remains blank. Then he turns away and hangs his jacket on the door handle.

  ‘This person knows our address,’ she says. ‘I think we should take it to the police.’

  ‘The police? There’s no point in that.’ He runs a hand through his hair. ‘We’d only get embroiled in pointless police bureaucracy, you know how little the police in this town have to do. They’ll tie us up for hours, if not days, but they won’t do anything. What could they do? It’s not even a threat, it’s just a question. It’s nothing. There’s no Massachusetts law against posing a question.’

  ‘But it is a threat. Leaving an anonymous and hostile note on someone’s doorstep is a threat. And we’ve got Joe to think about – we can’t just ignore this. It’s obviously the same person that sent you the note at the hospital. What if they’re dangerous?’

  He moves past her and reaches for a bottle of red wine. ‘Look, I’m not worried, OK? I’m really not. I know other surgeons who’ve had similar experiences. Just leave it with me, OK? I’ll work out who it is.’

  ‘What similar experiences? So you do think it’s an angry ex-patient?’

  ‘Maybe, I don’t know. There’s a couple of people it could be. I’m looking into it. I’ll put a stop to it, OK?’

  Under the kitchen lights the skin around his eyes is jaundiced. He looks as if he hasn’t slept properly in weeks. But she can’t just leave it there. ‘Who might it be?’ she says. ‘Who?’

  ‘OK, well, off the top of my head I can think of one case – every doctor can. This person isn’t dangerous, she just lost a baby, that’s all.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘Come on, Tess, you know what I mean.’

  ‘So you think it’s a woman then? Who is she? What baby did she lose?’

  ‘Listen, there’s not really any point speculating. And there’s patient confidentiality to think about. I’ll work this out, Tess, I promise. It’s just someone who wants to be heard, that’s all.’

  She wonders if it is less threatening – or more – to imagine that the person who wrote this note is female. She isn’t
sure. Then she remembers Nell’s theory. ‘Is it possible that it’s not about a medical case at all? What if it’s an old girlfriend, you know, maybe someone who was once hurt by you and hasn’t forgotten it?’

  ‘No.’ He jerks his elbow and, with a deep pop, uncorks the wine. ‘There’s no one like that, you know there isn’t. Listen, just let me deal with this. Whoever sent it, it’s me they’re upset with, not you. Nothing’s going to happen to you or to Joe.’ He puts down the corkscrew and rubs a hand over his head.

  ‘You can’t say that for sure.’

  ‘OK, honey, I get why you’re unsettled by this, I really do, but I’ve been in the OR and I need a shower, wine and food – I haven’t eaten anything since the flight.’ He peers through the archway at the table she has laid with napkins and glasses, and a bowl of white roses. ‘Hey, wow! That looks nice.’

  ‘I wanted us to celebrate your award.’

  ‘Well, that sounds perfect. Let me just take a quick shower.’ He pours his glass of wine and takes a swig.

  ‘Do you have to? It’s so late.’

  ‘Two minutes, I’ll be two minutes.’ He holds up two fingers, then vanishes through the archway. She hears him take the stairs two at a time.

  She wishes she could pour herself a glass of wine, put her feet up and just let go. Tension like this cannot be good for the baby. Perhaps she needs to trust Greg that it is not unusual for a surgeon to be badgered by people who can’t move on and need someone to blame. If she and Joe were in any danger, he would be worried, but he seems almost casual. Perhaps this isn’t as alarming as it seems.

  She thinks about the bitter question in the note. Tonight Greg saved a baby’s life. He used skills, honed through years and years of exhausting work and study, to reshape, graft, repair and reconstruct a tiny malformed heart. Nobody has the right to ask Greg how he can look in the mirror. His whole life is devoted to saving others. She remembers a card she once saw on the wall of his Great Ormond Street office, sent by the father of one of his patients: ‘You,’ the man had written, ‘are the Hands of God.’

  *

  The Thai tofu has the texture of memory foam. As they chew, she tells him about the scratching noise. ‘I thought it was an intruder – I almost called the police, then I realized it had claws. Big claws.’

  ‘Aha, yes, I got that message too in the car – it could be an opossum.’

  ‘A what?’ She gives her head a little shake.

  ‘An opossum – they sometimes find their way into basements. I’ll call animal control tomorrow – they just come and catch them and take them away. It’s nothing to worry about.’

  ‘It sounded worrying.’

  ‘Well, they aren’t small but they probably won’t hurt you. In fact, when they’re threatened they often just lie down and pretend to be dead. It’s a weird sight.’ He pulls a face. ‘They stick their tongues out like that and roll their eyes back and don’t move even if you poke them. It’s where that saying comes from, you know, “to play possum”.’

  He asks about Hand in Hand then, and she tells him how she is trying to choose images that will reflect the surgical miracle of transplants, as well as the hope, the fear, the urgency, the miraculous skill of it all.

  ‘I can’t imagine what it must feel like to have someone else’s heart beating inside your chest, can you?’ She puts down her fork. ‘I mean, you’d surely feel as if your identity had changed in some fundamental way, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘When it comes to transplants, I think the identity issue is often more complicated for the donor family than it is for the recipient. They can feel as if person they love is still alive, then it’s hard to let go. There’s an anthropologist in New York who studies this stuff.’ He takes a sip of wine. ‘She calls it “biosentimentality”.’

  She tries to imagine how she would feel if Greg’s heart, or Joe’s, was beating inside a stranger. She too would want to be close to that person. ‘Sentimentality’ seems a harsh word for what must be a profound longing.

  ‘When I was photographing the man who got that heart, I wanted to ask him if he felt his identity had changed, but I didn’t in the end.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It seemed intrusive.’

  ‘That’s why you’re such a talented photographer, you know,’ he says. ‘You don’t intrude on people – you don’t force your personality on anyone. Your subjects almost forget you’re there and they let their guard down, so then you capture something more in them than they might otherwise show.’

  ‘I wish I did.’

  ‘But you do – you did with me.’ He sits back and looks at her, his brown eyes fixed on her face. ‘You know what? You look amazing, Tess,’ he says. ‘I’ve been thinking that ever since I walked in, but I haven’t actually said it.’

  ‘I was trying to make an effort tonight.’ She touches her earring. ‘I’m wearing the earrings you gave me.’

  He squints. ‘Hey. So you are.’

  ‘I got the hint. You’re right, I should wear them more.’

  He frowns. ‘What hint?’

  ‘Didn’t you get them out of my jewellery box, before you left? They were out.’

  ‘No – at least, I don’t think so, not deliberately.’

  She suddenly thinks about the letters, lying next to the wire basket in the kitchen when she was sure she had tidied them away. ‘Did you see the vitamins?’ she asks. ‘Helena’s vitamins?’

  ‘Helena’s what?’

  ‘The woman next door? She sent you some vitamins – they’re in your pile of letters over there.’ She glances into the kitchen. ‘In the tray.’

  ‘I haven’t touched my mail in days.’

  Perhaps she is going mad – taking things out, moving objects, and forgetting she has done it. Pregnancy brain, hormones. But she hasn’t noticed herself doing anything particularly absent-minded. Maybe it was Joe.

  ‘Did David and Joe get off OK?’ Greg says. ‘I bet Joe was happy to see him after all this time.’

  ‘Yes, he really was. David took him to a Red Sox game this afternoon, and he was so delighted. It was lovely to see him properly happy – I feel like I’ve hardly seen him smile since we got here.’

  ‘He’ll adjust, you know, you just have to give him time. I know it’s hard to see him miserable, but he’ll be OK.’

  ‘I’m not sure. He’s really deeply unsettled. I’ve been wondering if there might be something more going on – I know kids can be hostile to a new kid, can’t they? I’ve asked the teacher, but he hasn’t noticed anything. I might go back in next week.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s fine, Tess, it’s normal. He’ll be fine – stop worrying.’

  This is no doubt what happens when you spend your days with suffering children: you lose tolerance for more ordinary forms of distress in a child. ‘He’s not fine,’ she says.

  ‘But he will be, and he’ll be able look back on this one day and know he survived, and that’s a good thing for a child. It’s the sort of thing that builds emotional resilience.’

  ‘Really? Do you feel like that about your own childhood? I’m not sure I do.’

  ‘I don’t think we can compare what Joe’s going through right now with what I went through – or you, for that matter, with your mentally ill mother. Joe has a stable home, and that counts for an awful lot.’

  ‘Do you feel stronger for what happened to you as a child?’

  ‘What? I don’t know, Tess.’ He frowns, looking down at his plate. ‘It’s not like there’s a control me somewhere, being raised without a family tragedy.’

  She can practically hear his internal doors swinging shut. But she is not going to back off, not this time. ‘What about when you moved to London? Didn’t you feel homesick and lonely then?’

  He refills his wine glass. ‘I didn’t have time to feel anything at all. Plus I was working with Kemi, so if I did feel anything it was profound gratitude to be in that privileged position.’ He swigs the wine, puts down his glass, picks up his knife and s
lices into a piece of tofu.

  ‘You know, I was thinking, maybe we could take a trip to Pennsylvania one day? I’d love to see where you grew up, and we could—’

  He stabs the tofu with his fork. ‘I don’t want to go back there, Tess, you know that.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Look, I know what you’re trying to do, but trust me, no part of me whatsoever wants to revisit my childhood.’ He puts the tofu into his mouth and chews. His eyes reflect the candles, two tiny yellow flames flickering in his black pupils.

  ‘But surely—’

  ‘Tess,’ he says, ‘do you think we could not do this now? I’ve had a long and intense day today. I know you want me to talk about my childhood, but right now I just can’t.’

  ‘OK. Fine, I know; but this is also the problem, isn’t it?’ She grips the edge of the table. ‘There is never a time when we can actually talk about anything. There’s nothing left of you by the time you’re with me.’

  ‘I know it’s been tough lately. It won’t always been this intense.’

  ‘It’s not just intense, it’s extreme. I bleed and you make it back for five minutes, someone drops a creepy letter on our porch and you don’t even call me back. Sometimes I wonder what I’m doing here!’

  ‘I know. I know – I’m sorry. I know I’ve just not been around for you. And you must be missing Nell too. You need friends here.’

  ‘This is not about friends, I’ll make friends, I don’t care about that. And I do miss Nell, but that’s not it either. It’s about me and you – it’s about you being completely absent.’

  ‘But I’m here right now.’ He reaches out a hand, a conciliatory gesture, but she doesn’t move hers to meet it.

  ‘It’s not just this move. Ever since I got pregnant I feel like there’s this space that’s opened up between us and I don’t like it. I wasn’t expecting it to be like this.’

  ‘OK.’ His voice hardens. ‘What were you expecting, Tess? I can’t be home for dinner at six every night. This position is phenomenal and it comes with phenomenal responsibilities and phenomenal demands. I have no option but to do what I’m doing right now, I can’t do anything else. It won’t always be this bad, but you know what? This is exactly why a baby is such a—’ He clamps his mouth shut and looks away.