The Other Child (4 page)

She steps back and he reverses fully into the street, yelling to his girls through his open window.

She walks over to the swing set and perches on it. There is a triangular rip in the expensive white fabric of her T-shirt and it is smeared with dirt. She rocks, anchored by her toes, turning her face to the sky. Her ankle stings where the twig scratched it. This does not feel like a good start. A cloud floats across the sun and small dark birds swoop to and fro as if lost.

‘Hello, beautiful!’

She opens her eyes. Greg is striding across the lawn, his shirt a broad white sail against the sea of grass. She leaps off the swing and he drops his bags, catching her in his arms, pulling her against him. She smells the staleness of airports on him, feels the warmth of his chest beneath the crisp cotton and presses her nose into the crook of his neck where he only smells of himself. He pulls back, they look at each other at arm’s length, holding hands in the sunlight, and everything feels energized again, full and round and back in its rightful place.

It has only been four weeks, but already this is the time of day she dreads the most. The women gather in sub-groups, holding travel mugs, wearing Lycra and Nikes, khakis and loafers, embracing, calling out to each other across the playground, making arrangements, sharing frustrations, information and stories as their eyes skim over her.

She has never enjoyed the school gate, even at home. Nell, a member of the PTA, used to try to co-opt her into organizing cake stalls, quiz nights and promises auctions, but even she gave up eventually. ‘You’re just not a joiner,’ she’d said, ‘are you? You’re a lone wolf.’

But this level of discomfort is something else entirely. It is like being a gatecrasher at a party you never wanted to attend. The only other person standing alone is a woman in an ice-blue shift dress, on the edge of the playground. Tess squints through the sun and realizes it is the next-door neighbour, Helena.

She looks more groomed than she did at 5.30 this morning, when she was outside their house, talking to Greg.

Tess had woken up much earlier than usual, starving, with not a trace of nausea. She got up and rolled up the new blinds in the bedroom to find the street below bathed in rosy dawn light – and there was Greg, in running gear, with this woman. Her thick hair was in a ponytail, her body curved but athletic, and as the two of them talked, she raised her chin and ran both hands over her hair in a gesture that lifted her breasts in their Lycra vest. Greg glanced, then looked away.

When she heard the front door open she went downstairs.

‘Hey – what are you doing up?’ Greg said. ‘It’s not even six.’

‘I don’t know, I woke up starving. Was that our neighbour?’

‘Out there? Yeah.’

‘Did you run together?’

‘What? No.’ He kicked off his trainers.

‘Is she nice?’

‘You haven’t met her yet?’

‘Well, I’ve seen her a few times, but we haven’t actually spoken.’

He turned away to put his trainers into the hall cupboard. ‘You should go say hi, she’s pretty friendly. She’s called Helena, she’s a doctor; her kids are at Joe’s school.’ He kissed her briefly on the mouth, then slipped past her, up the stairs, to the shower.

She tries to make eye contact across the playground, but Helena is typing into her phone, tapping one heel, leaning her shoulder on the knee of the sinister Humpty-Dumpty carving on the side of the school building. It is a vast, bulbous stone figure, the sort of thing first-graders must have nightmares about. Its grey eyes follow Tess as she crosses the playground.

She is almost there when a chubby girl, around seven years old, runs past her – Helena’s youngest. Helena looks up, says something sharply to her daughter, puts away her phone and strides towards her silver Prius with the little girl trailing behind, dragging a Hello Kitty backpack. As she reaches the car, Helena looks back at Tess. Their eyes meet, Tess raises a hand, but Helena gives no sign of recognition. She gets into the car and slams the door.

Tess turns back to the school, feeling her face flare. The snub was so obvious she can feel the other mothers staring openly now. More children are pouring out of the double doors. She tries to collect herself because Joe is going to emerge any moment, pale and wall-eyed. A couple of times lately he has thrown his backpack at her feet and taken off across the park towards the house.

And here he is, with a face as white as the puff of cloud above the red-brick building. She lifts a hand and although she knows that he has seen her, he doesn’t wave back, he just skims past, face closed, neck tight. She follows him over the road and into the park. Other children scamper in the sunshine, shouting, throwing baseballs and footballs, but Joe marches away. His arms are stiff by his sides, his backpack humps against his spine; he looks very small. She wants to run after him and fold her arms around him and hold him tight, protect him against this unhappiness and stress, but she knows that if she tries to catch up he’ll only go faster. Two women glance at her, smile glassily and murmur to each other as she passes.

When she gets to the house she can’t see Joe, but a woman with a peroxide ponytail is standing on the porch, holding a huge plate of cookies. Her athletic legs, in cut-offs, are tanned, with veins creeping up the calves like vines.

‘Hey! I’m Sandra Schechter, I live right across the street.’ She shows large, well-organized teeth, nodding at the tall house opposite. ‘I feel so bad for not coming over before – I’ve been travelling for work, you know how it is – but I brought you a little belated “welcome to the neighbourhood” gift.’

‘Oh, thank you, this is so kind.’ Tess takes the plate. It is decorated with stars and stripes and contains enough cookies to feed forty people.

‘It’s nothing!’ Sandra’s eyes are kind. ‘I’m just sorry it’s taken me so long to come over and say hi. How’re you guys settling in?’

Inside the house the phone starts to ring. It does this around the same time every day. Greg, Nell and the obstetrician are the only people who have their home number, but when she picks up the line is invariably dead.

‘You’re from England, right? Oh my goodness, we just love England! We were in London last year for my niece’s wedding . . .’

Then she remembers the phone ringing late last night, when she was almost asleep. Down in the kitchen she heard Greg answer it and say something in a low voice, then hang up. When he came up she’d surfaced from her half sleep to ask who was calling.

‘Nobody. Wrong number.’ He pulled his T-shirt off over his head, obscuring his face. ‘Go back to sleep.’

The answerphone clicks in now; she hears the distant burr of her own voice asking the caller to leave a message.

‘I have to go get Kevin from the after-school programme in a few minutes,’ Sandra is saying, ‘and drive him to his therapist, but I just wanted to, you know, stop by, say hi, let you know that I’m usually around Fridays if you need anything. It must be a little lonely as an at-home mom in a new place? Or are you working?’

‘Well, sort of, yes. I’m a photographer. I’m trying to finish a book.’

‘Oh, wow! A book? What’s it about?’

‘It’s for a charity back in Britain, it’s part of a campaign to support organ donation.’

‘Transplants?’ Sandra’s smile drops. ‘You’re photographing transplants?’

‘No, no, well, not the actual surgeries. I’m taking pictures of hands – the hands of everyone involved in the donor process: doctors, nurses, the donor families, recipients. The book’s called
Hand in Hand
. It’s to raise awareness and get people to sign up to the donor register.’

Sandra nods, looking slightly queasy.

‘I need to get it finished before my baby’s born.’

‘Oh!’ The smile lights back up. ‘I did wonder if you were . . . but you know what it’s like, I didn’t want to say anything, just in case! You never know, right? When’s it due?’

‘Mid-January.’ She hears Joe’s backpack snagging on the brickwork somewhere behind the shrubs.

‘You play tennis, Tess?’

‘Tennis? Sorry, no, I don’t.’

‘Oh, that’s a shame. You could have joined us – me and some other moms play every Friday morning at the Y. I played right through my pregnancies – even with the twins.’ Sandra glances around the front yard. ‘I guess your son’s in the after-school programme too?’

‘Oh, no, actually, Joe’s here somewhere. He just . . . he likes to run ahead.’

‘He does? What grade is he?’

‘Fourth.’

‘Well, that’s great. Kevin’s in third grade and our twins, Parker and Dane, are at middle school; they’re fourteen. You’ve probably seen them around.’

‘I’m not sure. I’ve seen your husband in his car once or twice though, and a young woman dropping Kevin off at school.’

‘Oh, sure, that’s Delia, our nanny. Mike would have come by himself to say hi, but you know how it is. He’s in finance – he works long hours.’

‘Don’t worry, Greg’s the same.’

‘Oh, yes, your husband. I’ve seen him out running with Helena a few times. They go super-early, don’t they? Doctors’ hours.’

The late September sun suddenly feels as if it is burning her scalp. Her mouth has gone dry, her armpits feel slippery, her hairline damp.

‘What kind of a doctor is Greg?’

‘He’s a paediatric heart surgeon.’

‘A baby heart doctor? Oh my! Wow! That’s amazing.’ Sandra becomes more focused, stepping closer. ‘Listen, let’s get you over, introduce you to some of the neighbours. Soon – OK?’

‘That’d be lovely.’

‘It’s a plan then!’ Sandra steps back, as if it is. ‘Right, now, I’ll be late if I don’t go. Nice talking to you, Tess.’

*

Joe slips out of the shrubbery as soon as Sandra is gone: a small, feral creature with leaves in his hair.

‘Look!’ She lowers the plate. ‘Cookies!’

He grabs one, but doesn’t follow her to the door. She has to force herself not to try to hug him or kiss his freckled face. He won’t let her do that yet. He can’t be rushed or chivvied after school – he needs to decompress.

‘How about some milk to go with that?’ She goes inside leaving the door open for him to follow.

She puts her bag on the dining-room table, shoving a stack of Greg’s files to make room for the cookie plate, but they topple and slide off the edge, scattering across the parquet, knocking over a small recycling bin.

She puts the plate down and gets onto her knees, scraping the papers up, stretching under the table to scoop the recycling back into the bin. Greg is normally meticulous about his paperwork, but he is working ridiculous hours – no wonder he has let things slip. She reaches for a stray sheet of paper and smooths it out, not sure if it was meant for the recycling.

There are just three short sentences, in tight, looping handwriting, unsigned.

*

I saw your picture.

Years have passed, but I’d recognize your face anywhere.

I STILL SEE YOU IN MY NIGHTMARES.

The next morning when she goes downstairs, Greg is at the kitchen sink, rinsing out a bowl. He hears her and turns – his face is drawn but alert, as if he’s been waiting for her. Through the window behind him she sees a gust of wind fling small orange leaves at the mottled sky.

She goes over and kisses him. ‘When did you get home last night? I waited and waited but I must have fallen asleep; I didn’t even hear you come in.’ She rubs her eyes and glances at the kitchen clock. ‘Wait – it’s 7.30; why are you’re still here?”

Usually, by this time, he’d have had his run, his shower, and been at the hospital for an hour, preparing for the weekly conference, going through the procedures he has scheduled for that day, catching up on paperwork. But he is still in pyjama bottoms and a grey T-shirt.

‘I’m going in a little later today.’ His eyes look sunken, his face is rumpled, his olive skin unusually pallid. She wonders if he has slept at all.

‘Are you OK?’ she says.

‘What?’ He places the bowl carefully on the draining board. ‘No, no, I’m fine.’

She remembers the note then, goes to get it from the wire tray by the toaster. She unfolds it and slides it across the countertop. ‘Look. This is why I was waiting up for you – didn’t you get my voicemail yesterday? I found this with your recycling. What on earth is it?’

He turns, drying his hands on a tea towel, and looks down at the paper.

‘I almost threw it out.’ She waits for him to pick the note up but he carries on rubbing his hands. She can sense the thoughts travelling fast behind his calm face.

‘
I still see you in my nightmares
? What does that mean, Greg? Who sent this to you?’

He tosses the towel onto the counter, takes the paper and crunches it in his fist. ‘I wish you wouldn’t touch my papers; they’re all in order.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. What is this, Greg?’

‘It’s nothing, really, just some crazy who’s seen the announcement of my appointment, or maybe the prize.

‘Some crazy? What’s that supposed to mean?’

He throws the ball of paper into the bin. ‘It means that the world is full of unstable individuals. Especially the medical world.’

‘Have you had this sort of letter before and not told me?’

‘Of course I haven’t.’

‘But you were throwing it away – weren’t you even going to tell me?’

‘It’s nothing.’

‘It’s not nothing. Who would recognize your face? Who sees you in their nightmares? Greg?’

He turns back to the sink, ‘I have no idea, Tess. My guess is that it’s a mentally ill person who has seen my picture on the hospital website. The news about my appointment and the surgical prize is all over it. The prize has been reported in other places too. I really don’t know who wrote it and right now I have far more pressing things to worry about.’

He opens a packet of coffee beans, tips them into his grinder and turns it on, cutting off further conversation.

She waits until he switches it off. ‘Aren’t you going for your run today?’

‘Not today, no. I have a bit of a hamstring strain; I thought I’d take it easy for a few days.’

She reaches past him for the muesli. ‘Your new running mate’s going to be disappointed then.’

‘My what?’

‘Our neighbour?’

‘What neighbour?’ He scrapes the coffee into the cup of the espresso machine and, with a jerk of his wrist, slots it back in.

‘The woman next door – Helena. Haven’t you two been running together?’

‘What? I already told you we haven’t. Why would I want a running mate?’ He switches the machine on and the kitchen fills with a whirring sound as it forces thick coffee into the cup.

Sandra must have seen him talking to Helena in the street and made assumptions. She realizes how paranoid she sounds. The espresso machine cuts out.

‘Did you get back really late then, last night?’ she says.

‘Yeah,’ he nods and pours milk into a mug, slotting it under the steamer. Once again, the noise makes talking impossible. When the steamer stops he says, ‘Gone midnight. You were sleeping and I had a whole load of paperwork, so I worked down here for a bit, then grabbed a couple of hours in the spare room. I didn’t want to wake you.’

‘You look totally exhausted.’

‘I’m fine, really.’

‘You don’t seem fine.’

‘I just have a lot on my mind right now.’ He takes the mug to the breakfast bar and sits on a stool, stirring it.

‘What’s on your mind?’

‘Oh, lots of stuff. This case . . . a four-year-old . . . some complications . . .’

She can’t remember Greg ever admitting that he is worried about a patient. She wonders if he has been waiting for her because he needs to talk about this.

‘Is that what you were working on last night?’

He nods.

‘What sort of complications?’

‘You wouldn’t . . . It’s extremely technical.’ He hands her the mug he’s been stirring. ‘Anyway, here, look, I made you a latte.’

She takes it. Now would not be the time to remind him she’s trying to avoid caffeine.

‘But I want to know. Can’t you try to explain it to me?’

‘It would be a bit like trying to introduce you to the rules of baseball, in Mandarin.’

She feels a prickle of irritation. ‘You should have married a cardiologist.’

‘I did date an interventional cardiologist once. It lasted about three weeks. Two type-A egomaniacs who are always right about everything. It was a bloodbath.’ He grins at her, looking more like himself.

‘Still, if I was a doctor, at least I’d be able to help with your complicated four-year-old. You’d be able to run things by me and I’d be able help you come up with a brilliant solution.’ The image of Greg and Helena jogging side by side through the woods, sharing medical opinions, enters her head. She shuts it down.

‘You wouldn’t,’ he says.

‘Why? Because nobody could possibly match your genius?’

‘No. Because the boy is dead.’

She puts the coffee down. ‘Oh no – God, that’s awful.’

He shrugs, but his jaw is tense.

‘What – how? In the OR? With you?’

He nods.

‘Oh, shit. I’m so sorry, love. So that’s why you’re . . .’

‘Yeah, well, listen, you know, it happens.’ He straightens his shoulders. ‘There was nothing I or anyone else could have done about it. There’s actually no one better in the States – if not the world – right now for the particular condition this child had. If I couldn’t save him, no one could.’ He looks bigger, suddenly, more confident and healthy, as if reaffirming his expertise, even in the context of this poor dead child, has boosted his blood flow. ‘The parents are angry, but the truth is they should be grateful it was me, not someone else.’

‘Grateful?’

He gives his head an irritable shake. ‘You know what I mean. At some point they’re going to realize that their son had the best shot possible with me – that there’s no one better at this – and ultimately that will help them.’

He may well be the leading specialist when it comes to this particular defect of a child’s heart, but sometimes he seems to forget that he is also dealing with raw, parental grief. She understands why he has to protect himself, but sometimes his ability to cut off feels chilling.

As she sips the strong, milky coffee she remembers the first time she saw this protection mechanism kick in. It was soon after they met – only their third date – and they were walking through central London on the way to the theatre when he took a call from a junior colleague. They talked for a few minutes, something about a patient, a young girl who was in a bad way. ‘Listen, I’ve told the ICU guys she’s not an operative candidate,’ he growled. Then she heard him say something about ‘withdrawal of care’. And then he grew even more irritable. ‘Listen, if I’m not operating, I don’t see why I need to come in and talk to the damned family. I really haven’t got time for a weeping mother right now.’ He glanced at Tess, as if realizing what he must sound like, and then he slowed, turned away, lowered his voice. ‘The ICU needs to handle the withdrawal of support and sort out the family. Yeah. Right. OK. Sure . . .’

As they pushed through the revolving doors into the lobby of the theatre, she wanted to get away from him – jump on the train, go home, hold onto Joe. The space between them was suddenly fraught. Greg paid for the programme in silence, but then as they took their seats he reached for her hand and looked into her eyes. ‘If we didn’t detach from the emotions sometimes,’ he said, ‘we’d go insane. It’s a protection mechanism, Tess, that’s all. I know it sounds tasteless, but it’s just a way to cope. If I didn’t cut myself off sometimes, then I’d have to ask why – why are gorgeous children born with holes in the heart, arteries switched, obstructed valves? Why do babies’ hearts fail before they can even take a breath?’ He closed his eyes, briefly. ‘It might seem disrespectful to talk this way about a dying child but if I didn’t, sometimes, then all the unanswerable questions would close in on me. I wouldn’t be able to do my job.’ He squeezed her hand, then smiled. ‘If it’s any consolation for you, the suicide rate among surgeons is five times the general population.’ Before she could answer, the theatre lights dimmed, the audience fell silent and the curtain rose to reveal the actors standing on the bright stage.

She takes another sip of the latte. It tastes harsh and slightly gritty. Greg is staring out of the kitchen window now, no doubt thinking about the small boy whose heart he could not mend.

‘I wish you’d talk to me more. You’ve had all this going on and you haven’t even mentioned it.’

‘It only happened last week.’

‘A week is ages, Greg. This is terrible. I feel like since we got here we hardly ever talk,’ she says. ‘I miss you.’

‘I know, I miss you too. This is intense – we knew it would be, but I feel bad that you’re so alone right now. I should be here for you, and Joe. I feel like I’m letting you down all the time. Are you OK? Are you feeling OK, physically?’

‘I’m fine, a bit bloated, sore boobs, and my ankles are starting to swell rather attractively.’ She glances down at her bare feet. ‘It’s the anomaly scan on Friday.’

He nods. ‘OK. Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. The parents of this boy . . . there’s a meeting about it Friday and I can’t miss it. I can’t get it changed, because there are so many people involved. The whole hospital machine has to kick in when this happens. I’m so sorry, Tess.’

‘You can’t come to the scan?’

‘If I could, I would, but these parents, they’re . . . they’ve kind of lost it and there are a lot of people involved now. Could we reschedule the scan?’

‘No,’ she says, ‘we can’t. It has to be done before twenty-three weeks and I’m twenty-three weeks this Saturday.’ This, she realizes, is the reason he is still here. This is what he wanted to tell her. He might not even have mentioned the little boy’s death if it wasn’t for this.

‘I wish it wasn’t like this,’ he says. ‘I really do.’

She says nothing.

‘I’d like to be there when we find out the sex.’ He sounds sad.

‘But I don’t want to find out – do you?’

He widens his eyes, then nods. ‘Actually, you know what, I’d probably rather not know the sex yet either. I just assumed you’d want to. But a surprise would be much better.’

She wonders whether his reason for not wanting to know the sex is quite the same as hers. He takes her hands. ‘Listen, I was thinking, how about we fix up a weekend away, just me and you, when things have settled down a little? I’d like to take you up the coast; it’s beautiful up there in the fall. We could do it one weekend in November when David has Joe.’

‘OK,’ she nods. ‘Which one?’

‘How about Thanksgiving weekend? Late November – that’s not so far away, really. You could ask David if he can do that weekend.’

Time has slowed down, she realizes, because right now even a week feels like a huge stretch to wait. But for Greg a month or two will pass in a blink.

‘You working on the book today?’ he says. ‘How’s that going?’

‘Well, it’s been harder than I thought, actually, to select and balance everything, to make all the images work together.’

‘It’s a very valuable thing you’re doing, you know that, right?’

‘I know. I’ve been enjoying it. I’m glad you heard about it; it’s turned out to be a great project for me, with the move and everything.’

‘I knew it would be. They’re lucky to get you.’

Sometimes it’s like being married to two people: the godlike surgeon, fearsome and focused, decisive, uncommunicative, ruthless – and then this warm and beautiful man, full of love, rooting for her, respecting her work, supporting her.

‘You know you can take a break, don’t you?’ he says. ‘When you finish the book, when the baby’s born, you could just stop for a bit – if you wanted to. We can afford it, if that’s what you want to do.’

She leans against the door frame. This is the first time he has engaged in the reality of this baby and it feels like progress. She has always worked, she can’t imagine not taking pictures, but maybe this time she won’t try to take commissions with a newborn. It would be good not to have to rely on unreliable sitters, rush jobs, worry all the time, produce shoddy work. And the truth is that it is unrealistic to think that she will be able to build up a whole new set of contacts whilst caring for Joe and a new baby. When Joe was tiny she’d had no choice but to work – and it had been an ordeal. There was one particularly painful shoot when a babysitter didn’t show up and she had to take Joe, aged about three months, to the Holland Park home of a Tory politician. Joe wouldn’t stop wailing, and the politician, rigid in his salmon-pink shirt, lost patience and stalked off to his gazebo, like a sulking flamingo.

She wants to talk about her work with Greg – how she will manage her career and the baby – but it’s almost eight now and she has to get Joe going. ‘Can we talk about this tonight?’

‘I’m going to Chicago tonight,’ he says. ‘The big event tomorrow? Remember?’

‘Oh my God, your prize!’ She feels something deflate inside her but tries not to show it, smiling wildly. ‘Shit! You’ve barely mentioned it, Greg. We have to celebrate ourselves, when you get back.’