Once Upon a Time: New Fairy Tales Paperback(72)

? 224 ?

? Priya Sharma ?

Chick trembles as I undress her. The doctor measures her height, weight, and head circumference, and then plots her poor development on a chart as if it wasn’t self-evident.

“I see that no one’s been able to identify Eloise as having any particular syndrome.” He flicks through her file.

“No, but don’t say it too loud. I haven’t told her yet.”

That makes him look at me. Chick, defying diagnosis, has been reduced to a list of problems in her medical records.

Poor growth. Mental retardation. Microcephaly.

“Pop Eloise on your knee.”

Chick doesn’t like to be held, even by me, but faced with a stranger she tries to hide her head under my arm. The doctor runs his hands around her rib cage to the hollow depression at the center of her chest.

“Eloise is more than pigeon chested. Come and see.”

Chick’s chest X-ray reveals the white lines of her ribs sheltering the shadow of her heart and the dark hollows of her lungs beneath.

“Look at this.”

“At what?”

“A furuncle.”

“Pardon?”

“Here.” He points with his pen. “Her clavicles are fused together.

They should be attached to either of her sternum.”

“In English, please.”

“She has a wishbone. Perhaps you should make a wish.”

Then he looks at Chick, who’s hiding under his desk and flushes.

I make up a porridge of oats, seeds, and rice milk. Chick still gorges on worms but I’ve coaxed her onto other things, although there’s still an exhausting list of what gives her diarrhea, tummy pain, and hives.

Chick plays around my feet. Play is an exaggeration. She’s not interested in toys. Not alphabet bricks, not the puzzles in bright plastic that are waiting to be solved, or her menagerie of stuffed toy animals. She wanders, unoccupied, then comes to stand beside me ? 225 ?

? Egg ?

when she needs reassurance. Her tongue clicks when she wants my attention. Click, click, click. I hear the sound in my sleep.

Chick doesn’t like cuddles. Once I thought she was trying to kiss me. I leaned down, eager to receive it, and got a mouthful of chewed spider instead. Her attempt at affection.

She never looks at me directly. Sometimes I want to shake her and shout, just to make her meet my gaze.

I spoon the porridge into her small mouth, set in its receding jaw.

Chick’s face is narrow, her eyes large, ears low, and her nose beaked.

People find nothing endearing there. They either look away or simply stare.

I used to think, Eloise will never be a business woman, a scientist, or pilot. She’ll never paint or write. She’ll never be friend, lover, wife, or mother.

Now I think, Eloise will never feed herself, she’ll never take herself to the toilet, or dress herself. She’ll always be at the mercy of others.

She’l always need me.

I try and imagine this life stretching out ahead of us. I’ll wring the hag’s neck if I ever see her again.

I wipe Chick’s face and hands, sponge porridge from her hair. She hops around once freed from her chair.

Click, click, click.

The foil strip crackles as I pop out a tablet. I swal ow down my daily dose of synthetic happiness with coffee, sweetened with synthetic sugar.

Click, click, click.

Chick’s vocal this morning. She bumps against my legs. Her clicks have risen to a series of chirps. She hunches her shoulders and bobs her head.

I turn away. Chick’s fed, watered, her nappy clean. I’ve met her needs.

I wonder what it would be like if I walked out. Nannies never last longer than an afternoon. Eloise gets too upset without you. She just sits and cries. It’s not fair to her.

I imagine myself walking down the street. The luxury of going into a café to drink coffee and read a book.

? 226 ?

? Priya Sharma ?

Click click click click.

Even though I’ve folded back the kitchen’s huge glass doors there’s no breeze to ease the stifling heat.

Clickclickclickclickclick.

I could be picking out a dress and deciding where to go for dinner and with whom.

Chick’s clicks become a sudden high-pitched squeal. I turn to see her cowering in the corner, a cat crouched before her. Scratch marks cross Chick’s face. Blood wells up where the claws scored her skin.

The cat bats at her again with its paw. This hunter must have crept in while my back was turned. I shout and it looks over its shoulder, annoyed at being interrupted. It’s a big, sleek tom, all black with white whiskers.