Fern

FERN

When my three hourly medications are due, the nurse makes her rounds and I opt to take the full dose. Oblivion is preferable to all the thoughts swirling in my mind. Owen is not going to raise the baby with Rose. Rose wants Wally to give her money. Wally thinks there is something wrong with Rose. Mum is dead, and Rose was the last person to see her. It’s too much for my brain to handle. I can see, all at once, the appeal of drugs. Understand the calling of an addict.

By the time Rose returns to the hospital, I am nearly asleep. I keep my eyes closed, but I feel her in the room. I’m not sure if her presence is a comfort or a threat. I am still musing on this when I hear a distinct American accent coming from just outside my doorway.

“I’m here to see Fern.”

My eyes spring open.… I’d have thought I was having some sort of drug-induced fantasy—if it weren’t for the speed at which Rose jumps out of her chair and runs to the door.

“I wish you’d called ahead, Rocco,” Rose says. She walks into the hallway, pulling the door to my room nearly all the way closed behind her. “Unfortunately, it’s not a good time.”

I try to sit up, but I feel dizzy and have to lie back down.

“I don’t need you to tell me when an appropriate time to visit Fern is,” Wally says. His voice lacks its usual warmth. In fact, he sounds downright angry.

“Actually, you do. Because she’s asleep.”

“Fine. I’ll wait.”

There’s a short pause. “Look, I’m glad you’re here. Why don’t you and I go somewhere and we can—”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

There’s a short silence and then Rose closes the door fully. When she speaks again, I have to strain to hear.

“We need to talk, Rocco.”

“Fine. Let’s talk about how Fern says she doesn’t need any money—”

“Of course she won’t tell you that. She’s ashamed. She’s ashamed that she can’t even raise her own baby!”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s adopting the baby out to me. I’m going to raise it.”

“What?”

I hear the wheels of a cart on the linoleum floors and then Rose says, “No, thanks,” and the sound recedes.

“Why is Fern giving her baby to you? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Is it?” I can hear a thread of strain in Rose’s voice. “Come on. We both know Fern isn’t capable of looking after a child—”

“Of course she is. I think Fern would make a terrific mother.”

More silence. I feel the painkillers swirl in my bloodstream, which, while not unpleasant, is quite distracting.

“There are things you don’t know, Rocco.” Rose sighs. “Fern’s dangerous.”

Wally scoffs. “If you’re talking about what happened by the river when you were twelve, Fern told me about that.”

There is a long silence. When Rose finally speaks, she sounds uncertain. “Fern told you?”

“Yes.”

“She told you she drowned a boy in the river?”

“Yes. But I don’t believe it.”

“It is hard to believe,” Rose agrees. “But it’s true. I was there. I am the only person on earth who knows the truth about what happened.”

But that isn’t true. There was someone else at the river that night, someone other than her, me, and Billy.

---

The night before he died, Billy and I had wandered down to the river together to skim stones. We were breaking the rules. We weren’t supposed to do that. Mum and Daniel told us we weren’t allowed to leave the camp at night, but when Billy asked, I threw caution to the wind. There was something about Billy that made me want to do things like that. Something about his company that made him difficult to resist.

He took me by surprise when he kissed me. One minute we were skimming stones and the next our teeth were knocking together. He said “Ow” and I laughed. Then he kissed me again. It was better that time. Still strange, but better.

We were on our third kiss when Rose stepped out of the bushes, startling us both.

“Fern?” she’d said.

She’d been so quiet after that. It was almost as though she was annoyed with me. Her strange mood permeated the camp the next day. That was what happened when Rose got into one of her moods—you could feel it in your bones. By evening, Mum and Daniel were so fed up they sent us down to the river. “Go swim,” Mum said to Rose. “Shake it off.”

I think Mum wanted to help, but I hated it when Mum told Rose to shake it off. It only ever made her madder.

Billy and I followed Rose down to the river, at a distance. But once she was there, she just stood on the bank, sulking. After a few minutes, Billy strode past her and into the water—he didn’t know how Rose could get when she was in one of these moods. I wanted one last swim with Billy, but I felt like I shouldn’t, so I stood off to the side, watching them. Billy had spent that whole week trying to hold his breath underwater longer than me and this was his last chance, he said. But it was clear he was never going to do it. It was funny. I could have watched him try all night.

After an hour or so, Rose called me over to her. I was taken aback. She’d been giving me the silent treatment all day. Usually she kept it up for two or three days before she broke it.

“Help him,” she whispered.

“Help him what?”

“Help him beat your time.”

I’ll admit, I wasn’t too keen on the idea.

“Go on,” Rose urged. “He’ll never do it otherwise. And boys love to win!”

Rose was so animated. She looked practically happy. There was something appealing about a happy Rose, especially when she’d been in such a bad mood. Letting Billy win would be a small price to pay, I supposed. So I agreed.

The next time Billy broke through the surface of the water, I told him my tricks. “Breathe slowly and calmly for at least two minutes. Then exhale everything in your lungs and take the deepest breath you possibly can. Then once you’re underwater, relax and let your thoughts drift away.”

Billy listened carefully before attempting it. And he did quite well, for a first timer. He was still no match for me, though. And when oxygen bubbled to the surface, I felt pleased. Until Rose said, “Help him.”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Help. Him. Win.”

“You mean…?”

She nodded.

We stared at each other. I was sure I’d misunderstood. “But—”

“It’s the only way he’ll beat you. Hold him down.”

And so, I did. I put a hand on his back, and another on the back of his head. “Only forty seconds,” I said to Rose. “Check your watch.”

Rose did. Billy started to struggle but in karate I’d learned to grip well. I’d spent months developing forearm and finger strength, so he had no chance of getting free. But he was twisting and kicking. I felt very uncertain. “How long has it been—”

“Nearly there.” Rose was looking at her watch.

“Now?” I said.

Rose shook her head.

It didn’t take long before he stopped twisting.

Rose kept time on her watch. I felt reassured by that. Rose wouldn’t let me do anything bad to Billy. And yet it felt like an eternity before she gave the nod to release him.

As soon as he rose to the surface of the water, I knew something was very wrong. I hooked my arms around his shoulders and lifted his head out of the water. “Billy?” I gently slapped his face. “Come on, Billy. Wake up.”

But Billy didn’t wake up. He didn’t turn his head to suck in a breath or cough and splutter or gasp for air.

I dragged him from the water. He was heavy but I got him to the shore and rolled him onto his side. When he still didn’t breathe, I tried to administer CPR. I’d read a book about how to do it, and we’d practiced it at school on plastic mannequins, but it was harder on an actual person. Rose just stood there, in shock. I breathed into Billy, again and again. After several minutes with no response, I sat back on my heels and looked at him. He was the most unnatural color—a slippery, whitish blue. His eyes were open, but lifeless.

That’s when we heard Mum.

“Girls?” She was looking around for us, and spotting us on the shore, she appeared relieved. Then she looked past us to where Billy lay. For a moment, she remained completely still. Then she ran. It was a sight to behold. Mum never ran anywhere.

“Billy!” she cried, dropping to her knees beside him. She fumbled at his neck, presumably trying to feel for a pulse. “Billy. Come on. Come on, Billy. What happened?”

Rose and I remained silent, as Mum herself tried to breathe life into Billy. She continued for what felt like hours, only pausing to swear under her breath and, once, to lift her head and say what sounded like a quick prayer, which was odd as I’d never seen Mum pray before. When she finally spun around, her face was streaked with tears and dirt. “What happened? Someone tell me.”

“I … I was trying to help him stay underwater longer than me,” I stammered. “I must have held him for too long.”

“You held him under?” Mum stared at me. “Why would you do that, Fern?”

I glanced at Rose. Mum followed my gaze. Something funny happened to her eyes. “Did Rose tell you to?”

Somehow, I understood the danger of answering that question. And so I didn’t.

“Oh, of course it’s my fault,” Rose said. “Nothing could be the fault of your precious Fern.”

Mum stood up and grabbed Rose so tightly that her feet lifted off the ground. “Billy is dead, Rose. Do you understand that?”

“Yes,” Rose said evenly. “I understand.”

“And now you’ve implicated your sister!”

“You’ve always hated me,” Rose shouted, crying now. “You’ve only ever loved Fern. Everyone loves Fern!”

Mum let go of Rose and lifted a hand to Rose’s face before hesitating and dropping it down.

“I don’t hate you, Rose. But it does feel like you’ve spent your life trying to make me prove I love you. And now, a boy is dead!”

Mum looked down at Billy’s lifeless body, then up again, meeting Rose’s gaze.

“If you want to prove that you love me,” Rose said, “then this is your chance.”

Midafternoon, Rose goes to Target to get the baby some smaller clothes. The moment she is gone, I move quickly.

The hospital is quiet, apart from a few mewling, newborn cries. I struggle into my rainbow dress, one of many souvenirs of the bizarre brand of love Rose has for me, and I lift the baby out of her crib. She is warm and feather light. I hook my bag over my shoulder and cradle her against my chest. It’s lovely how she seems to fit into the space perfectly, like she was made for this space. Perhaps she was.

It’s funny, she doesn’t look like an Alice to me, I realize. More like a Daisy or Lily or Poppy. Or Willow? There’s something about the strength of it that I like. Yes, Willow. That’s her name.

It is so easy to get out of the hospital that I don’t feel like I am “breaking out” at all. I skulk past reception and out into the street, covering Willow’s face with the blanket as we walk past the smokers. There is a taxi idling there, having just let an elderly man and woman out, which is perfect. I may not be the best mother for my baby. But I am becoming more and more certain with each passing moment that Rose isn’t either.

---

I feed Willow in the taxi and she falls into an openmouthed sleep. I have nothing other than my handbag. No nappies. No clothes. At least I have milk, and judging by how sore my breasts are, more milk is coming in. All in all, it could be worse.

When we pull up, I half expect Rose to be standing there, her faux concern pasted onto her face, ready to launch into a speech about how this kind of behavior is exactly why I can’t be a mother to this baby. Maybe she’s right. Still, I’m delighted to find that she isn’t here. For once, it seems, I’m one step ahead of Rose.

I ask the driver to let us out at the back of the library. My plan is ill thought out at best. I’m not even sure it is a plan. All I know is that I have to call Wally. I have to tell him he is the father of my baby. Even if he is upset with me for not telling him, he will surely help me figure out the right thing to do. I know now that the right thing is not to leave my baby in Rose’s care.

I let myself into the library through the back door. It’s quiet inside, so I manage to make my way down the muted, carpeted hallway without being noticed. Through the opaque glass window, I can see people moving about in the staff room, and I hear Trevor’s high-pitched, irritating laugh. I can’t chance going across the library to the secret cupboard so instead go through the vestibule and into the bathrooms. Inside, I enter a stall and sit on the closed toilet, resting Willow on my knees while I retrieve my phone. I have 15 percent battery left, which is astonishing to see—normally, I don’t let it get below 90 percent, but I didn’t have my phone charger at the hospital. Still, 15 percent is all I need. I search for Wally’s number and that’s when I notice. No service.

“Shit!” I say. A baby noise bubbles from Willow, a squawk of sorts, as if in solidarity with me.

“Fern? Is that you?”

I freeze, inside the stall. It’s Carmel’s voice.

“It is you!” she says, after a minute. “I recognize your shoes.”

I look down at my shoes—sequined silver sneakers that are unlikely to belong to anyone else at the library.

“Are you alone?” I ask.

“Yes. It’s just me.”

I open the door. Carmel opens her mouth as if to say something but then she sees Willow. She sucks in a breath. “You had your baby!”

“Yes.” I smile down at her, wriggling in my arms.

Carmel creeps closer. “A girl?”

I nod.

Carmel’s hand goes to her heart. “She’s beautiful, just beautiful, Fern.” She’s smiling, but suddenly her expression becomes concerned. “But why aren’t you in the hospital?”

My smile falls away.

“What is it, Fern? Is everything all right?”

“Rose wants to take my baby away from me.”

“No,” she says. “That’s ridiculous. She wouldn’t.”

“The thing is … I agreed to it. I thought the baby would be better off with her. But … I’ve changed my mind.”

Carmel listens to me intently, her face full of concern. It’s the first time anyone has listened to me intently in a very long time. I feel unexpectedly teary. “Have you told your sister this?”

I shake my head. “Rose has a way of getting what she wants.”

“Ah,” Carmel says. “I too have a sister.”

We look at each other for a moment and I have a strange feeling. Like an understanding traveling between us. It’s nice.

“So, what is your plan?” Carmel asks.

“I need to call Wally. I think he can help. But there’s no reception in here.”

“Then we must find reception,” Carmel says determinedly. “The library is quiet right now. Keep your head down and no one will pay you any attention.”

Carmel checks that the coast is clear and then we head through the vestibule. Gripping Willow tightly, I push the door onto the library floor open. By the time I see the uniforms, it’s too late to turn around. They’ve already seen me.

“Now,” Carmel says, standing between them and us. “I really don’t think this is necessary—”

I don’t hear the end of Carmel’s statement, as I have started to run. I don’t get far. A policewoman catches up to me as I reach the side door. She doesn’t grab me, perhaps because of the baby in my arms, but she uses her body to block me into a corner. If I were willing to let go of Willow, I could have taken her down with a hip throw. But I’m not.

“We’ve spoken to your sister,” the policewoman says. “You need to give us the baby. We’ll take good care of her, I promise.…”

She reaches for the baby and I rear back, twisting away from her. It startles Willow and she starts to cry. I’m considering knocking the policewoman down with a leg sweep when I see someone standing at the front desk at the other end of the library.

Rose.

It’s Gayle at the desk, and she doesn’t appear to be giving Rose a satisfactory answer, because Rose slams her hand against the desk. Then she glances around wildly. When we finally lock eyes, for a moment I think I must have mistaken someone else for her. She looks different. She looks … like a madwoman.

“Give her to me!” she cries, running toward me. I hold Willow closer, knitting my fingers together. Breast milk saturates my chest.

“Ma’am, I really need you to give me the baby,” the policewoman says again.

I turn away from her, and from Rose. I don’t let go of Willow.

I cry. I moan. I sob. I even bite the padded edge of the bed. Once again, like when I was in labor, I am an animal. Willow is gone. Rose was saying I kidnapped her, so they took her from me. The ache of being away from her is nearly overwhelming. My breasts are rock hard, my dress is drenched. My body still aches from giving birth to her. But I don’t even have a photograph of her. Even if I did, my phone is out of charge.

“It’s all right, miss,” the nurse by my hospital bed says to me in a strange, flat sort of voice. It’s not Beverly, nor any nurse that I recognize from the maternity ward. I’m in a different part of the hospital. The psych ward. This nurse has a stern face, pinched lips, and nude stockings that don’t hide her varicose veins. “The doctor has given you a sedative, so you will feel much better soon.”

“Where is my baby?”

The nurse glances at the doorway. Two police officers stand there, talking quietly to each other. I recognize the policewoman as the one who chased me across the library. I never did hand over the baby. Karate had made my finger strength superior to most people’s, and they had no chance of getting her off me without a fight. Eventually, they’d held Rose back and allowed me to carry Willow outside, while the police formed a loose circle around me, in case I made a run for it. Outside, there had been four police cars waiting. All of them for me.

“There’s just a bit of confusion that needs sorting out,” the nurse says. She gives me a look that I can only describe as pity and gives my hand a gentle pat. I pull my hand away.

“I want to see my baby,” I say.

---

The sedative must work, because before I know it, I’m waking from a deep sleep. Nothing has changed except that now, a man is in the corner of the room, talking to the nurse with the varicose veins.

“Where is my baby?” I ask again, quieter than before.

The pair of them startle, then turn to look at me.

“Hello,” the man says, grabbing a chair and dragging it swiftly up to the bed. “You must be Fern.”

I don’t reply. He sits down. “I’m Dr. Aston. I’m a psychiatrist. How are you feeling?”

“Not good. I want to go home.”

Dr. Aston nods, looking down at his notes. “Well, hopefully we’ll be able to arrange that soon, but first I want to have a chat with you about how you’re feeling. I understand you’ve recently given birth?”

“Yes. Where is my baby?”

“She’s in the pediatric wing. I’ve just spoken with her doctor and she’s absolutely fine. I’m told she’s being taken care of by your sister.”

“I do not want my sister near my baby.”

Dr. Aston’s eyebrows rise. He glances at the nurse and then back at me. “I understood you intended for your sister to adopt your baby. Is that incorrect?”

“It was correct,” I say. “But I changed my mind.”

“I see. Well, first things first.” He looks up as a woman appears in the doorway. “Ah. You want to do this now?”

“If it’s convenient,” the woman says.

The doctor nods and gathers his notes. “We’ll finish this in a bit, Fern. Don’t worry, we’ll get it all sorted out.”

Rose has been saying that for months. Don’t worry. Everything is going to be fine. And now, here we are.

The woman comes into the room. She doesn’t look like a doctor to me. She is wearing normal clothes. She is in her mid- to late forties, with blue eyes and dark blond hair that she wears in a long braid down her back.

“You don’t look like a doctor,” I say.

“That’s because I’m not.” She holds up a lanyard. “Detective Sara Brookes. Is it all right if I ask you some questions?”

I take a moment to process this. A police detective. Then I realize. I kidnapped a baby. She must be here to arrest me.

Detective Brookes sits in the seat that Dr. Aston just vacated and pulls out a small notebook and pen. “I like your bracelet,” she says bizarrely. I can only deduce that making small talk helps perps to “talk.” “Is that a bush engraved on there?”

“A fern,” I correct. “Because that’s my name.”

“It’s lovely. The name and the bracelet.”

We stare at each other for a moment.

“Congratulations, by the way,” Detective Brookes says. “I hear you had a baby girl. Where is she?”

“She’s in the pediatric wing,” I tell her. “With my sister.”

Detective Brookes looks surprised. “Why isn’t she in here with you?”

I frown. “Because I kidnapped her. Didn’t you hear?”

Detective Brookes sits back in her chair. “You kidnapped your own child?”

I nod. “At least that’s what my sister is telling people.”

“I wonder why she’d say that.” She gives me a long assessing stare. “Why don’t you tell me a little about your sister?”

The question is too broad. I can’t even begin to narrow it, so I just pluck random facts out of my mind, as if from a hat. “She’s the same age as me.”

“Oh. You’re twins?”

“Fraternal twins. And we are very different. She’s short, and I’m tall. She has no sensory issues, but I do. She’s diabetic, and I’m not.”

The detective writes on her notepad. “Are you close?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t know where the pediatric wing is.”

She smiles. “What I mean is … do you spend a lot of time together?”

“I suppose so.”

“And she is … a good sister?”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s … kind? Does nice things for you?”

“Sometimes.”

“And other times?”

I throw up my hands. “I don’t know. She’s just Rose, okay?”

I’m frustrated by this conversation. I just want my baby. I’m not sure what Rose being a good sister has to do with anything.

The detective nods. “I understand your mother passed away very recently,” she says, taking the conversation in another strange direction. “I’m sorry to hear that. The hospital staff indicated that you visit weekly.”

“You’ve spoken to Sun Meadows? Why?”

“Just part of our investigation. Your mother’s cause of death isn’t clear, so we just wanted to check up on a few things. We understand that your sister hadn’t visited in a very long time until she went the night before your mother died. Why was that? Didn’t she have a good relationship with your mother?”

“Rose?” I laugh. “She didn’t have a relationship with Mum at all.”

“She never spoke to her?”

“Well, no one spoke with Mum. After her overdose, Mum couldn’t say two words. She improved a little over the last year. She was starting to talk in short sentences.” I think of what she said to me about my baby. Don’t give Rose the baby. “Recently she told me not to give Rose my baby.”

If only I’d listened.

Detective Brookes writes some more in her notebook. Then she frowns thoughtfully. “That’s a pretty bold statement. Why do you think she would say that?”

I look at her. “I don’t understand. Why are you asking me about Rose and my mother? Aren’t you here to charge me with kidnapping?”

She smiles. “Not at this point.” She taps my bracelet with her pen. “Let me guess, your sister has a matching bracelet?”

“Yes,” I say. “But with a rose on it.”

“Because her name is Rose.”

I nod. She rises to her feet. “You’ve been very helpful. That’s all I need for now.”

“Wait!” My voice is hoarse. The detective raises her eyebrows. “Will I get my baby back?”

More than anything, I wish I had the ability to read other people’s facial expressions. Because when Detective Brookes narrows her eyes and says, “Leave it with me,” I have absolutely no idea what it means.

---

An hour passes. Then two. I’m in hour three when I recognize the person loitering in the doorway.

“Owen?”

“Hey, Fernie.”

I blink. It’s him. It’s really him. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugs. His hands are tucked into his pockets and he seems as close to shy as I’ve ever seen him. “Can’t a guy visit his sister-in-law in the nuthouse?”

He’s had a haircut. Which isn’t unexpected, I suppose, since he’s been away a year. It suits him like this. He appears to have lost weight and gained muscle. Owen had always been well built, but these last few years he’d become a bit softer looking.

London must be treating him well.

“How did you know I was here?” I ask.

“Rose called me. She does that when she gets herself into trouble.”

“And you came all the way from London?”

He looks confused. “London? No, I came from Brunswick.”

“Oh,” I say. “When did you get back from London?”

“I haven’t been in London, Fern.”

“Of course you have. You’ve been living there for the past year.”

Now he gives me a meaningful look. “I was going to ask what you’re doing in here, but clearly you are mad.” He chuckles. “Why’d you think I was in London?”

“You haven’t been living in London?”

“No. Why would … wait. Did Rose tell you this?”

“Yes. She said you have been working on a project over there. She went over to visit you last year.”

He laughs, but it is one of those nervous laughs. “Fern, for the last year I’ve been living on the other side of town. A few months back, I actually came and visited you a couple of times at the library. I didn’t want to go to your flat as I thought that might get you in trouble with Rose. When you didn’t get back to me, I assumed Rose had turned you against me and I gave up.”

“I remember a mystery visitor coming to the library. That was you?”

He nods. It’s too strange. Owen glances over his shoulder as if afraid Rose is going to burst in. I also feel afraid of that.

“What did Rose say when she called you?”

“She said you had had a baby,” he says, perching on the side of the bed. “And that it was your sincerest wish that she and I raise it together. My instinct was to stay away from her madness, but as it involved you, I had to come and see what was going on.”

“But why would Rose say you were in London?”

He sighs. “Why does Rose do anything? Because of how it reflects on her.”

“What do you mean?”

He exhales and runs a hand through his new stylish hair. “I left her. Things hadn’t been good between us for years, Fern. She was so changeable—happy one minute, enraged the next. I couldn’t live like that. I suggested counseling, but she wasn’t interested. It was all my fault. Eventually, I couldn’t take it anymore.”

“So you moved to Brunswick?”

He nods. “I can’t believe she told you I moved to London. But, then again, I can. She always has to own the narrative. She could never admit that someone left her.”

I take a minute to digest this. “What do you think is wrong with her, Owen?”

“I’ve spent a lot of this year in therapy trying to work that out. And I have to say, she possesses all the classic traits of a narcissist. Possibly even borderline personality disorder.”

“What kind of traits?”

“Her mind games. One minute she was sweet and kind, the next she was ridiculing me in front of our friends. If I became upset with her, she said I was too sensitive, it was all just a joke. If I gave an opinion that differed from hers, she didn’t speak to me for days. And her sense of grandiosity! She spent so much money. More than we had. She was forever quitting her job—or getting fired, I honestly don’t know which, but it never curbed her spending. I don’t think she’s held a job for longer than a year the whole time I’ve known her. At first, I thought she had bad luck, but then it just kept happening. I stopped asking her about it, because she would get furious if I brought it up.”

I think of the times she’s talked about going to work this past year. And I think about the number of times I’ve seen her in work clothes. They don’t match.

“She’s not well, Fernie. You can’t give her your baby.”

“I know.”

We sit for a moment in silence. I realize I have a lump in my throat. Owen’s face is more somber than I’ve ever seen it. He reaches forward and puts his hand on mine. It’s warm and strong. It’s not just bearable. It actually feels good.

“Thank you for coming to see me,” I say.

He shrugs. “I wish I could do more.”

I smile, even though I’m sad—and for the first time, I understand why people do that.

“I wish you could too,” I say.

Twenty minutes after Owen leaves, Detective Brookes comes to the door.

“May I come in?”

If she’s come to arrest me for kidnapping Willow, she won’t have to ask any such permissions soon. In jail, I imagine the police can come and go as they please. They won’t ask if I feel like stew or spaghetti for dinner, they’ll just hand me a meal. It’s possible, I realize, that I won’t go to jail. I might go to one of those places for the mentally impaired—One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest–style. Apparently, those places aren’t as bad as they once were. I read an article about it recently. Electroshock therapy is only used sparingly, and the facilities are geared toward rehabilitation. Still, I doubt babies are allowed to visit. That’s the most frightening part of this—not jail, or a disruption to my routine, not the smells or lights or alarms—it’s the fact that I might not see Willow again for a long, long time.

I wrap my arms around myself.

“Fern?” Detective Brookes says. “Are you all right?”

I shake my head and start to rock. There is another police officer with Detective Brookes now, this one in uniform. He remains at the doorway, while Detective Brookes slowly enters the room.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I just need to have a word with you about something.”

“The kidnapping?”

“Fern, Willow is your daughter. I cannot arrest you for taking her to the library.”

I frown. “You can’t?”

“No.”

I am perplexed. “Then … why did the police come after me? Why did they take Willow?”

“My understanding is that your sister called to report you and your baby’s sudden departure from the hospital. This would have prompted a welfare check from the police. As you were distressed when they found you, a request for psych assessment would have been made, and I’m not privy to those. But there is no suggestion that you kidnapped your daughter, Fern.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

I take a minute to process this.

“Then … why are you here?” I ask.

Detective Brookes takes a seat by the bed. “It’s to do with your mother.”

“My mother? What about her?”

“We have the autopsy report. It shows two hypodermic injection sites just under your mother’s hairline. This indicates foul play.”

“Foul play?”

“It indicates someone may have poisoned your mother. But there were no traces of poison in your mother’s blood.”

“That’s strange.”

“Yes, it had us a little baffled too until you mentioned your sister was a diabetic. You see, one trend we’ve started seeing a bit of in nursing homes is insulin overdosing. It’s popular because in general insulin degrades quickly in a body. With your sister being a diabetic, she would obviously have access to insulin and be experienced in giving injections. In addition to this, we found a bracelet, identical to yours but with a rose on it, in your mother’s room. And given the fact that their relationship was troubled, and your mother was trying to convince you not to give her your baby … that’s a motive.”

I blink. “You think Rose murdered Mum?”

She shrugs. “I’d say it’s not looking good for her.”

“No,” I say. “I don’t believe it.”

But maybe I do believe it. I think about the way Rose felt about Mum. Even the mention of her name was enough to infuriate her. And Rose had done so many things that I’d never thought she would do. Go behind my back with Wally. Lie about Owen. Accuse me of being dangerous. Take my baby from me.

“It’s a lot of compelling evidence. Enough to rule your mother’s death a murder. And enough that your sister is the prime suspect.”

I stare at her. I’m about to ask where Rose is, but halfway through I realize it’s the wrong question. I have a new priority now. A more important question.

“Willow,” I say. “Where is Willow?”

I lie on my hospital bed and stare at the closed door. It’s all too much to take in.

Detective Brookes told me that Rose will be formally charged and then most likely remanded in custody until trial. The idea makes me nervous. Rose won’t be happy about any of that.

On her way out, Detective Brookes told me that she would find Willow, but that was twenty minutes ago, and I’ve heard nothing since. She told me to stay in my room, so they can find me easily, but it is torture. I’m not in any trouble for taking Willow, Detective Brookes stressed. She is my baby; I’m free to take her anywhere I want. I like the sound of that, even if I’m not sure I trust it.

Finally, there is a knock at the door. I lurch upright as the door opens. It’s not Willow.

“Wally?”

He pushes his glasses up his nose and smiles. He’s dressed in the first outfit I ever saw him in—jeans, the flannelette shirt, the bobble hat.

“How did you find me?” I ask as he comes in. He closes the door behind him and takes a seat beside my bed.

“Carmel called me, eventually. She said you would be here. I’d been back to maternity, but you weren’t there and no one would give me any information. It’s taken me hours to find you.”

I take a minute to marvel at this. Wally, looking all over the hospital … for me.

“Wally, I have to tell you something,” I say, when I realize I can’t wait a moment longer to tell him.

His gaze slides from over my shoulder to meet my eye. It calms me. “What is it?”

“The baby is yours,” I tell him.

He closes his eyes and drops his chin to his chest. He is silent for so long I wonder if he hasn’t heard me. But when he lifts his head, his face is covered in tears.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wanted to. I should have. But I didn’t think I was capable of raising a baby … you know, after what happened with Billy. And you … you said you didn’t want a baby.”

“I did say that, didn’t I? I don’t know why. I guess because it was a theoretical answer. I enjoy answering theoretical questions. But if you’d told me you wanted a baby … or that you were pregnant … I promise you would have got a very different answer.”

“I would?”

He nods. I feel something, actually feel it, shift inside my chest. I’m about to ask what the answer would have been when someone comes to the door.

“Knock, knock?”

A woman in black slacks and a pale blue blouse is standing there. She’s wearing black orthopedic sneakers. “I apologize for interrupting. My name is Nadine Riley—I’m an administrator here. I understand your daughter has been up in our pediatric unit in the care of your sister, but that your sister has been unexpectedly … called away?”

“That’s right,” I say.

“I see, well, as your adoption paperwork hasn’t been finalized, the hospital policy is to keep the baby here in the room with you. I’m told you will be moving back to the maternity ward shortly, but in the meantime, one of the nurses is bringing your daughter here to you.… Ah, here they are now.”

I stop breathing. Nadine Riley moves to the side and a young nurse enters the room, pushing a crib on wheels. My hands begin to shake. I see the top of her head through the clear plastic crib. Someone has removed her little hat.

“I have a little girl here who would like to see her mother,” the nurse says, strolling into the room smiling widely. She is the perky sort of nurse—young and blond, with a high ponytail, white teeth, and fresh, clean skin. She parks the crib beside my bed and applies the brake before reaching for her. Neither Wally nor I speak, or even move. My heart beats so fast and hard I contemplate whether I might be having a heart attack.

“Ooh, is this Dad?” the nurse says, gesturing to Wally. “Of course it is, silly me, she’s got your hair. She really is just a darling little thing. Who wants to take her?”

She gathers her up with the ease of someone who spends much time around newborns, and then glances from me to Wally, as if expecting a tussle. She doesn’t get one. We are both too shell-shocked. Wally is so still I think he may have ceased to breathe.

“Give her to him,” I say finally. “He’s got some time to make up for.”

Wally remains frozen for just another second. Then he nods, visibly relaxes a little, and opens his arms.

Wally stays in the chair beside my bed for twenty-four hours. When he’s not tending to Willow or checking on me, he’s downloading parenting books onto his phone and reading them furiously. He introduces me to an app for my every parenting need—a tracker for feeds, sleep times, and nappy changes; a white-noise maker; a height and growth chart. Rather than feeling overwhelmed by this, I find the ritual of entering information into the different fields surprisingly soothing. I am hopeful that soon the new rituals and routines will become a new kind of normal.

For someone who didn’t want children, Wally certainly appears enamored with Willow. He holds her like one might hold hot tea in a fine china cup and looks at her the way one might admire a favorite painting or sculpture. In the middle of the night, I wake to find Willow in his arms and him looking down at her like this. I watch for an indeterminable amount of time. The sight of them nearly overwhelms me.

“I’m glad,” I say, startling him, “that you are my person.”

He looks up at me and smiles. “I think a few people might fight me for that role.”

My face must convey my confusion.

“I don’t think you realize how many people you have, Fern. Carmel. Gayle and your library colleagues. Owen. And yes, me. And don’t forget Willow.”

I take a minute to consider that. While I’m doing so, Wally says, “Rose said you weren’t capable of raising a child. I suspect she may have convinced you of that too, right?”

I shrug.

“Is it just the Billy thing that worries you?”

“It’s mostly that. But also my sensory issues. You have to admit, I’m not the ideal mother. What if the baby wants to watch fireworks? Or have a birthday party? I couldn’t even handle school pickup or drop-off with all those shrieking children and swarms of mothers in puffer jackets, making small talk.”

Wally thinks about this. “Okay,” he says. “Well, I’ll do the school pickups and drop-offs and the birthday parties.”

“You? When? When would you do the school drop-off? When you’re in your van creating your app? When you are traveling around the world promoting FollowUp?”

“I sold FollowUp, Fern.”

I blink. “You sold it? Already?”

He nods. “For a lot of money. It makes the deal for Shout! look cheap. So I can do the school run every day, if you like. And you can stay home, or go work in the library, or come to school pickup with me and wait in the car. You can do whatever you like!”

But it can’t be that easy. Nothing in life is that easy.

Willow chooses that moment to start fussing.

“Is she due for a feed?” I ask.

Wally checks the app and determines that she is. He brings her to me. As she latches on, he enters the feed time into the app. The ritual of this, even over the past twelve hours, is one I’ve come to quite enjoy. As she feeds, we watch her. It’s surprisingly satisfying. I’ve never found watching an adult eat enjoyable.

“She’s a miracle,” Wally says.

I think about that. “Well, no, not really. Pregnancies are actually biologically quite straightforward.”

He rolls his eyes. “Sure, but … you were on birth control. Which means, what were the chances? Point zero three percent or something?”

I look at him. “I wasn’t on birth control.”

He blinks. “But you told me you were.”

“No, I didn’t. Why would I say that?”

“I don’t know, but you did say it,” he says emphatically. “The first night. I remember it clearly. You told me it was safe.”

I frown. “It was safe. But what does that have to do with birth control?”

Wally closes his eyes for a moment; then he exhales and smiles. “Well, I guess that solves that part of the mystery.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean … it explains how you mysteriously became pregnant.”

If Wally is bothered by this, he is keeping it well hidden. But his proclamation about “mysteriously” becoming pregnant triggers a realization that there is something I haven’t been clear about.

“There’s something else I have to tell you, Wally,” I say. “The pregnancy wasn’t an accident.”

Wally frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Rose couldn’t have a baby. She confessed this to me when I found prenatal vitamins in her bag and assumed she was pregnant. It turned out she’d been trying for a baby for a while and couldn’t have one. So … I decided to have a baby for her. It sounds crazy, I know. I just thought … I can have a baby and Rose can’t. Why wouldn’t I help her out? It seemed so simple. Then … I met you and … and…”

“… and you asked me on a date so you could become pregnant with a baby for your sister?”

“Yes.”

Wally places both hands on his temples. “Wow.”

“But by the time we had sex, I wasn’t even thinking about that anymore. I wasn’t thinking about—”

Wally walks to the corner of the room, shaking his head. “Wow,” he says again. “It’s genius.”

“What is?”

“Rose,” he says.

“What do you mean?”

“She must have known what you would do if you found out she couldn’t have a baby.”

I shake my head. “But she didn’t even tell me she wanted a baby, I found her prenatal vitamins.”

“Which she just happened to leave lying around?”

I think about this. But I don’t believe it. “You think she did that on purpose? So I would realize she wanted a baby and try to have one for her?”

He shrugs. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Well,” I say. “In any case. I’m sorry.”

Wally walks back to my bedside. He looks down at Willow. I’ll never get tired of the way he looks at her.

“You know what’s funny,” he says. “I’m not.”

When I’m released from hospital, we go back to Wally’s new flat, stopping by Rose’s en route to collect Alfie. Wally’s flat is in an older-style building that reminds me a lot of my old place. He rented it a few months back—things got so busy with FollowUp that he decided he needed a more permanent base. It still looks like he hasn’t properly moved in. He says it’s just a stopgap until we buy something bigger, but honestly, I quite like it. I loved my little flat.

Willow and I don’t leave the flat for the next forty-eight hours, and Wally only leaves to walk Alfie. Carmel is our only visitor, coming by to drop off a pile of books for me, a couple of takeaway hot chocolates, and an adorable pink onesie for Willow. She said if I needed anything, she was just at the end of the “line.” I wasn’t sure what line she was referring to, but when I told her this, she just laughed and said she’d check in with me tomorrow.

Both Wally and I try to sleep when Willow sleeps, but we find, frustratingly, that we cannot tune our body clocks to the bizarre schedule of round-the-clock forty-five-minute naps, so we make do with merely resting while she sleeps. Sometimes we read or play a game of sudoku. They’re lovely, those little pockets of time we have together.

Two days after we get home from the hospital is a Thursday. My first Thursday, I realize, as a mother, and without a mother. The fact that I’m not visiting Mum is made both better and worse by Willow’s existence … though I can’t help but think what a magnificent Thursday it would have been if I could have taken my daughter to meet my mother.

Throughout the days, my thoughts drift indeterminately to and from Rose. Detective Brookes has kept me in the loop. After Rose’s arrest, she was remanded in custody and is now awaiting arraignment. She has been asking to see me, apparently. I tell Detective Brookes that I will see her, at some point. And I will. But for now, it’s a relief to keep my mind busy caring for Willow.

I’ve been at home for a week when Detective Brookes calls to tell me she’d like to see me at the police station. It’s not the usual first outing with a baby, which according to my baby book is generally to the doctor’s office or the maternal health clinic. Still, I feel okay about it, as I was given reasonable notice and was able to plan the best route to take and to ensure there will be ample parking for Wally’s van. As the baby book instructs, I allow extra time to account for baby-related mishaps, but even so, we pull up to the police station five minutes late.

Detective Brookes is waiting for us outside, as planned. She doesn’t appear to be upset about our tardiness. “Follow me. I’ve reserved a visitor’s parking spot for you so you don’t have to walk far. And I’ve found us a quiet room on the first floor.”

It was Wally who suggested I tell her about my sensory issues in advance. As it turns out, her son has similar issues and she is happy to make accommodations so I will be more comfortable. I’ve found that a lot of people have been happy to accommodate me, actually, once they realize my challenges. All this time, I’d thought that Rose was the only person who understood how to care for me. How wrong I was.

We park the van and follow Detective Brookes into a small interview room with three chairs, a table, and a potted plant. Cream floor-to-ceiling horizontal blinds obscure the view of a fire extinguisher outside.

“Take a seat,” she says, and I do. Wally declines, instead standing in the corner. Willow is expertly strapped to his chest by a long piece of cloth and he is bouncing even though she is fast asleep. We have both bounced a lot this past week. Sometimes I find myself standing in the shower, bouncing, even though Willow is asleep in the next room.

“The reason I asked you to come in today,” Detective Brookes says, sitting down in the chair opposite me, “is that I wanted to show you something.”

She places a notebook in front of me. It’s pale pink, embossed with gold flowers and the words “A penny for your thoughts” in gold leaf.

“Have you seen this before?”

I reach out and touch the hard cover. “No. I don’t think so.”

“It’s Rose’s diary.”

I frown. “Rose doesn’t keep a diary.”

Detective Brookes shrugs. Clearly, it’s one more thing I didn’t know about my sister.

“Would you like to read it?”

I hesitate. “But … you’re not supposed to read other people’s diaries.”

“Rose gave me the diary,” Detective Brookes says. “Trust me. She wants us to read it.”

I don’t get it. “Why?”

Again, she shrugs. But there is something about her expression that makes me think she has her suspicions. “Open it,” she says, and I do, flicking it open in the middle and then leafing the pages backward.

“Have a read. Let me know if you have any comments about anything in there.”

There’s a lot in there. Page after page of Rose’s handwriting. I scan the page in front of me. It’s about the time I drew on the coffee table when I was little. It surprises me that Rose would write about this. She was always so reluctant to talk about anything in our past. I’m about to turn the page when something catches my eye.

“Wait,” I say.

Detective Brookes leans in. “What is it?”

I scan the page again. I remember that day very clearly, because of the drama that followed. I didn’t know Mum meant that I should do my homework in the book on top of the coffee table and I’d been embarrassed when I realized my mistake. But Mum wasn’t mad with me. “Thank god the coffee table was cheap,” she’d said with a laugh.

I think it was the laugh that set Rose off. She said Mum would never have laughed if she did something like that. She got so mad she stormed into the bedroom and broke every single one of my toys. It was one of the biggest meltdowns I’d ever seen her have.

But Rose’s diary tells a different story.

I flick to the next page. It’s about our ninth birthday, when Mum made us that amazing unicorn cake. Rose had been in such a strange mood that day. I’d stayed away from her when she was like that, but this time we had to sing “Happy Birthday.” Mum got out the “good plates” because it was a special occasion. I’m not sure why, but this seemed to be the wrong decision and Rose stormed out of the house. Mum looked everywhere but couldn’t find her. She was gone all night long. I remember Mum and me waiting in the hallway through the night for her to come home.

But Rose’s version of this is different too.

“This isn’t right,” I say. “This diary, it’s … not how things happened.”

I flick the page. Another story. I don’t understand. Why has Rose done this?

There’s only one entry that causes me to pause. It’s the one entry about Mum’s boyfriend Gary. I read that one twice.

“There are two particular entries that we are interested in,” Detective Brookes says. “I’ve earmarked them. Both are to do with a boy called Billy…”

I look up, stunned. Rose wrote about Billy in a diary? She’d always been so insistent that we never even talk about Billy. Unless … unless she’s created a fictional story for it too.

I flick to the pages that Detective Brookes has dog-eared and read the entries, once, and then again. Then, a third time. I can’t believe it.

My eyes find Wally and Willow.

“This isn’t what happened,” I say. “Rose made this up! I swear, this is not—”

“It’s all right, Fern,” Detective Brookes says. “We know.”

I stare at her. “You know?”

“Of course we know. Your sister isn’t the first master manipulator we’ve come across.”

“But I don’t understand. Why did she write a diary? What is the point of it?”

Detective Brookes sits back in her chair. “It seems to me she was laying the groundwork to claim that you couldn’t care for a baby, in case anyone questioned her adoption of your daughter. And, the way she portrays you here, you’d make a prime suspect in your mother’s murder, taking the heat off her.”

I shake my head. It’s too crazy to contemplate. I look down at the diary. Entry upon entry about our childhood. It couldn’t have been a spur-of-the-moment plan. This would have taken her months to compile. All to make me look unfit and secure her rights to my baby. My heart hurts.

“But why give it to you now?” I ask. “She’s in jail, no one is going to give her a baby now. Surely she doesn’t want the baby taken away from me and given to a stranger.”

Wally keeps his gaze firmly away from mine, but he stiffens slightly. I’ve become more in tune with his nonverbal communication these past weeks. Perhaps just sharing space with someone does that.

“Why?” I ask. “Why would she want to hurt me like that?”

Detective Brookes smiles ever so slightly. There’s a sad edge to it.

“I don’t know,” she admits. “But I have a feeling it’s a sister thing.”

Wally and I lie on the bed, side by side, staring up at the ceiling. Willow’s bassinet is in the corner, but she is snuggled into Wally’s chest—her favorite place to be. The flat is quiet and calm, but still my head is spinning. On the way home from the police station, Wally spoke to a lawyer to ask for advice on the Billy situation. The lawyer advised that it would be highly unlikely for Rose’s testimony to reopen inquiries into Billy’s death nearly twenty years after the fact, particularly with no witnesses to corroborate her story. At this point, everyone seems to have accepted that Billy had drowned by accident and that was the end of the story. It seemed the other part of the story would remain forever buried.

Wally turns his head to face me, and his glasses slide down his nose. “So your mother really never did those things in Rose’s diary?”

“No.” I think about that. “I mean … there were moments of truth in there … but they weren’t to do with Mum. It’s as if Rose just unearthed all our memories and recast them so she was the victim. Mum never broke our things or left us overnight or locked Rose in her room.”

“They were all lies,” Wally says.

“Yes,” I say. Then I hesitate. “Or maybe it’s the way Rose thinks it happened? I know that when we have recollected things together, her versions are always a little bit different from mine. Bigger, more dramatic. And she always adds things she couldn’t possibly know, like why people did what they did. But the way she tells them, it feels like she believes it is true.” I pause.

“What is it?” Wally asks.

“There was another part of the diary that I wondered about. About one of Mum’s boyfriends. Gary. She said he did something to her in the swimming pool. I think that part might be true.”

Wally frowns. “Why do you say that?”

“Because he tried something similar with me.”

Wally rises up onto an elbow, balancing Willow between his chest and other arm. “Your mum’s boyfriend—”

I hold up a hand. “He didn’t hurt me. I gave him a knee to the groin and he didn’t try it again. It never occurred to me that he might try it on Rose. I should have looked out for her better. I hate the idea of something bad happening to Rose. Even now, I hate it.”

“Unfortunately, that sentiment isn’t reciprocated,” Wally says. “If it were, Rose wouldn’t have falsified a diary intended to keep Willow from you.” He stands up and carries Willow over to the bassinet.

“The part I don’t understand is why she lied about what happened the night Billy died. She didn’t need to lie about that. I did drown Billy! Why did she need to say that she wasn’t there when he died?”

Wally frowns. “That is weird.” He puts Willow down. Standing upright again, he becomes very still. “You said it was Rose’s idea to hold him under,” he says slowly. “And she kept time while you held Billy down?”

“Yes.”

“And didn’t you say it felt like a long time? Maybe it was a long time?”

It takes me a minute to understand where Wally is leading me. Rose told me to hold Billy down. She told me how long to hold him. And then she made up a story saying she wasn’t there.

“It makes sense. Why else would she need to make up a story about it?” Wally says.

“No,” I say. “I don’t think Rose would do that.”

“I’m sorry, Fern,” Wally says. “But I think she would.”

It takes me a minute to realize the ramifications of this. “So I didn’t kill Billy?”

Wally shakes his head. “I don’t think you did.”

Before I know it, tears are streaming down my cheeks. “If this is true, Wally … it means I can be trusted with my baby! Doesn’t it?”

“Yes, Fern.” Wally wipes a tear from my cheek. “It does.”

I let out a sob. Wally comes to my side and I allow him to hold me for the longest time. It doesn’t even bother me the tiniest bit.

I can be trusted with my baby,I tell myself. I can be trusted with my baby!

I understand it’s true. It’s just that, after all these years, it’s going to take me a little longer to believe it.

Three months later …

I sit on the floor with my legs crossed and Willow in my lap. Linda stands in front of me wearing a pair of giant white underpants over the top of her clothes, and a bright red cape—Captain Underpants. She zooms around the room, her cape flapping behind her.

We’re at Baby Rhyme Time. Sixteen mothers sit on the floor cross-legged with their babies balanced in their laps. An additional four mothers sit on chairs in the back, breast-feeding or pushing their strollers vigorously, trying to get their babies to settle. Wally sits on the floor beside me, watching Linda curiously.

“Tra-la-LAAAAA,” Linda cries, taking off across the room again.

I have to lip-read, because I’m wearing my noise-canceling headphones. They’re big ones—the ones that look like earmuffs—and I’m wearing them over the straps of my black-tinted goggles. Wally is also wearing headphones and goggles, as he doesn’t like to be left out. We’ve been coming to Rhyme Time every week for three months now. Willow enjoys it and it’s one of the few places where no one stares at our accessories. In fact, a few weeks ago, the funniest thing started happening. A little boy, the older brother of one of the babies, had come in wearing a little pair of headphones and goggles too. His mother told Wally he’d always found the music a bit loud and our solution, she thought, was genius. The following week, another child was wearing them. This week, half a dozen babies and toddlers have them on.

Last week, Carmel had asked if I’d consider facilitating a sensory rhyme time session, where the music would be soft and the lights kept low. I’d agreed before she’d finished asking the question. Since Willow and I were released from hospital, Wally and I have divided our time between staring at Willow and frantically reading books about how to raise a baby, and while it hasn’t been a bad existence, I’m missing my routine. Besides, Carmel has told me that Wally is welcome to bring Willow any time we like. I’m glad, because I think Mum was right when she said that taking a child to the library is the very best education you could give a child. Willow is going to be very well educated.

I still haven’t visited Rose. I’ve felt the pull, definitely felt it, but for now I’m ignoring this particular pull. At Wally’s urging, I’ve had a few sessions with a very nice therapist named Kevin. He wouldn’t comment on Rose’s mental health without seeing her, but last week he did pose a couple of interesting questions that I’m still ruminating on a week later.

How does your relationship with Rose serve you? How has it ever served you?

Until I have an answer, he said, perhaps hold off visiting.

So I am. Until I have an answer.

“All right, mums,” Linda says. “Are we ready to fly?”

Linda is affixing an imaginary cape onto Wally’s back when I realize it is time to take my leave. I may have been making improvements in recent weeks but pretending to fly in an imaginary cape is beyond even my new capabilities. I hand Willow to Wally and retire to the secret cupboard for a couple of minutes of quiet reading instead.

I’m beginning to think Wally was right when he said I was normal and everyone else was a weirdo.