‘We haven’t got all day, have we?’ DrFry adds.
Desperate, I encourage Isla to pick up the crayon. ‘A circle is like the sun, isn’t it, or the moon. Remember we can have a nice slice of cake after.’
‘Cake,’ Isla repeats, taking the crayon and scribbling across the piece of paper and on to Dr Fry’s desk. ‘Ha ha!’ Her little shoulders are going up and down as she laughs.
Dr Fry casts her eye down to one pink scrawl across the page and I apologise for the mark on her desk, saying I’m sure it’ll come out. Next she’s showing Isla some animal books. ‘What’s this, Isla?’
I’m willing her to say cow. She knows it’s a cow, but…
‘What noise does a cow make?’ Dr Fry is taking notes.
Silence.
‘Cake,’ she says, looking at me.
Another silence. ‘You know the sound a cow makes,’ I say, nodding my head vigorously at Isla. ‘They go m, m mo…’
Dr Fry is taking more notes. No doubt not in our favour.
Isla’s face crumples. She pushes the book away. Dr Fry looks up. ‘What’s she crying for?’
‘It’s my fault. She’s hungry. I shouldn’t have mentioned cake.’ I give Isla another chunk of dried pineapple.
Next Dr Fry stacks three coloured bricks one on top of the other, dismantles them and asks Isla to do the same. ‘We’re doing these tests to see if she’s at the milestones of a normal child,’ Dr Fry explains to me.
Isla throws a brick on to the floor.
‘She’s hungry,’ I explain. ‘Normally she can do all this, she really can.’
Irritated, Dr Fry attaches her notes to a clipboard before telling us that the only thing left to do is a physical examination. Somehow I manage to get Isla kicking and screaming on to the bed in the corner of the room. I help her off with her clothes and soon Isla is lying down with only her nappy on. She looks so vulnerable, her legs wafer thin.
‘No!’ she protests when Dr Fry holds on to her legs. I can see how frustrated she is at not being able to express how much she hates being touched.
‘Is that it?’ I say, when we’re shown to the door abruptly.
‘Dr Fry? What happens next?’
‘She needs to be referred to a surgeon, her hips aren’t abducting and I’m going to refer her to the Child Development Centre for further tests.’ She gives me no indication of what she believes could be wrong. As she’s about to call in the next person I rest a hand on her arm. ‘Dr Fry,’ I say quietly, ‘do you think it could be’ – I pause – ‘cerebral palsy?’
‘Let’s not jump to conclusions, now, shall we? Mrs Porter?’ She scans the waiting room.
‘But I’ve read up a little about it and Isla has—’
‘I’m sorry, Miss Wild, my clinic is running late.’
Two months later, day by day Isla’s movement is becoming significantly worse and it’s impossible not to worry.
Even friends and family are no longer trying to reassure me. Granny is concerned. I can feel her anxiety at the end of the telephone line. I find myself on my laptop most nights, researching cerebral palsy. I mention it to my GP, praying he’ll tell me I’m wrong. I don’t want to connect Isla with those ugly, frightening words. He suggests we wait until Isla has had further tests. Like Dr Fry, he gives nothing away.
Just before Isla turns two, we take part in a four-week assessment at the Child Development Centre of our local hospital. Each Friday we are in a spacious open-plan room with other parents and their children, along with an army of medical people in uniform: physiotherapists, occupational and speech therapists, and a doctor. We have had three Friday sessions already and today is our last, when the doctor will set aside some time for each parent, to discuss conclusions that have been made; basically it’s the day we receive the diagnosis.
I scan the room. Each corner is filled with toys, a wooden bench, blue play mats and small square tables littered with playdough, books, paper and colouring pens. Initially Isla didn’t enjoy being surrounded by such a big group: she was so overwhelmed by the noise that she’d kept on looking over to me for reassurance. The only thing she has enjoyed is making as much mess as possible with the playdough.
A few fathers are here today, which makes me think of Dan. Rarely a day goes by when I don’t wonder where he is and what he is doing. Sometimes I feel bursts of anger towards him; other times just a sadness that Isla is the one missing out. When mothers ask me about Isla’s dad, it’s hard to know what to say, so I just say we’ve separated. I wish Lucas and I were closer and that he could be a more hands-on uncle. Last time he popped over briefly for tea on a Sunday, he’d looked terrified when Isla sat on his knee and in pain when he watched her walk.
Isla is with aphysio right now, her poor old legs being pulled and pushed about again.
I think about Lucas again. Ever since he left home aged eighteen, he’s been determined to lead his own life. He rarely visits our grandparents. It’s as if they remind him of our past, a past he wants to erase. I thought having Isla would perhaps bring us closer together but if anything it’s had the opposite effect. Whereas my grandparents supported my decision to be a single mother, I sensed Lucas understood Dan’s point of view much more. I recall a time when the four of us were having a meal in a French restaurant close to Leicester Square. I was six months pregnant and my grandparents were up in London for a long weekend. Granny had stressed that everyone was here for me. ‘Isn’t that right?’ she’d said, Lucas remaining ominously quiet. I could almost hear him thinking, ‘In a way I don’t blame Dan. You’re young, you hardly knew him so why go ahead with this when he’s done a runner and there are other options?’ He didn’t have to say it, it was written all across his face. Like Dan, Lucas is ambitious. He works long hours in the City and has little time for anything else except going to the gym and socialising with clients. I have no idea if Lucas has ever had a serious girlfriend. He is as private as I am open. I imagine women find him wildly attractive, this tall, dark-haired man who gives little away, a man who, with the right woman, could surely be transformed. After Isla’s birth Lucas remained indifferent. The times when I have tried to include him, calling him on the telephone if anxious about Isla, he’d say, ‘You’re always worrying, Jan. All I hear from you and Granny these days is Isla this, Isla that. Poor kid! She’s probably fine!’ There was hostility in his tone.
