Who Loves You Best

by Tess Stimson

  “Marc,” I soothe, glancing nervously towards the cluster of doctors outside the curtains, “I’m sure they’re doing their best—”

  “Don’t you read the damn newspapers?” he shouts. “I’m not having my daughter turn into another damn statistic! This bunch of quacks needs to get off their sweet asses and figure out what’s wrong with her, or there’s gonna be a few more patients around here!”

  Fury boils in my chest. How does this stupid, macho posturing help? Marc should be calming me down, reassuring me and telling me everything’s going to be OK. Instead, he’s behaving like a frightened teenager and adding to the chaos and confusion. If I have to look after him, who is left to look after me?

  I tug his arm. “Marc, please. You’re making things worse.”

  “Worse? How can they be any fucking worse?”

  One of the doctors detaches from the group. “Mr. Elias. Mrs. Elias,” he says firmly. “We can’t treat your daughter until we know what’s wrong with her, so we’re doing some tests to find out. Believe me, we want to help her get better as much as you do—”

  “She’s got a fucking name!” Marc bellows. “She’s called Poppy! Poppy!”

  “What tests?” I ask.

  “Everything we can think of until we come up with an answer. I realize this is a very difficult time, Mrs. Elias, but if you could try to bear with us,” he adds, as a nurse gently takes my shoulder. “We just need to get a few more details from you. Don’t worry, we’ll come and get you as soon as we know anything. Mr. Elias, you can stay with me.”

  I look uncertainly at Marc. “Go on,” he snaps. “I’ll look after her.”

  “Can I get you a cup of tea?” the nurse asks, leading me to a small, private waiting room with worn brown and orange carpet tiles, and hard, utilitarian plastic seats. Torn posters peeling from the walls exhort vigilance against meningitis and flu.

  “No. Thank you,” I add politely.

  The questions are the same, but this time, there’s a subtext I can’t quite read. It’s almost as if she’s trying to catch me out.

  “So,” she says finally, “your daughter was with your nanny today, is that right?”

  “Jenna,” I supplement.

  “Jenna. How long has she been with you?”

  “Since the twins were eight weeks old, so about three months.”

  “And you haven’t had any problems with her?”

  “What sort of problems?”

  The nurse taps her pen against her notepad. “Anything unusual you might have noticed about her behavior. Mood swings, emotional outbursts, that sort of thing.”

  “No—”

  “Drinking? Drugs?”

  “Of course not! Look, what is—”

  “Any sign of cutting or self-harming? Bulimia, anorexia, anything like that?”

  I push away the image of the faded scars crisscrossing Jenna’s arms. “No, nothing. She’s wonderful; the twins adore her. I checked all her references. I’d trust her with my life.” My voice rises. “What exactly are you trying to say?”

  “Just routine, Mrs. Elias. Nothing to get upset about. So, apart from the nanny, Jenna, only you and your husband have had access to your daughter?”

  “Yes. Well, Marc’s at work most of the time, he only really sees them on weekends—”

  “I see.” She scribbles something else down on her pad, and gets to her feet. “Are you sure I can’t get you that cup of tea?”

  “Please, can I just see Poppy now?”

  “Let me find out how she’s doing. Someone will be in to see you shortly.”

  I shred a tissue in my lap. I know what the nurse was getting at; I read the papers. It’s called Munchausen’s by Proxy: When someone gets attention through a sick child. They think Poppy’s ill because someone is deliberately making her sick. It’s got to be the mother or the nanny, that’s what they’re thinking.

  Jenna would never hurt the twins, and obviously I didn’t.

  I’ve been so tired recently—so worn down—sometimes I can’t remember what I had for breakfast. Supposing I had … an impulse …

  The door opens. I throw myself into Marc’s arms, desperate for reassurance. He strokes my hair awkwardly, and then holds me away from him. “Come on, Clare. Pull yourself together. This isn’t going to help anyone.”

  The senior doctor who spoke to us before follows Marc into the room. He gestures to us to sit down, but doesn’t take a seat himself. Dr. Gardner is embroidered in navy thread over his left breast.

  “Your daughter’s doing much better,” he says, without preamble. “She’s regained consciousness, though we’re keeping her sedated for the moment. Obviously we’re admitting her to Intensive Care for the time being. She’s on an IV drip, and she’s being closely monitored. As soon as we find out anything more, we’ll let you know.”

  “So what happened? Did she have a fit or something?” Marc demands.

  “We don’t think so. She was extremely dehydrated, which can—”

  “Dehydrated?” I ask in surprise.

  “It’s when there’s an insufficient volume of water to keep the body—”

  “Yes, I know what it means,” I say tightly. “How can she be dehydrated? She drinks plenty of milk; she loves water and juice. Is something wrong with her kidneys? Is she not processing liquid properly?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to establish,” Dr. Gardner says smoothly.

  “Is she going to be OK?”

  “We’re doing our best to—”

  “What about long-term effects? Is she going to—”

  “Mrs. Elias, we really don’t know any more than we’ve already told you,” he says, slightly impatiently. “I understand your anxiety, but we have to wait and see. The good news is that she’s responding well to treatment so far.”

  I stand up. “Can we see her now?”

  “Yes, of course. If you’d like to wait here, someone will take you up to the NICU in just a moment. Your daughter is out of immediate danger for the moment. You and your husband can return home when you’ve seen her and we’ll call you as soon as we—”

  “I’m not leaving,” I say stubbornly.

  “Of course. Well. If you’ll excuse me.”

  We wait in tense silence until the same nurse returns and escorts us up to the NICU. I grip the rails of the tiny bed containing our daughter, more afraid than I’ve ever been in my life.

  “I don’t understand,” I whisper numbly. “Is it the vaccinations? Remember all those children who got sick after they had the MMR jab—maybe Rowan’s going to get sick, too—”

  “I thought you said he was fine?”

  “Yes, but Poppy was fine, too, until this afternoon.” I’m sobbing. “Oh, Marc. Look at her. She’s so tiny and helpless.”

  Finally, he reaches out to me. He looks like a lost, scared child himself. I grip his outstretched hand across the bed, my heart aching. This stupid fuss about money has been needlessly driving us apart for weeks. I know he didn’t mean any harm. He was just trying to be a good husband and father, to provide for his family. Set against what we stand to lose now, what on earth does it matter?

  The nurse leads us back to the viewing gallery overlooking the NICU. I press my face to the glass, watching doctors prod and poke my baby with their needles and tubes.

  “I know about the mortgage,” I say quietly, without turning around.

  I feel, rather than hear, his sharp intake of breath.

  “I’ve known for a few weeks,” I continue. “And about the money you ‘borrowed’ from PetalPushers. I’m guessing you needed it to clear some sort of deal that went wrong.”

  “I wanted to tell you,” Marc says hoarsely. “I tried.”

  “I know. It’s my fault, too. I’ve been too busy and too angry to listen.”

  “I didn’t mean to go behind your back, Clare. I kept trying to work up courage to come to you, but—”

  “How much do you owe?”

  “I’ve had a couple of good trad
es,” he says quickly. “It’s below a million now. I’m sure I can make the rest back if—”

  “Close the bet,” I say.

  “But if I close it, we’ll lose the rest!”

  “Then I’ll go to Coares, and liquidate my portfolio. If I clear the second mortgage, and pay off the rest of what you owe, we can just about manage. It’s going to be tight, but if needs be,” I grimace, “I’ll talk to Davina. We’ll get through this, Marc. It’s only money.”

  “I—I don’t know what to say.”

  I turn around, and look him in the eye for the first time. “Promise me you’ll never, ever put us all at risk like this again. If you need to gamble, go and buy a lottery ticket.”

  “Of course, I promise, never—”

  “No more lies, Marc. Don’t ever touch my company again.”

  “I swear.”

  I’m aware I sound like a controlling bitch, but I need him to understand. I have to be able to trust him. I can’t keep cleaning up his messes.

  “Stay away from Felix, Hamish, all of them. They don’t have families to think about. Maybe you should think about finding a different job, something a bit more reliable. A bit safer.”

  “But I love what I do—”

  “It’s too tempting. You can’t handle it, Marc.”

  Marc nods tightly. “Clare, I’m so sorry. It all got so out of hand, I didn’t know what to do. I thought you’d leave me if you found out.”

  “Am I really that much of an ogre?”

  “I didn’t want to disappoint you,” Marc mumbles.

  He sounds like a small boy. The thought occurs to me: Do I really want to be married to a child?

  The doors behind us whoosh open, and the nurse bustles in.

  “I’m afraid we’ve got triplets on the way up. We’ll need you to wait downstairs for a bit. I’ll come and find you as soon as I can.”

  “I think we should go home,” Marc says. “Poppy’s in good hands, and I want to check on Rowan. I’d be happier if he slept with us tonight, so we can keep an eye on him.”

  “You go. I’ll stay with Poppy—”

  “Clare, we can be here in less than ten minutes. Come home.”

  Later, I lie in bed wide-eyed and sleepless, listening to the sound of my husband and my son breathing on either side of me. I have to consciously relax my hands, and loosen my grip on the coverlet. At any moment, I’m afraid the phone will ring and tell me my daughter—

  I can’t even think it.

  Eventually, I drift into a troubled sleep, in which I’m running down endless corridors, searching for Poppy and Rowan. Something nameless and terrifying is pursuing me, and the faster I run, the faster it comes after me. I can’t find my children anywhere. And then Marc is there, standing on the other side of an unbridgeable crevasse, holding the twins and laughing—

  I’m woken by the sound of banging on the front door. I push myself up on one elbow. It’s still dark; the clock on the dresser says 5:16. Marc stumbles out of bed, knotting his dressing gown. “This better not be your damn brother again.”

  I tuck Rowan safely in the center of the bed, and get up and pull on my own robe. I dismiss my first panicked thought—the hospital—realizing they’d phone, not send someone around. Voices rumble downstairs. I lean over the bannisters. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but a pit of unease opens in my stomach.

  Marc comes to the foot of the stairs. “Clare, it’s the police. You’d better come down.”

  “The police? But Xan’s not here—”

  “It’s not Xan they want,” Marc says, his voice strangely hard. “It’s you.”

  Berrell Debt Recovery

  7a Balfour Road

  Hounslow

  TW3 1JX

  020 8570 7901

  Mrs. J. Kemeny

  69 Binfield Road

  Stockwell SW9 9EA

  May 31, 2009

  Account No.: 4587 3217 5924 2488

  Dear Mrs. J. Kemeny,

  We have been appointed to act for GE Capital Credit concerning the outstanding monies due on the above-referenced account(s). As of May 29, 2009, this total stands at £7,031.42. We understand from a recent telephone conversation with your daughter that you are currently travelling in Argentina and are not expected to return to the UK for three months. Your daughter was unable to pass on a forwarding address or contact details.

  We must inform you that unless the minimum payment of £351.57 is received within the next seven days, we will commence legal proceedings to recover the debt. Failure to comply may result in confiscation of property, fines, and/or a criminal record.

  If you have already made payment(s), please ignore this letter.

  If you have any questions, you may reach us at 020 8570 7901, Monday to Friday from 8 A.M. to 12 midnight, or from Saturday 9 A.M. to 8 P.M. Our associates are ready to assist you.

  Sincerely,

  Delinquent Account Manager

  Debt Recovery Department

  Enclosures

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Jenna

  “Salt poisoning?” I exclaim. “How on earth could that happen?”

  “It’s complicated,” Marc says evasively. “The doctors say her sodium levels are off the chart, but they don’t know why. Her kidneys are functioning fine, but she’s got way too much salt in her body. Basically, she’s really dehydrated.”

  “I don’t get it. Poppy drinks loads, she’s always thirsty—”

  “That’s one of the signs, apparently.”

  I slide Rowan into his high chair and put on his bib. “I still don’t understand. Signs of what?”

  “They’re still trying to figure that out.”

  “So, it’s like some kind of illness?”

  “Not really.”

  “Well, what then?” I say impatiently. “Everything Clare buys is fresh and organic, no additives, nothing, she’s totally anal about it—sorry, Marc, but she is. There’s no way Poppy could get salt poisoning from her food—”

  “They don’t think she did.”

  The penny drops.

  “You mean … they think someone gave salt to her on purpose?”

  “The concentration in her body was the same as you’d find in seawater,” Marc says. “It’s the same as if she’d swallowed four whole teaspoons of salt. No one could accidentally give a baby that much.”

  “That’s insane.”

  Marc says nothing.

  “Who’d want to make Poppy sick? It’s not me, Marc, I swear, I love the twins, I’d never do anything to hurt them, I—”

  “No one thinks it’s you.”

  “But she’s never out of our sight! Clare or me are with her all the time—”

  “Exactly,” Marc says.

  I feel queasy. I know he and Clare have been having a few problems over money, but he can’t believe she’d hurt her own baby like this. That’s sick.

  “Where is she?” I ask suddenly.

  “The police wanted to talk to her,” he says reluctantly. “They came around last night. She’s still with them.”

  “They arrested her?”

  “She hasn’t actually been charged. They just want to ask her a few questions.”

  “Marc, there’s obviously been a mistake!” I cry. “The doctors are wrong. Clare would never hurt Poppy, you know that. She adores her!”

  “She hasn’t been herself lately,” Marc mutters.

  “But she’d never hurt the twins. You told them that, right?”

  He shifts uncomfortably. “Clare never really took to the whole motherhood thing. It’s a miracle she survived her own childhood, given her own bloody mother. I thought she’d get used to it, but …”

  He trails off, unable to look me in the eye.

  I can’t believe this. The spineless little shit! He’s her husband! How can he believe this crap? What the fuck is the matter with him?

  I’m only Clare’s nanny, but I know she didn’t do it. Working with kids gives you a kind of sixth sense about peopl
e. I can walk into a class full of four-year-olds and know right away which little suck-up is going to be teacher’s pet and which kid is the charming bastard who’ll cause nothing but trouble. Clare’s neurotic and a total control freak, but she’s not the type of woman to suffocate her baby with a pillow because he won’t stop crying. She’s far too sorted. I wish I could be a bit more like her. I might not have backed myself into a corner with Jamie if I was.

  “Lots of women take a while to adjust after they’ve had a baby,” I snap. “They don’t all rush out and stock up on table salt.”

  “She’s never really bonded with Rowan. And look at the way she went off and hired you the moment she came home from the hospital. She couldn’t wait to get rid of them—”

  I slam Rowan’s breakfast bowl on the table. “Oh, don’t be so fucking ridiculous! Are you telling me every woman who goes back to work after she’s had a baby is secretly a homicidal maniac? Get real, Marc! This is the twenty-first century. Women have careers, too, or hadn’t you heard?”

  For a frozen moment, you could hear a pin drop. Marc steps forward and pushes his face into mine.

  “Who the fuck,” he hisses, “do you think you are?”

  I flinch. Perhaps I may have stepped over the line a little. Frankly, I don’t give a shit about my job right now, but the last thing Clare needs is to come home and have to deal with everything on her own, particularly with Poppy still so sick.

  “I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I didn’t mean that. I’m just a bit stressed out—”

  He looks like he wants to hit me. “You fucking women. You all stick together, don’t you? For all I know, you’re in on this with her.”

  “That’s not fair! I’m just trying to—”

  Upset by the raised voices, Rowan starts to wail. Marc picks up his bowl, and shoves it at me. “Why don’t you do what you’re paid to do, and look after my son, instead of interfering in something that’s none of your fucking business?”

  “But what about Clare? Did you get her a lawyer? You can’t just leave her at the—”