Mummy's Little Secret

by M. A. Hunter

  ‘Is there any way we can move it to a different day?’ I ask

  There’s a pause on the line. ‘My calendar is pretty full for the next three weeks,’ he says. ‘It would be better to still see you today if possible…’

  His words trail off. He’s waiting for me to agree, and I can’t help but feel guilty. Ultimately, it’s my fault for forgetting that we were supposed to be meeting today, and had he not phoned, I wouldn’t have even remembered the appointment, and would have wasted his time by not showing up.

  ‘No, okay,’ I say, my eyes clamping shut as I instantly regret the path I’ve chosen. ‘I will see you at midday.’

  Dr Tegan’s office is on the third floor of the specialist spinal wing, set away from the main body of the hospital building. Built twenty years ago, this wing resembles a student hall of residence, but is relatively new in comparison with the tall grey and white block across the road from it.

  His secretary greets me at the door, and promises that he won’t be too long. She offers me a cup of tea, which I gratefully accept, and by the time she hands it to me, Dr Tegan is at his door, welcoming me in. The office is light and airy, and a large double-glazed window overlooks a sea of green trees from the forest that neighbours the hospital. The walls are in a neutral magnolia, and even the carpeted floor is a pattern of grey, yellow and orange fibres. It doesn’t feel like a doctor’s office; more like a room you would rent in a holiday park. There is a welcoming ambience to the decor.

  ‘How have you been, Jess?’ Dr Tegan begins when I’ve applied the brake, and he’s sitting across from me, legs parted, and hands resting on his knees.

  I like Dr Tegan. He had no involvement in what happened to me six months ago but has read and studied all of my medical history, and the findings of the internal investigation, and treats me with dignity and respect. In some ways, I even forget I’m stuck in this chair when it’s just the two of us. He is blessed with a natural bedside manner, and charm that encourages me to believe every word he says.

  ‘I’m okay,’ I lie, not wanting to disappoint him. It’s hard to explain, but he has this way about him that makes me eager to please.

  It’s not a sexual thing. He’s in his sixties, with a receding hairline and pot belly, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in anything but autumnal colours. In so many ways he reminds me of my father, and maybe that’s the real reason I didn’t want to cancel today’s appointment. I need to hear reassurance that things will improve.

  ‘How’s that little daughter of yours? Grace, isn’t it?’

  I don’t want to tell him that I’ve left her with the receptionist with a colouring book. ‘She is incredible. So full of beans.’

  He smiles warmly, and for the first time I notice yellow staining on his teeth. ‘She must be starting school soon, right?’

  My shoulders sag, but I fight every urge in my body to cry. ‘On Wednesday.’

  ‘They grow up so fast! I remember when our Jane was that age, and now look at her, married and with children of her own.’

  There is a twinkle in his eye as he proceeds to share stories about his grandson, and I can hear how much he loves being a grandfather. Part of me wishes I’d brought Grace into the room to meet him.

  Pulling back the white curtain that bisects the office, he helps me up onto the paper towels spread across the bed, and asks me to lower my trousers and remove my top so he can examine me. I’m suddenly transported back to that night.

  I remember how heavy the rain sounded, battering the windows of the maternity ward, with occasional flashes lighting up the dark night sky. I kept telling the midwife that I thought something was wrong, that I was in so much pain, but she kept reassuring me that everything was as it should be.

  When she suggested the epidural as an alternative to the gas and air, I readily agreed, having had one when Grace was delivered. I understood there were risks, but they seemed so low that I barely listened as the anaesthetist explained that less than one in 100,000 experience any kind of side effect. I just wanted my son out and in my arms, where I could properly protect him. At that stage I didn’t know it was already too late.

  ‘The needle used to deliver the epidural struck a nerve, which triggered bleeding around the spinal cord,’ Dr Tegan explains, as he probes the skin of my lower back with his warm finger.

  The loss of feeling in my legs was perfectly natural, the anaesthetist explained at the time. And maybe, had the midwives not become so alarmed by the baby’s rapid decline, I would have mentioned the feeling of nausea and the growing pain in the base of my spine.

  The memory is such a blur from there. I see flashes of movement, panicked faces, but no recollection of sound. Whatever words were exchanged between midwives, nurses, anaesthetists, and surgeons either made no sense to me or were spoken too quietly. I remember looking at Charlie for support and just watching the anxiety grow in his eyes with every passing minute. He kept kissing my hand, telling me everything would be okay, but the sweat around his temples, the shakiness of his voice, and his tight grip of my hand told me that his promises were based on hope rather than fact.

  It wasn’t until later in the day, when feeling still hadn’t returned to my legs, that the anaesthetist started to accept that something might have gone wrong.

  Dr Tegan is now pressing the tip of a needle into each of my toes, along the sole of my foot, around my ankle, all the way up to my thigh.

  ‘Any feeling at all?’ he asks hopefully.

  My eyes are misting up as I shake my head.

  ‘Okay, okay, well, it’s still early days. You can fasten your trousers now.’ He helps me off the bed, returns to his desk and reads the screen. ‘It says here you haven’t followed up on your physiotherapy appointments.’

  I can see the disappointment in his frown, and I feel like a naughty schoolgirl. The truth is I don’t see the point in fanning false hope. There is a fifty per cent chance that I may get some feeling back in my legs over time, but only a ten per cent chance that I will ever get full motion and control of my legs back.

  I don’t tell him any of this, however, nodding and agreeing that I will book an appointment in due course.

  ‘And how are things with your marriage?’ he asks, and I’m taken aback by the directness of the question.

  ‘Fine,’ I say quickly, but there is a quiver to my voice, as if I no longer believe my words. ‘Charlie is my rock.’

  ‘Good, good, and are you still taking the Citalopram we prescribed?’

  I hate that I’m barely thirty and taking antidepressants to keep my mood stable. ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘And are they helping? You’re not experiencing any kind of side effects?’

  ‘I struggle sleeping sometimes,’ I admit.

  ‘Any additional anxiety, or agitation?’ he asks, watching my response closely. ‘Any paranoia?’

  She’s not my mum.

  ‘Um, nothing that I’ve noticed.’

  His eyes narrow as he studies the computer screen. ‘You were referred to Dr Savage for psychological assessment. Are you still seeing her to discuss your ongoing mental needs?’

  I can’t tell whether he’s asked the question because he knows I’ve not been attending the appointments and is trying to catch me in a lie, or because he genuinely doesn’t know.

  ‘I haven’t seen her in a few weeks,’ I try, aiming for a neutral answer halfway between the truth and deceit.

  He fixes me with a firm, but sincere stare. ‘It’s really important that you continue to get the counselling and support you need, Jess. What you’re going through at the moment is not common. The brain doesn’t cope well when everything needs to be rewritten, and that’s why we always encourage those who suffer forms of paralysis to seek the mental health support they require. It’s okay to admit that you’re not finding the transition easy to adapt to.’

  I know he is trying to offer supportive words, and I want to thank him for speaking so honestly with me, but there is part of me that sees he
has concluded I’m struggling with things, and that leaves me deflated.

  He leans closer. ‘If there’s anything you’d like to discuss with me now, rather than waiting to see Dr Savage again, I’m happy to listen. There’ll be no judgement from me.’

  What can I say? That I suspect Morag of abducting Daisy from her true family; that I’m worried I’m losing Charlie; that I’m terrified I will never be able to lead a normal life again; that I don’t know whether the rollercoaster of emotions I experience each day is perfectly natural, or whether I might be slowly losing my mind?

  ‘I was planning to make a new appointment with Dr Savage soon,’ I say hesitantly. ‘Thank you for your concern, Dr Tegan, but I really am doing okay.’

  He doesn’t speak for a moment, continuing to watch me, before that broad smile breaks out across his face. ‘That’s good, Jess. I want you to promise me that you’ll make an appointment with the physiotherapy team as well, as things won’t improve without your determination to improve them.’

  I agree without question, and am relieved when he doesn’t demand anything else from me.

  ‘She’s been as good as gold,’ Dr Tegan’s secretary says when I emerge from his office.

  Grace smiles when she sees me, and hurries over, showing off the picture of a daffodil in a flower pot that she’s carefully coloured. ‘Can we stick it to the fridge?’

  ‘Of course we can,’ I say pulling out my mobile as it vibrates in my bag. I don’t recognise the number, but it’s local, so I answer it.

  ‘Jess Donoghue?’ the irate woman practically barks down the line.

  ‘Yes? Can I help you with something?’

  ‘It’s Miss Danvers, from Hillside Infants. I was phoning to check if you were still attending this afternoon’s parent-teacher meeting?’

  ‘I wasn’t aware there was a parent-teacher meeting this afternoon. I thought that wasn’t until the eighth.’

  ‘Today is the eighth, Mrs Donoghue,’ she says, but glancing down at my watch it says it’s only the seventh. Either she’s mistaken or my watch isn’t right.

  I wheel over to Dr Tegan’s secretary, pressing the phone to my chest so Miss Danvers won’t hear me. ‘What’s today’s date?

  I already know what she’s going to say before she says it. ‘Today is Monday the eighth.’

  What is going on with my memory at the moment? How could I lose track of the date? I’ve known about this meeting for weeks. I’m sure it’s to do with all those pills they’ve had me on. For all I know they’ve been making things much worse, rather than better.

  ‘I am so sorry, Miss Danvers,’ I say hurriedly into the phone. ‘What time does the meeting start?’

  ‘Five minutes ago,’ she says, that frustration creeping through again.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I repeat, ‘I’ll be there as quick as I can.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Before – Morag

  This parent-teacher meeting should have started by now, and I’ve no idea why it’s been delayed. I arrived ten minutes early, but there was already an enormous queue at the gates. I had hoped to get a seat near the front, but in the end I’ve had to settle for one near the back. Hopefully, there won’t be anything on the overhead projector to read, as I’ve left my glasses at home. There must be forty or more parents in the room, but I don’t know a single one of them. I had expected to see Jess here, but she’s not arrived yet.

  I don’t really see the point of this meeting. I suppose it’s the Head’s way of pre-empting the slew of questions some of the parents will fire at her on Wednesday morning. It’s not rocket science: bring your child to school, see that they go in, and then let these highly trained teachers do their jobs. It was never as complicated when I used to take my wee one all those years ago.

  ‘Right, ladies and gentlemen,’ the Head says, standing and clapping her hands to quiet the murmur of voices. ‘We will make a start now, and anyone else who arrives later will just have to catch up.’

  There are half a dozen empty seats right in the middle of the seated pack, so presumably waiting for tardy parents is the reason for the delay to the start of the meeting. There are a handful of men seated with their wives and girlfriends, but at least ninety per cent of the audience is female. I did think about asking Angus to come along, but if he had, there wouldn’t have been anyone to watch Daisy for us, and there was a strictly no-children policy for today’s meeting. Presumably that is to avoid disturbances, but to be fair I think Daisy would already be bored. She tells me she doesn’t care about starting school, but I watch her carefully when she says it, and I can see anxiety in her hand gestures and gaze-avoidance.

  ‘You know who’s late,’ I hear one of the women say behind me, ‘that woman who nearly killed herself in that car accident. You remember? It was in the newspaper just after Christmas. She’d made all that fuss about the local council misappropriating funds, and then accused them of trying to kill her. She was pregnant and the accident brought on the labour. Her daughter Grace went to pre-school with my Ava.’

  My ears prick up at the mention of Grace’s name, and now I can no longer hear what the Head is saying.

  ‘I’m friends with her husband, but I don’t understand what he’s doing with her. I suppose it could be guilt, but he could do so much better.’

  ‘Nadine, you’re terrible!’ a second woman whispers loudly, and I hear the two giggle.

  ‘Nothing wrong with keeping your options open,’ the first one chuckles. ‘He’s young enough, handsome, works in the city, or so he tells me. Why wouldn’t I be interested?’

  ‘I know the one you mean. Charlie, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right. I’ll let you into a little secret: I caught him watching me when I was in the pool yesterday. He blushed as soon as our eyes met, but I could tell what he was thinking.’

  They quieten down as the Head raises her voice to ensure everyone is listening, but then there is a commotion at the main door, which suddenly opens, and I spot Jess wheeling in like a mad thing, hot, sweaty, and out of breath. Little Grace is on her lap, and the entire room turns to stare at them.

  ‘Find a space,’ the Head encourages, and doesn’t make any mention of Grace being here.

  I feel obliged to wave them over and tell them there is a space near me, but Jess either doesn’t see or avoids acknowledging me, wheeling to the end of the front row. I’m certainly not the one everyone is secretly whispering about. Nadine and the other woman’s idle gossip has piqued my interest though. Charlie made no mention of a car accident when he spoke about Jess’s last labour, and it convinces me that there are even more secrets that woman is hiding.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Now

  Mike Ferry hadn’t moved from the spot outside the interview room. Dr Savage had told him that Jess hadn’t consented to him observing the assessment. He might not have been able to listen in, but he’d certainly heard the yelling and screaming coming from his key witness. At one point he’d almost knocked on the door to interrupt the assessment out of a duty of care to the psychiatrist, but then the yelling and obscenity had ended.

  Dr Savage emerged from the room, her skin a touch paler than when she’d entered some twenty-five minutes earlier. ‘She’s clearly in a more agitated state than I’d anticipated,’ she said, once the door was closed. ‘At best guess she’s been off her medication for several days, if not a fortnight.’

  Mike narrowed his eyes. ‘Is she dangerous?’

  Dr Savage joined him, leaning against the wall, across from the door, keeping her voice low. ‘I honestly can’t tell you. Historically I’m not aware of any violent episodes, but then I’ve never seen her this frenzied. Jess’s condition is—’ She paused, as if weighing up how much of her patient’s confidentiality she was prepared to share, and settled for ‘complicated. Presumably you’re aware of the events leading to her disablement?’

  Mike had no idea, but shrugged nonchalantly, allowing her to continue sharing, and hoping she woul
d let slip some clue to confirm whether Jess could have deliberately stabbed the victim and allowed him to bleed to death.

  ‘She was pregnant when she was driven off the road, but because of her pregnancy, she wasn’t on her antidepressants, and I can’t help thinking that none of that messy business would have happened had she been in better mental health.’

  Mike made a mental note to see what historic news stories he could find about Jess Donoghue and this car accident Dr Savage was alluding to.

  ‘What’s clear,’ Dr Savage continued, pushing herself from the wall, and straightening, ‘is that she’s in no condition to stay here. She is physically and emotionally exhausted. I am going to have to take her into my care and if she isn’t willing to go voluntarily, then I will have to section her on medical grounds. I know you’re keen to speak with her, but she’s in no state to help you this evening. Once she’s stabilised, we’ll see, but I can’t guarantee she’ll even be able to give you a full account of whatever happened this evening.’

  She moved back towards the door, but stopped when Mike reached for her arm. ‘How long? To stabilise her, I mean?’

  Dr Savage met his desperate stare. ‘I’ll call you in the morning with an update. Do you have a card with your number on it?’

  Mike reached into his pocket and gave her his business card. ‘I’ll walk the two of you back to the front desk. This place is a maze of tunnels.’

  Dr Savage returned to the room, emerging a few minutes later wheeling out Jess Donoghue, head buried in her hands. The baggy tracksuit bottoms and jumper they’d had to provide made her look less normal somehow. The three of them moved along the corridor in silence, and Mike could almost hear the Chief Super’s indictment of his willingness to allow Dr Savage to take away his only suspect. But it was out of his hands; there was no way he could keep Jess in custody following Dr Savage’s assessment, but it didn’t mean they wouldn’t be able to arrest her later once the evidence against her was stacked up. At least they’d know where to find her.