Etched on Me Read online

  I know it sounds mad that I managed to concentrate on such mundane details, but really, what else could I—should I—have done? Returned the fuchsia Doc Martens, canceled the nursery tour under the assumption I’d no longer need a place in the infants’ room come the spring? Fuck that fuck that fucking fuck that. Innocent until proven guilty. I’d be damned if I let paranoia poison me.

  So I took my heartburn pillows and waddled up the road to the hospital each Tuesday night to learn about epidurals and episiotomies (“They do what to what, now? For God’s sake, Les, I’m eating!” Immi shrieked when I relayed the details of the latter to her over lunch), and made up a spreadsheet detailing my Squidlet-minder short list during a slow afternoon at work.

  After two weeks of silence from social services, I reckoned I was safe enough to embark on the full antenatal shopping spree. “Told you you’d be doing this!” Gloria said, laughing, as I loaded up her arms with blankets and booties.

  When I came home with my bags, I found another hunter-green-and-lime-logoed missive in the letterbox. I tried to reassure myself it was a bill, but my hands shook so badly I nicked my index finger slitting the envelope open.

  Dear Miss Holloway, your final case conference is scheduled for Tuesday at 3.30 p.m. You are welcome to bring a family member, friend, or legal counsel.

  The page fluttered to the floor. Squidlet did a somersault. I sucked my smarting knuckle, and prayed.

  20

  Tuesday, quarter past three. My hastily instructed solicitor on one side of me, Gloria on the other, the three of us parked in the corridor outside the very same conference room where, five years earlier, I’d scrawled the list of my father’s transgressions.

  “You’d think they could have picked a different one,” Gloria murmured.

  “We were lucky we got advance notice, Mrs. Kremsky.”

  I leaned my head back against the wall. Closed my eyes.

  Please please please don’t hurt us.

  • • •

  This time, eight chairs crowded the table. Three of them empty, five full. Nary a warm gaze, much less a vending-machine-run offer. Straight plow into the introductions.

  “Nicola Deming, independent meeting chair.”

  “Olivia Andrews, director of the Children’s Services Team.”

  Looked familiar. Yes, my crisp-and-soda fetcher, back at that first meeting with Francesca. Holy—

  “Paul Orton, M.D.”

  Christ, not him again.

  “Tasmin O’Shea, primary midwife.”

  Tell them. Tell them I’ve done it all. Mums’ tea and meds and every single appointment on time, iron tablets and organic fruit and plenty of sleep, double-check on the tetanus jab, yes yes yes I’ll see your specialist, anything, everything you ask, just please don’t—

  “Les,” Gloria said softly. “Your turn.”

  What was I supposed to say? Hello, lovely to see you all again now that you’ve put your heads together and deconstructed me?

  “I’m Lesley,” I said, stupidly as I had the first time I met Clare. “The . . . the, umm . . .”

  Infamous one? Most Likely to Be Voted Daft and Naïve?

  Meeting chair (Nicole? no, Nicola) jumped to fill in. “Client.”

  Oh, don’t even. Clients run the show, hire out minions to design their websites and file their taxes and clean their already spotless flats. Clients can boss people around or even fire them; they’re not stuck in a windowless room at the mercy of some five-person jury.

  “Gloria Kremsky.”

  Director of Children’s Services perked up, leaning forward, intrigued. “You’re headmistress of that school in Harrow that’s won so many curriculum innovation awards, aren’t you?” Smarmy as Kath, all faux camaraderie.

  “I am.” No flattered blush, no buy-in to the buttering-up. “And I’m here to support Lesley.”

  At that, the woman reared back a little, her face aiming for a neutral Hmm, how interesting but telegraphing a disgruntled So much for that.

  My solicitor mumbled his obligatory firm-pimping bit, and then, last but not least, we came to the savior who—I was convinced, I was certain—held our “mutually agreeable solution” in her sensible hands.

  “Sophie Burnham.” Her voice sounded raspy, as if she’d just been having herself a cigarette. Or crying. “I’m the lead professional who’s been working with Lesley.”

  With. Hear that? With.

  I glanced over to give her an appreciative smile, but she wouldn’t even make eye contact. Her fingers jittered as they pushed up the sleeves of her blouse.

  “So,” Nicola what’s-her-name said, “several of you have met recently to discuss Miss Holloway’s case. Am I correct that a strategy was agreed upon?”

  Across the table, Sophie bit her lip.

  “After much deliberation,” she said, “yes.”

  Steady on, Les. Indie cool.

  Nicola turned towards Directress Butter-Up. “Ms. Andrews, what was the determining factor in your team’s final decision?”

  Her voice was crisp. Unwavering. “The report Dr. Orton prepared.”

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  “Dr. Orton, could you be so kind as to summarize your findings?”

  “Certainly.” He scraped his chair forward. Adjusted his glasses. “Miss Holloway’s symptoms clearly mark her as meeting the criteria for borderline personality disorder.”

  Still? Even after half a decade? Cut me some slack, fuckface.

  “These symptoms include repeated self-harm, emotional instability, chaotic relationship patterns, and unstable sexual identity.”

  My hands hardened into fists under the table.

  “And what implications does this diagnosis have for her parenting capacity?” Nicola asked.

  “Well,” he said slowly, “whilst Miss Holloway is admirably high-functioning and high-achieving, she is also at grave risk of causing her child harm.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but the only sound that came out was an offended, breathy sigh.

  “Her risk profile particularly fits that of a condition called factitious illness. Also known as Munchausen syndrome by proxy.”

  “Wait,” I said. “You mean like those women who poison their kids with salt, or mess around with their medications?”

  “You’re familiar with it, then,” Fuckface said, as if I’d just proven his point.

  “I’m kind of a DSM junkie,” I said.

  Nice move, Leslyochka. I looked over at Gloria, stricken.

  “Look,” she said, “I know you’ve all got legitimate concerns about Lesley. But do you really think, do you seriously believe, that she would make her daughter sick in order to gain attention?”

  “Given the fact that, in the past, she’s seriously wounded herself in order to do so,” Olivia said, “yes.”

  “That’s not why I did it,” I said, my voice rising. “And besides, harming yourself isn’t the same as harming someone else. I’d cut myself to bits before I hurt my girl.”

  The whole room frowned. My shoulders sank. “Not that I’m planning on doing it, of course.”

  “What about the injury that sent you to A and E?” Nicola asked.

  “Accident,” I whispered.

  “She’s telling the truth,” Gloria said. “It was a dropped vase. I saw the broken glass myself.”

  “Which,” Dr. Orton droned, “Miss Holloway very well could have used to—”

  “Before this gets too heated,” Nicola said, “perhaps we ought to move on to the proposal itself.”

  Yes. Please. Let’s just get it over with.

  “Ms. Burnham,” Directress Butter-Up said, “would you care to read our team’s recommended course of action?”

  Sophie startled, her face plainly advertising the fact that she’d rather not, but she dutifully squared her shoulders and sat up straight. “We’d like to create an official child protection plan for Lesley’s daughter.”

  Mother-baby unit. Health visitor drop-ins. More meds and supervi
sion. All of the above. Come on, come on.

  I reached for Gloria’s hand. She squeezed mine back.

  Nicola looked impatient. “Could you elaborate on the specifics, please?”

  Sophie bowed her head. Ran her fingers over her temples.

  “Yes,” she said. “It would involve a custody order initiated immediately at birth.”

  My hand loosened from Gloria’s and dropped. Rigid and heartsick, my body froze as my mind’s silent wail crested and broke: Oh my God oh my God oh my . . .

  Breathe.

  Squidlet darted from left to right. Thumped my ribs.

  Breathe.

  I sat up straight as Sophie. Listened, half in Rational Mind, half dazed, as Tasmin went on to detail my new birth plan: fifteen minutes of  “contact,” followed by “removal.”

  Across the table, five faces watched me, confounded by my lack of skin-clawing, my paucity of screams. Emotion Mind campaigned for all those and more, but I held fast, I stayed silent, I deprived them of their satisfaction.

  • • •

  After the tribunal filed out, I leaned forward in my swivel chair and laid my head on the table. Bile burned in my throat.

  Gloria slid her chair closer and rested her hand on my shoulder. “Les?”

  “Dizzy,” I mumbled. “Feel sick.”

  My solicitor brought me a cup of water, which I drank in tentative sips while Gloria rubbed my back and he debriefed us.

  “My experience with prebirth cases is limited,” he said, “but I’ve never seen this extreme of a decision unless the mum was abusing street drugs or had harmed a previous child.”

  “Then why are they doing this to me?” With every affronted word, my voice soared higher.

  “Ainsley MacIntyre?” He shrugged. “That’s my best guess.”

  Gloria gave him an I’m so not messing look. “What options does she have?”

  “There’s an appeals process, but it’s conducted by social services, not an independent body.”

  Yeah. Like that’d work.

  “We’re getting you a new solicitor,” Gloria said soon as he’d left. “And I’m going next door to talk with that Children’s Services bigwig.”

  • • •

  Sitting outside Olivia’s office, listening to snippets of Gloria’s attempt to talk sense into her, I couldn’t help but think of the conference between Kath and Clare’s parents.

  “Listen, Ms. Andrews, from one administrator to another, I have to tell you that . . . deeply troubled by . . . awfully Draconian.”

  “Surely as an educational leader, Mrs. Kremsky, you recognize the importance of safeguarding youth.”

  “Which your team did a fantastic job of for Lesley. But now—”

  “Our priority is not maternal aspiration . . . first and foremost with the vulnerable child.”

  “So you’re going to condemn every equally vulnerable young woman who . . . What do you mean, my ‘American’ disdain for social welfare? I’ve lived here for twenty-five years. I vote Labour, for pity’s . . .”

  I couldn’t stay for the rest, thanks to Squidlet using my bladder as a trampoline.

  In the loo I found Sophie by the window with her back to me, one foot balanced on the radiator in what I guessed was an attempt to adjust her tights. Classy.

  “So much for collaboration, huh?” I said.

  As she whipped round in startle, a plastic syringe nosedived out of her hands and onto the floor.

  “Shit.” Hurrying to smooth her skirt down, she bit her lip as she knelt to retrieve the needle. “Lesley, I—”

  “Needed to shoot some smack to soothe your conscience, did you?”

  “No. No.” She scrabbled in her purse. Held up a small case and unzipped it to reveal a bottle of liquid affixed with a prescription label. “I’m . . .” Hesitant swallow. “Doing fertility treatments.”

  “That why you screwed me over?”

  She shoved the syringe back in its case and slammed the whole kit down on the window ledge. “I didn’t screw you over. I argued for you and got outvoted.”

  “Even on the mother-baby placement?”

  “I rang every unit in the UK and Ireland. They’re all full or losing their funding.”

  She came over to me. Tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. Leaned in to caress my cheek, just before she turned to leave.

  “I’m sorry, Lesley,” she whispered. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  • • •

  After that, I went completely numb. Didn’t say a word, didn’t feel a thing: not on the walk out through the automatic doors, not on the ride home in Gloria’s car.

  Soon as I got back to my flat, I crawled under the duvet and huddled there while she sat next to me. “Just want to sleep it off?”

  I must have nodded, because she nodded back. “Okay, but don’t forget your class tonight.”

  “Huh? What class?” And then I remembered. Pillows and breathe breathe breathe and embarrassed laughter.

  “No bloody point now,” I muttered, burying my face in the pillow.

  “Yes, there is.” Her voice was soft but firm as she leaned down to stroke my hair. “I know it doesn’t feel like it, but—”

  I swatted her away. “Stop. Just wanna sleep.”

  “Do you need me to stay with you? I have to go pick up Sveta from school, but I can always ask—”

  “Nah. S’okay.”

  “So you’re all right in the safety department.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And you’ll phone me if you’re not when you wake up?”

  So many fucking questions. “Yeah, sure.”

  “Promise me.”

  Shut up shut up shut up. I pulled the covers over my head. Rolled over with a grunty heave. “I promise.”

  21

  When I woke thanks to another bladder-gymnasium session, it was already past eight. Rubbing my eyes, I staggered into the bathroom and pulled down my granny knickers. Peed like a racehorse. She kept kicking.

  “Stop,” I whispered. “Please stop.”

  That morning, I’d delighted in every heel-punch and elbow-jab, but now I couldn’t bear them. Too much dissonance: inside me, but no longer mine.

  She’ll stay yours forever, Smack-Talker Brain whispered, if you—

  Fuck off, I told it, and got up to wash my hands.

  Plunged beneath the faucet, they shook from the water-shock. Soon my whole body was quivering with an off-kilter tremble, all jangly, pained twitch.

  Just relax, love. You know how.

  No. Not that way. Use your skills.

  I made myself a cup of tea.

  I counted all the blue (not pink, no) things in the room.

  I waited ten minutes.

  And then, like a flipping idiot, I opened Your Miraculous Pregnancy and turned to Week 34.

  Gas! Piles! Leaky breasts! Beneath the tick-marked tallies of annoyances, a sidebar jumped out at me. This week might be a good one to record some pregnancy memories for posterity. Remember those cravings? That first piece of baby gear you just had to buy?

  That first strategy meeting? That last unsullied moment?

  I got up again. Walk-waddled the floor till my back smarted. Rubbed my forearms briskly, as if that might suffice, but no.

  They already think you’re broken. Little slip won’t matter.

  I went back in the bathroom. Opened its cheerful turquoise shower curtain and reached inside to pluck my shaving razor from the soap ledge.

  Wait. No. I still have the appeal—

  Hahaha. Nice try.

  I sat down on the closed toilet seat. Pushed the crisp sleeve of my work blouse up. Stared at the pale-veined, blameless skin of my less-messed-up wrist.

  Two minutes, I said to myself. Two minutes, and then if you still want to, you can—

  Out in the other room, my mobile rang.

  Answer. It’s Gloria. She’ll come back over, hold your hands in hers until they stop shaking, talk you through it.

  No, she won�
�t. She’s sick of you treating her like shit, sick of you taking her for granted, sick of you yanking her away from her real family for yet another stupid—

  Four rings, followed by the bright bling of voicemail.

  Get up.

  I let the blade hover.

  Go on, darlin’. Soon as you start, it’ll be easy.

  Tears welled in my eyes. I pulled back.

  Idiot, I told myself. Just do it.

  I rested the razor against my skin. Thought of the ridiculous poster on the wall of Tasmin’s reception area, with its Photoshopped pictures of babies holding shot glasses and cigarettes. Whatever You Do, She Does Too!

  Just like that, the blade sailed away from my hand, and Squidlet flickered.

  I raised my hands to my face and began to rock. My mouth twisted. My lashes fluttered. I knew I should whisper to her, press my palm to her, smooth the scare over again, but all I could do was sob: “I want my mum, I want my mum, I want my mum.”

  • • •

  The hallway of my childhood flat’s floor was just as I’d remembered it: rain boots perched on wooden racks, bikes parked at odd angles. Chaotic but clean, at least on the surface.

  I could tell she (please not they) still lived there because of the welcome mat’s print: four little Scottish terriers dressed in polka-dot jumpers. She’d always wanted one, but my dad said no. (“Why?” I taunted once in the hall closet. “You want me as your only—” Couldn’t say dog, much less bitch, ’cause next I knew I was seeing stars.)

  I looked down. Traced the pert outline of the topmost Scottie tenderly with the toe of my shoe. Maybe she had one now. Maybe she fed him treats and talked to him about how someday, if they were lucky, if she came back to them, he’d meet her daughter.

  Pathetic, Smack-Talker Brain snorted. Only thing she’s got is a fresh-out-of-prison husband who can’t wait to get his fingers up in—

  Fuck you.

  I curved my own fingers. Held them an inch from the door, poised to knock.

  Forget it. Go home.

  I knocked. No answer.

  I knocked again. Pressed my ear to the door. Listened for shouts or strains, but all I heard was the telly.

  Knock three. “Mum?”

  Nothing.

  “Mum, it’s Lesley.”