“No, not really,” she said, immediately hearing how stupid that sounded. Not really? What did that mean? Lauren made a small frown but didn’t say anything more. Harper went on, “I’ve got a little sister. A lot younger than me. So I guess I sometimes think of her as my kid. But no, I don’t have any children of my own.”
Lauren’s eyebrows went up and she seemed to drift away, unfocussed. Newly etched lines mapped the contours under her eyes, the topography of her recent trauma.
After a moment Harper said, “What happened to your wrist?”
The spot of blood on the bandage had grown from the size of a pea to the size of a penny in the time Harper had been standing there.
“Well, she, the woman, she …” Lauren seemed confused. “I don’t know.”
“Did someone hurt you?”
Lauren turned her head towards the window. Across the car park people were shuffling in and out of the big glass doors, needlessly high doors that dwarfed the people below. The doors were opening, shutting, opening, shutting, reflecting the morning sun as they met and flashing, leaving orange spots in Harper’s eyes. Lauren kept her eyes wide open into the blinding light.
“That man, Dr Gill. He said I did it to myself.”
“And what do you think, Mrs Tranter?”
“I think …” She looked down at the babies and up at the detective sergeant. Big, sad, frightened eyes, streaming tears. “I don’t think I can trust what I think right now.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
A beam of the slant west sunshine
Made the wan face almost fair
Lit the blue eyes’ patient wonder
And the rings of pale gold hair
She kissed it on lip and forehead
She kissed it on cheek and chink
And she bared her snow-white bosom
To the lips so pale and thin
From The Changeling by John Greenleaf Whittier
Ten o’clock, visiting time. From her hospital bed Lauren observed a column of fuzzy colours approaching her and tried to focus. The fuzz resolved into the familiar shape of Patrick. It felt like years had passed since she’d last seen him.
“My God,” said Patrick, “what have they done to you?”
“It’s fine, everything’s fine,” said Lauren, but all that came out were broken sobs, the incoherent hupping yowls of an injured creature. Soon it subsided, trickled to whimpers. He stroked her hair.
“Shh, lovely,” said Patrick, keeping his voice low. On the other side of the bay, a jubilant party of assorted family was gathering around Mrs Gooch’s bed. Chairs were pulled across for older Gooches. Two smallish ginger children each possessively gripped ribbons attached to shiny silver balloons that trailed near the ceiling, announcing in bubblegum-pink lettering: It’s a Girl! One of the balloon-bearers stared slack-jawed at Lauren so that the lolly dangling from his open mouth nearly fell out.
“Shh. I know,” said Patrick, unaware of the gaping child at his back.
Another version of Lauren would have stared back until the boy looked away. This new, broken Lauren just shut her eyes.