‘So, tell me about the crying?’
The woman sat, kind but formal, behind the tatty scuffed old NHS desk. A poster on the wall suggested a confusing acronym that you would have to remember if you thought you were having a stroke.
The idea that you would have to remember an acronym while also having a stroke was making Zoe very anxious, even more than being there in the first place. There was a dirty Venetian blind just about covering a bunker window that only looked out onto another red brick wall, and coffee-stained rough carpet tiles.
‘Well, mostly Mondays,’ Zoe said, taking in the woman’s lovely shiny dark hair. Her own was long and dark too, but currently tied roughly with something she hoped was a hair tie and not, for example, an elastic band dropped by the postman. ‘And, you know. When the tube is late or I can’t get the buggy in the carriage. Or someone tuts because I’m trying to get the buggy in because if I don’t take the buggy I’ll be an hour late even though he’s too big for it and I know that, thanks, so you can probably stop with the judgemental looks.
‘Or when I’m caught up at work and I can count every minute of how much it’s going to cost me by the time I’ve picked him up and it makes the entire day’s work worthless. Or when I think maybe we’ll take the bus and we just arrive at the stop and he shuts the doors, even though he’s seen me, because he can’t be arsed with the buggy. Or when we run out of cheese and I can’t afford to get more. Have you seen the price of cheese? Or . . .’
The woman smiled kindly while also looking slightly anxious.
‘I meant your son, Mrs O’Connell. When does he cry?’
‘Oh!’ said Zoe, startled.
They both looked at the dark-haired little boy, who was cautiously playing with a farm set in the corner of the room. He looked up at them warily.
‘I . . . I didn’t realise,’ said Zoe, suddenly thinking she was about to cry again. Kind Dr Bagri pushed over the box of tissues she kept on the desk, which did the opposite of helping.
‘. . . and it’s “miss”, said Zoe, her voice wobbling. ‘Well, he’s fine . . . I mean, a few tears but he doesn’t . . .’ Now she knew she really was going to go. ‘He doesn’t . . . make a sound.’
***
At least, thought Zoe, after she’d cleaned herself up, slightly gone again, then pulled herself back from the brink as she realised to her horror that the NHS appointment they had waited so many months for was nearly up and she had spent most of it in tears and looking full of hope and despair at Dr Bagri, Hari now squirming cheerfully in her lap. At least Dr Bagri hadn’t said what people always said . . .
‘Einstein, you know . . .’ began Dr Bagri, and Zoe groaned internally. Here it came: ‘. . . didn’t talk till he was five.’
Zoe half-smiled. ‘I know that, thanks,’ she said through gritted teeth.
‘Selective mutism . . . has he suffered any trauma?’
Zoe bit her lip. God, she hoped not.