“I don’t care what you’ve done, Aggy, but Rory is sick. We’re not going to wait.”
Ten minutes later we’re dressing Rory in socks, mittens, and a woollen hat. Mrs. Cole called her GP and managed to get us an appointment. I know the risks, but Hayden refuses to do nothing. He carries the pram downstairs and pushes it ahead of me.
“Come on, come on.”
“I’m hurrying.”
The doctor’s surgery is in Brent Cross on the Northern line. We have to catch three different trains to get there. As we wait on the platform, I keep checking Rory, praying for him to spark up or cry or do something energetic. Instead he looks sluggish and barely conscious. I offer him a sip of boiled water in a bottle, but it dribbles down his chin.
I have to prepare myself. I have to be confident. The doctor is going to ask questions. I need to have the answers tripping off my tongue as though everything is normal. I’m a new mother with a sick baby. Breathe. Relax. I can do this.
Mrs. Cole fusses over Rory when we arrive at the surgery. Her whole demeanor changes around him. She lights up. Having a grandchild seems to have given her energy and dynamism, as though she’s fulfilling her destiny.
The waiting room looks like a United Colors of Benetton advertisement. Indians. Pakistanis. Africans. An Ethiopian woman has a toddler clinging to her colorful dress. She can’t speak English. I envy her. I wish I could pretend to be foreign and not understand the questions.
I’m asked to fill out a form detailing my medical history.
“Where was Rory born?” the receptionist asks.
“In Leeds.”
“Did you bring along his personal health record?”
“I left it at home. Sorry.”
“What’s the name of your home health aide?”
I make up a name.
“Is her number in your phone?”
“No, she gave me her card. I stuck it on the fridge. I’m sorry. I’m not being very helpful. I can’t think straight at the moment.” I summon tears. The receptionist tells me not to worry. We can complete the form later.
“Are you breast-feeding?” she asks.
“I did for a while, but I struggled.”
“But you’re still lactating?”
“Ah, yes.”
“What was Rory’s birth weight?”
“Six pounds and three ounces.”
“Was it a vaginal delivery?”
“Yes.”
“Any problems?”
“No.”
Each new lie seems to wrap me in another cable that gets tighter around my chest. The creature inside me twists and turns, calling me names, hissing at me to run.
I go back to my chair and wait. Ten minutes later we’re summoned inside.
“You don’t have to stay,” I tell Mrs. Cole, but it sounds ungrateful. “I mean—I don’t want to keep you if you’re busy.”
“I’m not busy,” she says. “I’ve brought my knitting.” She holds up a tiny half-finished cardigan threaded on her needles.
Dr. Schur is in his sixties with a full head of gray hair sculpted into a wave that looks almost aerodynamic. He’s particularly pleased to see Hayden.
“The amount of times I stitched you up, I didn’t think you’d survive this long,” he says, laughing.
“Put the little fellow up here,” he says, pointing to the examination table. “And get him undressed.”
For the next few minutes he says nothing as he does the usual checks—eyes, ears, nose, heart, and lungs. He takes each of Rory’s little limbs and bends them back and forth. He rotates his hips. He looks in his mouth. He feels his skull.
“He’s very dehydrated. Has he been vomiting?”
“No. I’ve been giving him boiled water.”
“Are you breast-feeding?”
“Not all the time. My home health aide told me I should put him on the bottle for a few days and he seemed to take to it.”
“But you’re still lactating?”
I half nod.
“We have a nurse here who is very good with breast-feeding problems, but I’m more concerned about his weight and his persistent fever.”
“I’ve been giving him paracetamol,” I say.
“For how long?” asks Dr. Schur.
“Since yesterday morning . . . every four hours.”
The doctor continues to examine Rory, turning his arms and legs, looking at his elbows and behind his knees.
“Purely as a precaution, I want you to take Rory to hospital,” he says.
“Why?” I hear the panic in my voice.
“It’s extremely unlikely, but I tend to err on the side of caution.”
“What’s unlikely?” asks Hayden.
“Meningitis is very rare, particularly in babies who are only a few weeks old, but he does have a fever and a rash on the inside of his right thigh, which are some of the symptoms. I want to start him on broad-spectrum antibiotics immediately—just in case—but the hospital can test him properly. I’ll phone ahead. You won’t have to wait.”
Dr. Schur goes to his desk and types on his computer, humming to himself. He unlocks a cabinet and takes out several sealed packets of medicine, making a note of the serial numbers. He administers the first dose to Rory.
“You can get him dressed,” he says to Hayden before turning to me.
“Now you, young lady, how about I check you out?”
I step away. “No!”
“I want to make sure your uterus has shrunk back into your pelvis.”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you getting any contractions or after-pains?”
“No.”
Hayden has stopped dressing Rory and is staring at me.
“Just pop off your trousers and sit up on the table. It will only take a few minutes.”
He knows! He knows!
“I don’t want you looking down there. It’s not you . . . I . . . I have a problem with male doctors. Something happened when I was young . . . I only let women doctors touch me.”
“I can get Nurse Hazelwood to come in. She can examine you and talk about the breast-feeding.”
He knows! He knows!
“No, thank you,” I say, pulling my coat around me. “You’ve been very helpful, but I don’t want to be examined.”
Dr. Schur looks at the form I filled out earlier. “You haven’t given us the name of your home health aide.”
“I left her card at home.”
“Or your GP—what’s her name?”
“I’m seeing her later.”
He knows! He knows!
“Where did you have your baby?”
“In Leeds,” I say, sounding annoyed. “I told your receptionist. She wrote it down.”
“Where in Leeds?”
My tongue seems to have swollen, blocking my throat.
“You’re upset, Agatha. I think we should calm down,” says the doctor.
“I am calm.”
“Take a seat. I’m sure we can sort this out.”
“No! I’m leaving.” I pick up Rory and push past Hayden.
Dr. Schur steps in front of the door. “We need to discuss this.”
“There’s nothing to discuss.”
He touches my shoulder. The creature inside me is out, unchained, filling my throat.
“GET YOUR FUCKING HANDS OFF ME!”
I don’t recognize the voice. It’s as though an entirely different person, an imposter, has momentarily taken my place. Dr. Schur takes a half step back and I reach the door. It opens outward and I keep moving, through the waiting room. Mrs. Cole is on her feet.
“GET AWAY FROM ME, BITCH, OR I’LL CUT YOUR EYES OUT.”
She reels backwards, her mouth gaping.