Eve

Sorrel is better, physically better; she has begun to speak a few words and she even smiles sometimes. Dr. Power, the young pediatrician in the outpatient clinic, is very pleased with her progress. She examines Sorrel with care, checking her reflexes and the back of her eyes. Eve watches the doctor, envious of her energy, her shining hair and luminous skin, conscious she has aged years in recent months. Her own hair is stringy, there are new lines on her face. Her nails are bitten down. She is tired all the time, even in the morning, even after sleep. The doctor smiles and pats Sorrel’s hand.

“You are a brave girl, Sorrel; I don’t need to see you for another three months.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” Eve wants to hug her.

“Call me Marian.” The doctor has a wide smile, a scattering of freckles. “Sorrel has done better than we could have hoped.” She leaves with a spring in her step, happy at this outcome, having no knowledge of the ripples of destruction that have spread outward or of the lives that have been twisted into different shapes.

Sorrel is exhausted after the appointment. Eve hurries her across the busy road in the rain to the car parked opposite and swiftly settles her into her car seat. Sorrel’s eyes close almost immediately. Eve’s cell phone rings as she is getting into the driver’s seat.

“What did the doctor say?” Grace asks.

“She was pleased,” Eve whispers. “Sorrel’s making good progress, physically. The child psychologist is coming this afternoon.” Eve watches an ambulance swerve into the hospital. It’s lucky that you can’t see into an ambulance from the outside; that desperate struggle to save a life should be private. She turns away from the flashing light, the phone tight to her ear. “Any news?”

“Melly phoned this morning.” Grace leaves a little pause like the one doctors give you before they break bad news.

“Go on.”

“Are you somewhere you can sit down?”

“I’m sitting down already.”

As Grace begins to speak, Eve watches the rain hit against the windshield and the traffic splash by but she doesn’t hear any of it. The noises from the street have faded, everything has faded apart from the words she is hearing. Pedophiles make up 8 percent of the population, information gleaned from Google when Sorrel was missing, not easy to forget. A young bloke with a ponytail speeds by on his bike—could he be a pedophile? Or the guy in a suit hurrying past with a briefcase? That old man shuffling to the bus? Paul was a charmer, handsome, amusing, she had liked him; how could they have possibly known?

“. . . then Izzy told the court he’d hurt Melly,” Grace is continuing. “The scar on her face is still obvious; things like that can tip the balance.”

Paul might have hit Sorrel too, at the very least he must have terrified her. A few moments pass while Eve clamps down horror. She glances in the rearview mirror; Sorrel is still fast asleep.