I know best
Oh, what is going on? James crouched down tiredly in front of his daughter, inspecting the rosy blotches blooming across her cheeks. Again
Four-year-old Emily stood in the middle of the lounge, patient and strangely serious for her age. She was used to these check-ups now, the worried faces of her parents, the endless ointments and pills.
Charlotte came over, kneeling beside her husband. Her fingers gently tucked back a stray strand of Emilys fine hair.
The medicine isnt working. At all. Its as if were giving her water. And those doctors at the surgery honestly, what are they? This is the third regime theyve tried, and its made no difference.
James stood up, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Ash-grey light seeped through the window, promising another day as dull as all the rest. They got ready quickly wrapping Emily up in her thick parka and within half an hour they were sitting in his mothers flat.
Margaret fussed and tutted, stroking Emilys back.
Shes so tiny, and already on so much medicine. Its such a strain on her little body, she sat Emily on her lap, and the girl nestled against her nan without a second thought. Breaks your heart.
Its not as if we want to, Charlotte perched anxiously on the arm of the sofa, fingers intertwined tightly. Her allergy just wont budge. Weve taken everything out honestly, everything. Shes eating only plain, basic foods now, and still the rash wont clear up.
And what do the doctors say?
Nothing definite. They cant pinpoint it. Were forever having tests, giving samples, doing allergy checks, and the result Charlotte gestured wearily. Thats the result. Her cheeks.
Margaret sighed, adjusting Emilys collar.
I do hope she grows out of it. Sometimes young children do, you know. But for now, its hard to be optimistic.
James looked at his daughter in silence. So small, so thin. Her eyes were wide and watchful. He stroked her head, suddenly remembering his own childhood sneaking fairy cakes his mum baked at weekends, pleading for chocolate buttons, scooping out her homemade raspberry jam straight from the jar. But his own daughter? Boiled vegetables. Plain chicken. Water. No fruit, no pudding, nothing resembling normal childrens food. Four years old, and her menu was stricter than most people with ulcers.
We cant think what else to cut, he murmured. Theres hardly anything left.
The drive home was silent. Emily dozed in the back seat, and James kept peering at her in the rear-view mirror. At least when she slept she wasnt itching.
Mums called, Charlotte said quietly. She wants Emily next weekend. Shes got tickets for the puppet theatre wants to take her out.
The theatre? James changed gear. Thatll do her good. Something different.
Exactly. Some distraction wont hurt.
…On Saturday, James parked in front of his mother-in-laws house, lifted Emily from her car seat. The girl blinked sleepily, rubbing her eyes with tiny fists theyd woken her early, she hadnt slept enough. He hefted her into his arms; she buried her nose in his neck, warm and light as a sparrow.
Barbara appeared in the doorway, floating out in a flowery housecoat, arms flailing as though shed spotted a castaway.
My darling child, my little star, she swooped Emily up, hugging her to her ample chest. So pale, so thin. Look at those hollow cheeks. Youve all but ruined her with your diets, poor thing.
James shoved his hands deep in his pockets, trying not to bristle. It was always the same, every visit.
Were doing it for her wellbeing. Its not by choice, you know that.
Well, I think youve taken it too far, Barbara pursed her lips, scrutinising Emily as if shed crawled out of a wartime shelter. Skin and bone. Children need to grow starving her like this, its no good.
She whisked Emily into the house without a backward glance, the door closing softly behind them. James lingered by the gate, some half-formed thought scratching at the edge of his mind, always escaping, dissolving like the morning fog. He rubbed his forehead, paused a moment to listen to the unfamiliar quiet, then sighed and wandered back to the car.
A childless weekend felt eerily wrong almost forgotten. Saturday, he and Charlotte meandered through the supermarket, pushing the trolley up and down aisles, stocking up for the week.
At home, he spent three hours wrestling with the leaky tap in the bathroom it had dripped for months. Charlotte sorted out wardrobes, folding up old clothes into bags for the charity shop. Ordinary, fiddly chores, but without Emilys chatter, the flat seemed askew, oddly hollow.
In the evening they ordered pizza the one with mozzarella and basil, forbidden to Emily. Opened a bottle of red. Sat at the kitchen table, talking about nothing much the kind of talking they hadnt done in ages. Work, holiday plans, the endless, unfinished DIY.
Feels nice, Charlotte said, then caught herself, biting her lip. I mean you know. Just quiet. Peaceful.
I get it, James covered her hand with his. I miss her, too. But a breathers good.
Sunday, he drove to collect Emily as the sun was setting, bathing the street in heavy orange glow. His mother-in-laws house crouched at the far end of the garden, behind old apple trees in twilight, it almost looked inviting.
James got out, pushed the creaky gate and stopped mid-step.
On the doorstep sat his daughter, Barbara beside her, looking impossibly pleased. In Barbaras hand was a large, golden pasty, glistening. Emily was munching it contentedly. Her cheeks smeared, crumbs clinging to her chin, but her eyes were bright with joy a happiness James hadnt seen in her for a very long while.
He just stared for several seconds. Then something hot and furious swept up in his chest.
He strode over, snatched the pasty from Barbaras hand.
What on earth is this?!
Barbara shrank back, hands shaking, a flush spreading from her collar to her hairline.
Barbara flapped her hands, as if to bat away his anger.
Oh, it was just a little bit, hardly anything! A pasty its nothing, really
James wasnt listening. He swept Emily into his arms she fell silent and clung to his coat, wide-eyed, on the brink of tears.
Its alright, petal, he stroked her hair, working hard to sound calm. Just sit here a minute. Daddy will be right back.
He shut the car door and marched back up the path. Barbara still stood by the porch, squeezing the edge of her housecoat, face blotching oddly.
James, you dont understand
I dont understand?! he stopped barely two steps from her, unable to hold back any longer. Six months! Six months of not knowing what was wrong with our daughter! Endless tests, blood samples, allergen screens do you know how much it cost? How many sleepless nights, how many frayed nerves?
Barbara retreated towards the doorway.
I was only trying to help
Help?! James advanced. We had her living on water and chicken, cleared everything possible! And here you are, feeding her fried pastry behind our backs?!
I was building her immunity! Barbara suddenly drew herself up, chin out. Giving her tiny bits, so her body adjusts! A little more and shed have been fine, all thanks to me! I know Ive raised three children!
James stared, unrecognising. This woman, whom hed tolerated for so many years, for his wifes sake, for familys sake shed been poisoning his child. Deliberately. As if she knew better than doctors.
Three children, he repeated coldly and Barbara paled. So what? Every child is different. And Emily isnt yours shes ours. And you wont be seeing her again.
What?! Barbara clung to the railings. You cant do that!
I can.
He turned and strode back to the car. Shouting echoed behind him, but James didnt look back. He climbed in, started the engine. In the rearview mirror he caught a glimpse of Barbara running after the car, waving her fists. He stamped on the accelerator.
Home. Charlotte met them in the hall. She took one look at her husbands face, at Emilys teary cheeks, and understood all at once.
Whats happened?
James explained, brief, dry, without any feelings left those had been spent at Barbaras house. Charlotte listened with hardening features, then grabbed her mobile.
Mum. Yes, James just told me. How COULD you?!
James ushered Emily into the bathroom, to wash away the pasty and the tears. Through the door Charlottes voice was sharp, new; she was telling her mum off in a way James had never heard before. At the end, a firm: Until we sort out this allergy, you wont see Emily.
Two months passed
Sunday lunch at Margarets had become custom. Today there was cake: a proper Victoria sponge with cream and strawberries. Emily was scooping up mouthfuls, smearing cream from ear to ear. Her cheeks were clear of any blotches.
Who would have thought it Margaret shook her head. Sunflower oil! Such a rare allergy.
Doctor said its one in a thousand, Charlotte spread butter on her bread. As soon as we stopped using it and switched to olive oil, the rash disappeared within two weeks.
James couldnt take his eyes off his daughter. Pink cheeks, shining eyes, cream on her nose. A happy child, finally eating proper food. Cake, biscuits, any treat as long as its made without sunflower oil. Which, theyd learned, is quite a lot.
Relations with Barbara remained frosty. She called, apologising, crying on the phone. Charlotte kept calls short and curt. James didnt speak to her at all.
Emily reached for more cake, and Margaret nudged the plate closer.
Eat up, sweetheart. Enjoy it.
James leaned back in his chair, watching rain streak down the window. Inside, it was warm and the house smelled of baking. Emily was well. Nothing else was important.
