Chpater 5

James - Thirteen Weeks

I put the phone back into the cradle.

“All arranged?” asks Mitch from her place on the couch.

“Yes, all arranged.” I rub the back of my neck. “I didn’t expect to be the one doing this. I thought Charlotte would be telling me. We should have been seeing a doctor weeks ago…”

Mitch nods, looking thoughtful, then smiles as Charlotte enters.

“Ah, Charlotte,” I say. “Good timing. Just to let you know, I’ve booked an appointment for you at a specialist pre-natal and maternity clinic…”

She stills, going ‘all eyes’. “Master? What for?”

Am I hearing this?

“You’re pregnant, Charlotte. I'd like you to have a full medical examination and...”

“I'm fine, Master. They checked me out at the hospital while I was there. Why do I need another examination?”

Mitch watches, eyes narrowing.

“I’ll repeat. You’re pregnant. Did you really think you wouldn’t be visiting a prenatal clinic? And especially after the damage you took with that fall down the steps and everything else Ben was responsible for.”

“But, Master...”

Why is she resisting?

But I’m not accepting argument on this. “Do as you're told, Charlotte. You're going.”

Her head hangs. “Do I have to?”

“Yes, you do. You chose your pregnancy. And I’m the father. That gives me a say. You’re doing this.”

Mitch rises from her seat, hands out-held. “Jenny, what’s wrong? It’s the right thing to do. And I know the reputation of the clinic James has chosen. When I was carrying you, I could only dream of being able to call on such a place.”

Face lowered, Charlotte mutters something.

I’m losing patience. “What was that?”

Still she looks down, but she speaks more loudly this time. “I don’t like doctors.”

Mitch laughs, patting her on the shoulder. “Tough. You’re going to have to get used to them.”

*****

Charlotte, flanked by me to one side, her mother to the other, scowls as we enter the clinic.

In the waiting area with us, over-made women wearing a fortune’s worth of designer maternity wear and high heels…

How do you wear stilettos when you’re pregnant?

… sit, drinking latte and reading glossy magazines. I pick one up while we wait, flicking through page after page of high-fashion baby clothes, which the babies are surely too young to appreciate.

Who buys this stuff?

More money than sense…

Charlotte sits, unspeaking, unresponsive.

Mitch is brisk. “Jenny, be sensible. Every pregnant woman has to see a doctor and have regular check-ups. Think of the baby.”

“I am thinking of the baby. It’s the only reason I’m here.”

And I’ve had enough.

Hissing under my breath, “Charlotte! If you can’t be polite to your mother, you’ll regret it. Now behave.”

She remains sullen. “You can’t punish me when I’m pregnant.”

Twisting on the seat, I square her up to me by the shoulders. “You think? You really believe I don’t have options? That I’m so uninventive or unimaginative that I couldn’t think of something appropriate if needed?”

Mitch’s mouth twitches and she looks away.

Charlotte swallows. “Sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean to be rude to you.”

Mitch lays a hand on her arm. “I don’t understand what you have against doctors, Jenny. They’re here to look after you.”

But Charlotte just hangs her head.

*****

The doctor has a brisk air about her. “Good morning. Mrs Summerford? I am Doctor Redshaw. Please come this way.” She turns to lead her from the waiting area.

Charlotte takes a step or two, looking over her shoulder to me and Mitch, pleading in her eye. I make to follow but the doctor holds up a hand. “Mr Summerford, I assume? I’d rather hold the consultation just with your wife to begin with.”

I don’t see the point in correcting her on my name. It would take too much explaining, but Mitch’s eyes roll my way.

Charlotte’s voice is small. “I’d really prefer him to come in with me. And my mother.”

Why is she so nervous?

The doctor sniffs, pursing her lips. “Very well. If you really feel it necessary.”

She leads us into the kind of bland white space one expects for a medical consultation room. The smell of hand-sanitiser competes with a vase of lilies on the windowsill. The walnut and leather desktop is polished to a high gleam, occupied by one of those clicking chrome executive toys and a brown manila file.

Boxes of instruments, latex gloves and syringes sit alongside shelves of heavy texts and glossy brochures from drugs and medical equipment suppliers. Posters line the wall showing various stages of development of mother and foetus. One, weirdly, asks Have you been using contraception?

Doctor Redshaw waves Charlotte to a seat, repeating that sniff…

Who’s paying who here?

… then pulls out a couple of extra chairs for me and Mitch.

Seating herself, she flicks through the brown file, settling on a page. Looking down at the document, not at Charlotte, she traces lines of text with a manicured fingernail. “You appear to be in overall good health, Mrs Summerford. However, a few questions first. Then we can go over the test results from the examination and the scans.”

Charlotte sits, all but rigid save for the winding of her fingers, knotting and re-knotting.

“I will say,” continues Redshaw, “that having reviewed your medical records at some length, I would like to go over a few specific items.”

Brows raised, she inclines her head, as though asking Charlotte’s permission, but without waiting for a reply, continues, “First of all, I have to ask if you have continued your alcohol habit into adult life and through your pregnancy?”

Mitch’s jaw drops. I think mine does too.

Charlotte comes to life. “I do not have an alcohol habit. I enjoy the occasional glass of wine, but I haven’t touched alcohol since, well, since I started trying to get pregnant. And I’ve never been a heavy drinker.”

The doctor, lips pressed flat, flicks through the file again, then taps a biro on some document. “That’s not what it says here.”

“What exactly is that file?” Charlotte’s voice is a hiss. And with a sinking feeling, I know the answer.

The doctor blunders on. “It is your own medical records, from when you were in care as a child, Mrs Summerford. They are quite clear that as a teenager, you regularly drank to excess and that…”

“I did not drink!”

Redshaw arches a brow. “And so, how did you come to sustain a broken jaw? And…” She glances at the page again… “Also, a fractured humerus? The record states that you fell down the stairs while intoxicated. Considering that you have recently taken another fall downstairs, it is my duty to ensure that…”

Charlotte stands, white-faced. “I had a broken jaw because I was assaulted. I was a kid and they…” And she bursts into tears.

How did I not know this?

She’s never told me…

Jade…

I jab a finger at Redshaw. “If you check the origin of that file, you will find it was produced by whatever excuse for a medic was working at the Blessingmoors home. Charlotte was a prisoner there as a child.”

“Blessingmoors…” Redshaw blanches, then flips back to the cover page. “Mrs Summerford…”

But it’s too late. Charlotte is stampeding out of the door, Mitch right behind her.

“You’ve not heard the last of this,” I snarl.

*****