Free The Daughter by Jane Shemilt

it’s been going on for a while. She’s obviously very depressed.”
    â€œVery ill.” He looked at me without expression.
    â€œThe social workers—­”
    â€œShe has leukemia.” His voice cut smoothly across mine.
    â€œLeukemia?” I was confused, or perhaps he was. He must be talking about another child.
    His voice was continuing: “. . . so we are certain no one abused her. Unwashed maybe, lice and so on. Unwitting neglect from inadequate parents, though I suspect she is loved. No, she has acute lymphoblastic leukemia.”
    Jesus.
    â€œBlood tests show atypical lymphocytes, blast cells. No clotting capacity. She is dangerously anemic.”
    How the hell had I missed that? Everything was suddenly, shatteringly, obvious. She had been passive with exhaustion, not because she was depressed but because she was anemic. The chest infection was secondary to nonfunctioning white cells. The bruises were due to poor clotting, not abuse. She had come back four times and I hadn’t listened, hadn’t believed her mother. A hot wave of guilt was breaking over me.
    Dr. Chisholm kept pace with my thoughts and outstripped them.
    â€œWe have her on intravenous antibiotics. The MRI scan is booked for tomorrow and then we start the chemotherapy.”
    â€œDo her parents know?”
    â€œNot yet. That’s why I wanted to see you. It’s a delicate situation. In the clinic I told them we needed to admit her to investigate the possibility of nonaccidental injury. They asked if that’s what you had thought.”
    â€œI went to their house specially to inform them.” But that was a mistake, I knew that now. I had judged them partly by their house, by the street it was on. “I tried to tell her father.”
    Â­â€œPeople choose to hear what they want to.” His eyes flashed before he looked away. “I have no doubt you tried your best, Dr. Malcolm, but I’m afraid they had no idea at all. Mr. Price felt accused; he was angry.”
    Angry? He would want to kill. He had blamed “those bloody little blighters at school,” but the suspicion had fallen on him because of me. I could see that bull-­like figure hurling the chair through the window in helpless rage.
    â€œThe tests came back this morning. From here on we take over. I knew this would be a surprise, so I thought I would tell you myself. I also wondered if you wanted to inform her parents. It might be best in the long run for you to discuss the diagnosis with them at this point. Build trust.”
    Discuss? What was there to say? That I had made a terrible mistake because I hadn’t believed what they were saying? That I had stereotyped them in the worst possible way?
    His eyes looked hard into mine. I couldn’t tell if he was sympathetic or contemptuous.
    â€œWhat’s the prognosis?”
    â€œBetween twenty percent and seventy-­five percent five-­year survival. We have to wait for the scan results. Jade has an unusually large number of abnormal white cells in her bloodstream, which worsens her prognosis, as you know.” He was still watching me closely. “So, as her first point of contact, what do you want to do?”
    I wanted to run away from the guilt that could drown me. I had referred Jade in the end but for the wrong reasons, and too late, months too late.
    â€œI’ll go and see her parents, of course.” I thought for a moment and added, “I’d like to see Jade. At least I can tell them how she is.”
    â€œFollow me.”
    He moved smoothly from his desk, through the door, and out into the corridor. I almost had to run to keep up. She looked all right, I’d say to her parents later. She looked better. It wouldn’t be long, I’d tell them. It’s lucky she’s in hospital now. She was laughing—­no, perhaps not laughing. She was smiling. I said . . . then she said . . . then she