The Other Child by Lucy Atkins Page A

new kid, can’t they? I’ve asked the teacher, but he hasn’t noticed anything. I might go back in next week.’
    ‘I’m sure it’s fine, Tess, it’s normal. He’ll be fine – stop worrying.’
    This is no doubt what happens when you spend your days with suffering children: you lose tolerance for more ordinary forms of distress in a child. ‘He’s not fine,’ she says.
    ‘But he will be, and he’ll be able look back on this one day and know he survived, and that’s a good thing for a child. It’s the sort of thing that builds emotional resilience.’
    ‘Really? Do you feel like that about your own childhood? I’m not sure I do.’
    ‘I don’t think we can compare what Joe’s going through right now with what I went through – or you, for that matter, with your mentally ill mother. Joe has a stable home, and that counts for an awful lot.’
    ‘Do you feel stronger for what happened to you as a child?’
    ‘What? I don’t know, Tess.’ He frowns, looking down at his plate. ‘It’s not like there’s a control me somewhere, being raised without a family tragedy.’
    She can practically hear his internal doors swinging shut. But she is not going to back off, not this time. ‘What about when you moved to London? Didn’t you feel homesick and lonely then?’
    He refills his wine glass. ‘I didn’t have time to feel anything at all. Plus I was working with Kemi, so if I did feel anything it was profound gratitude to be in that privileged position.’ He swigs the wine, puts down his glass, picks up his knife and slices into a piece of tofu.
    ‘You know, I was thinking, maybe we could take a trip to Pennsylvania one day? I’d love to see where you grew up, and we could—’
    He stabs the tofu with his fork. ‘I don’t want to go back there, Tess, you know that.’
    ‘But—’
    ‘Look, I know what you’re trying to do, but trust me, no part of me whatsoever wants to revisit my childhood.’ He puts the tofu into his mouth and chews. His eyes reflect the candles, two tiny yellow flames flickering in his black pupils.
    ‘But surely—’
    ‘Tess,’ he says, ‘do you think we could
not
do this now? I’ve had a long and intense day today. I know you want me to talk about my childhood, but right now I just can’t.’
    ‘OK. Fine, I know; but this is also the problem, isn’t it?’ She grips the edge of the table. ‘There is never a time when we can actually talk about anything. There’s nothing left of you by the time you’re with me.’
    ‘I know it’s been tough lately. It won’t always been this intense.’
    ‘It’s not just intense, it’s extreme. I bleed and you make it back for five minutes, someone drops a creepy letter on our porch and you don’t even call me back. Sometimes I wonder what I’m doing here!’
    ‘I know. I know – I’m sorry. I know I’ve just not been around for you. And you must be missing Nell too. You need friends here.’
    ‘This is not about friends, I’ll make friends, I don’t care about that. And I do miss Nell, but that’s not it either. It’s about me and you – it’s about you being completely absent.’
    ‘But I’m here right now.’ He reaches out a hand, a conciliatory gesture, but she doesn’t move hers to meet it.
    ‘It’s not just this move. Ever since I got pregnant I feel like there’s this space that’s opened up between us and I don’t like it. I wasn’t expecting it to be like this.’
    ‘OK.’ His voice hardens. ‘What were you expecting, Tess? I can’t be home for dinner at six every night. This position is phenomenal and it comes with phenomenal responsibilities and phenomenal demands. I have no option but to do what I’m doing right now, I can’t do anything else. It won’t always be this bad, but you know what? This is exactly why a baby is such a—’ He clamps his mouth shut and looks away.
    ‘Such a
what
?’ She grips the table harder as if it might lift and spin up into the air, scattering glasses,