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My heart is still heavy as I drive back to Bristol, having promised my parents regular updates on Alice and, of course, to tell them any news about test results.
We are still waiting for those results in early January, when I stand in the school yard waiting for Alice, as the other mums and childminders stand in clumps nearby, having a good natter. Everyone is talking about Christmas and what they did, how much they drank. Our Christmas was quiet, with my parents, trying to keep the ever-present fear at bay, and most importantly, from Alice. But I notice things. Every day, I notice things. Now a mum offers me a hesitant smile from across the school yard; I try to smile back but I’m not sure I manage it.
At the start of reception, I was making inroads into these little cliques; I knew a few mums from baby and toddler groups, Mummy and Me classes, so it seemed like a natural friend group. I even went out to a drinks evening at a local pub with a few of them, but as Alice’s symptoms worsened and finding her diagnosis became more consuming, I found myself standing alone, avoiding others’ gazes. It was just easier.
Now I see, with a sinking heart, that she is not trotting out with the others in her year; Miss Hamilton is standing to the side, holding Alice’s hand. She gives me a meaningful look and my stomach clenches even harder.
I see the
other parents and carers sneaking me curious looks, and I know they think Alice must have misbehaved, that she is some sort of problem child, when nothing could be further from the truth.
‘I’m afraid Alice got a little upset today,’ she says in a low voice once the other children have been dismissed and we’re back in the classroom. Alice is sitting a few feet away, playing with some number blocks.
‘Upset? What about?’
‘Another child teased her, for not being able to hold her pencil properly.’ Miss Hamilton grimaces. ‘I spoke to the child, of course, but Alice took it to heart. She told me she can’t hold it the way she wants to.’
I nod, swallowing hard, trying to keep my expression neutral, not wanting to break down here, over a pencil grip. And yet it’s always something like this – loss upon loss. No matter how small, they still pile up. They batter away at me until I feel completely drained and helpless. ‘I’m afraid we’re not going to have any results from the tests she’s undergone for a few more months.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Miss Hamilton places a hand on my arm, and I struggle not to cry. I feel so fragile, and what about Alice? Clearly she feels fragile too, and I hate that. I hate it so much.
‘It’s just so hard, not knowing,’ I manage to gasp out, and Miss Hamilton puts her arm around me. I rest my head against her pillowy warmth, trying not to completely lose it in the middle of the reception classroom. Then I feel a little hand tugging on my coat.
‘Mummy… Mummy.’ Alice sounds alarmed. ‘What’s wrong? Why are you so sad?’
I push myself away from Miss Hamilton, ashamed that I came so close to losing it in front of Alice. That’s the last thing she needs.
‘I’m not sad, darling,’ I say, my voice veering between horribly clogged and manically upbeat. ‘Not at all.’ I force a smile and Alice regards me uncertainly. After a tense few seconds, she goes back to her blocks.
‘Are you going to tell her?’ Miss Hamilton asks in a low voice. ‘That something…?’
I shake my head. ‘Not until we know.’
Alice is not so easily satisfied on the walk home. ‘Why were you sad, Mummy?’ she asks as we walk along, her little hand slipped in my mind. ‘Was it because of me?’
I stop and turn to face her. ‘No, Alice. No. I’m not sad because of you. I could never be sad because of you.’
She regards me seriously, her sea-green eyes – Anna’s eyes – wide and unblinking. ‘But something’s wrong with me.’
I am shaken to the core, but I do my utmost not to show her how much. ‘Nothing is wrong with you, Alice. Nothing.’ I kneel right down in front of her, on the cold, wet pavement, and take her by the shoulders, wanting to imbue her with that truth. ‘Absolutely nothing. Please don’t ever think that there is.’
Her lips tremble as she gazes at me unhappily. ‘But I’m so clumsy now. And I can’t hold my pencil.’
‘Yes, and we are trying to find out why that is. You know that’s why the doctors have been doing those tests? To try to discover why this is happening.’ We’ve said as much before, but I don’t know how much Alice understands. How much any of us understands.
‘Yes, and then they might give me some yummy medicine to make me better,’ she finishes on a sigh. ‘I know.’ It’s what we told her back when we first went to the GP.
‘Yes, some yummy medicine.’ My voice thickens and I rise from the damp pavement, feeling heavy and aching and old. ‘Yes, that’s what will happen.’ That’s what I want to happen, more than anything. Please, let that be all she needs.
We walk hand in hand back to the house, neither of us speaking, and after a block Alice starts skipping in her new, uneven way; it makes my heart swell with love and tremble with fear. Already she’s forgotten about Miss Hamilton and the pencil, but I haven’t. How many more things will Alice struggle with before we figure out what is wrong? How much more will she lose?
My mobile rings just as I come into the house, Alice running ahead to scavenge for a snack.
‘Can I have biscuits, Mummy, with icing?’
‘Yes, darling.’ My former militant policing of sugar intake has become positively indulgent. There are far worse things to worry about than a few too many sweets.
I smile as I see her on her tiptoes, reaching for the dented biscuit tin, and then I glance down at my phone, everything in me stilling when I see that it is Anna. I almost don’t take the call, but then I do, just in case. Of what, I don’t know, but I’m not taking any risks.
