‘I don’t know, exactly.’ Milly looks as if she could cry. ‘It’s all so nebulous… I mean, she’s four. Should I be worried that her pencil grip doesn’t seem as tight as it did a few months ago? Or that she has reversed some letters she had nailed down last spring? You hear all the time that this kind of thing is normal, but since starting reception a few weeks ago, her teacher has flagged up some concerns.’
My stomach swirls with anxiety. ‘So how long has this been going on?’
Milly sighs and sits back. ‘For about a year, I suppose, although I didn’t start noticing things properly until the seizure. We took her to the GP right away after that, and he finally referred her for tests in September… we’ve had several appointments since then but still no answers.’
‘And now?’ My words hang in the air and then gently fall, like snow.
‘And now the consultants want to rule out some of the rarer genetic disorders,’ Milly says quietly. ‘Finding a diagnosis can take years sometimes, because there are so many conditions that are so difficult to pinpoint, that are so incredibly rare. If they can run some genetic tests…’ She trails off, and realisation seeps in. Milly may be Alice’s mother, but for the genetics, she still needs me. I wonder how she feels about that, but I know it doesn’t matter. This isn’t about me or Milly; it’s about Alice.
‘What do you need from me?’ I ask, knowing I’ll give or do anything.
‘Just a DNA sample.’
‘Don’t you have one, from before? Didn’t they run some tests then?’ It would seem tragically remiss if they didn’t, and I still remember the reams of forms I had to fill out, the blood samples taken. Surely they covered all the bases? Except somehow it seems they didn’t, and that makes me afraid.
‘Yes, they ran tests before, but not for every condition that’s out there. That would be impossible.’ She pauses. ‘I could have had an amniocentesis to check for various conditions when I was pregnant, but with the high-risk nature of my pregnancy, it didn’t seem like a good option, and I don’t think it really mattered anyway. I was going to have Alice, no matter what.’
Because she wanted her so much. I remember. How I remember. ‘So…’ I say unsteadily.
‘So now we need a sample, if you’re willing.’ She sounds so hesitant, as if I might shout at her, ask her how she dare think I’d do an
ything for her after… well, after. Yet of course I’ll agree to anything to help not Milly but Alice. Always Alice.
‘Yes, fine,’ I say, my voice abrupt. ‘I’ll give a sample.’
‘That would be great.’ Milly looks so relieved that it makes me angry. How could she think I’d be so selfish as to refuse? Did she ever know me at all? Or is she feeling guilty for her part in our story? ‘The specialist’s office will give you a ring… it’s the Bristol Royal Hospital for Children, the clinical investigations unit.’
Which sounds terrifyingly serious.
I nod, and Milly slowly rises from the chair.
‘Thank you for doing this, Anna.’
‘It’s no problem.’
‘I wanted to say…’ She pauses and I wait, my expression bland. I have no idea what she plans to say next, and in the end I think she changes her mind. ‘How have you been? Are you working?’
‘Yes, I retrained to work in development. I work for a non-profit now, a charity that supports victims of sexual assault.’
‘Oh, wow. That’s… that’s amazing.’
‘What about you? Do you work?’
‘No, not since…’ An awkward pause. ‘I never went back.’
We stare at each other for another endless moment. There are too many things to say, and yet there is also nothing. Nothing that could bridge the chasm between us now. Then Milly gives a little uncertain smile. ‘Thank you again. I – we – really appreciate it,’ she says.
‘Of course, I’d do anything for Alice,’ I say, my voice throbbing with intensity, and Milly looks away. I’ve made her uncomfortable. She doesn’t want to think about my motivations, or what they mean.
She starts to leave, and part of me can’t believe that this is the total of our conversation. We were best friends for nearly twenty-five years. How can that all be gone? But I’m not willing to say something that would attempt to bridge that gap – in part because whatever I say will fall miserably short, and also because I don’t want to. Part of me is still angry. Perhaps I always will be.
After Milly leaves, I call Will. ‘I heard from Milly,’ I blurt. ‘It’s about Alice.’ I tell him all of it, and he listens, and reassures me, and tells me these tests are most likely just a precaution, to cross out some of the more unlikely and worrying possibilities. But I think of Alice forgetting words, missing steps, and my heart both aches and trembles in fear. A tiny part of me thinks this wouldn’t have happened if I’d been there. I would have kept her safe. Except, of course, that’s not true at all. I might be the reason why Alice is experiencing these symptoms. If she has a genetic disorder, then it is either my fault – or Jack’s.
A week later, the hospital rings, and arranges for my sample to be taken. It’s a simple process – a cheek swab and a blood test, to see if I am a carrier for any hereditary disorders. I ask what kind of disorders they are thinking about, and the nurse tells me, rather repressively, that there are too many to list.
‘But are they serious?’ I ask, because I need information.
‘Some are, some aren’t,’ the nurse says, and I know she’s not going to tell me anything.