Estimated reading time — 55 minutes

The house is bigger than I expected. I knew they’d be posh, or they couldn’t afford a nanny in the first place. But they have fancy agencies for that sort of thing now; someone with this sort of money doesn’t need to advertise on a Facebook group. I fold the cuff of my cardigan over, so that the ripped hem doesn’t show, and deposit the half-drunk Greggs takeaway latte in the neighbours’ wheelie bin. I should have splurged for a Starbucks. It might have distracted from my grown-out roots and chipped nail varnish.

Mum insisted I start looking for work. I finished college 8 months ago. It was a struggle by the end, but Mum had insisted that after the debacle that was high school, by hell or high water I was going to get my certificate. And hell it was. In the peace that followed the chaos and stress that got me my qualification, I went into freefall. I stopped going out. Stopped washing. Stopped eating. I lost contact with the few friends who hadn’t gone off to uni and spent 8 months of my life watching the 24 hour Come Dine With Me channel on Mum’s smart TV. Finally, Mum had put her foot down. I needed to pay rent. Nana’s inheritance was nearly gone, and Mum wanted to put the rest of it towards Natasha’s pregnancy. Benefits were out of the question; Mum was mortified at the idea of the neighbours seeing DWP envelopes sticking out of our post slot. I wasn’t convinced that anyone but Mum paid that much attention to other people’s business on the estate, but she was determined to never come across as ‘pikey’.

I grew up on an estate. Housing provided by the council, which was Mum’s greatest shame. When Nana died, Mum had been given a sizable inheritance. No one had known how much Nana had packed into a tear in her mattress, but Grandad had apparently been far richer than he let on. Mum told everyone Nana didn’t trust the banks, or that she had a hoarding problem from growing up in the Blitz. I suspect the truth was that the Department of Work and Pensions were unlikely to investigate her mattress. Mum used the money to move us further out of London, to an ex-council house she was able to buy outright. It was the only ex-council property on the estate, and Mum wore that like a badge of honour. Tash had taken to our new home instantly, decorating her room with half of B&M and almost instantly finding a job at a beautician’s clinic in the gentrified part of town. In no time, she was able to move into her own place, sharing with the new boyfriend she’d met at work, and my little sister was an engaged, pregnant aesthetician-in-training. I, on the other hand, got my GCSEs four years late and barely made it through a childcare course.

I hadn’t expected to get the job. Mum had gotten suspicious of the way I cradled my phone to my chest whenever she asked about my job applications, and had finally sat me down in front of her laptop and watched me apply for several babysitting jobs until she was satisfied. She’d been especially invested in this one for the prestige of the ‘nanny’ title, and I’d spent a gruelling hour and half fine-tuning my cover letter with her until she agreed that it was perfect. Tash’s future baby became a living, breathing infant that I had spent the last 8 months caring for, with Tash prematurely taking on her fiance’s surname so that the reference seemed impartial. I hadn’t expected it to fool anyone; especially with the flowery language Mum had insisted on (I liked kids, but calling them ‘the most valuable and precious gift we have’ in a job application seemed a bit much), but sure enough, I received a reply a week later. I’d already confirmed another job, just a few school pick-ups a week for a woman on the estate who had left a flyer on the community board, but Mum made me cancel. The wage that was quoted in the Facebook post was not worth sacrificing for the scraps of Debbie’s giro, she’d said.

So, here I am; barely able to care for myself, being interviewed to keep another tiny, fragile human warm and fed. Hoping that my outfit was bought too long ago to be recognised as Primark, I take a deep breath and knock. It’s a proper brass ring doorknocker, and it makes an impressive, resonant rap on the solid, varnished wood of the door. I wait. And wait. I wrestle with the choice of knocking again and risking seeming impatient, or continuing to wait for someone to answer a knock they hadn’t heard. Eventually, I remember that I didn’t want this job in the first place, and am about to head to the Starbucks to camp out until I can return home and tell Mum that they’d wanted someone with more experience, when the door opens.

She’s not much older than I am; even the heavy bags under her eyes can’t mask her youth. She peers at me from below an unwashed blonde fringe, her bare face smattered with freckles. Pretty, but exhausted.

I plaster a smile on my face, and she asks, ‘Are you Abby?’

‘Yes- I’m Abigail, nice to meet you.’ I’d been given strict instructions to use my full name. As if nicknames were too common for rich folk.

‘Come in.’ Her voice is flat, and she turns away to walk into the house. I ignore Mum’s rule about not entering until I’m invited, and hurry after her, closing the front door behind me.

The house is a mess. Not the same sort of mess you find on a council estate; piled up newspapers dating back to the 60s in the home of the pensioner who’d died in his flat, or the carpets stained with dog shit from the couple running a puppy mill in their smoke-stained semi-detached. But certainly not the hoover lines and carefully placed trinkets of my mother’s house. Mum would have complimented her on her beautiful house, only to shoot me a look that said ‘I guess money can’t buy class’ as soon as her back was turned. There are piles of laundry scattered about like landmines, crumbs on every surface, and half-drunk cups of tea that must account for the faint wafts of mold that my nose keeps catching.

‘Sorry about the mess.’ she says apologetically, and I raise my eyebrows as if surprised that she’d felt the need to mention it. ‘I’m a first-time mum. Apparently it’s normal.’ She speaks in short bursts, like even connecting her thoughts is too much effort.

‘I understand- of course. Not that it’s bad; it’s fine! It’s a lovely home.’ I add hurriedly, and hope that she takes my stammering attempt at defusing the awkwardness in good faith.

She doesn’t even seem to notice.

‘Her dad decided he didn’t want kids after all, just after she was born. I wasn’t planning on being a single mum.’ There’s a melancholy in her voice, which hangs in the air around us. Honestly, I’m a little shocked at her candour. Mum says oversharing is dreadfully common, but there’s nothing common about a house this size, in this part of town. I guess the more unfavourable parts of your history become quirky and romantically tragic when you’re rich. She wouldn’t have let me step foot in the door if she knew some of the skeletons in my closet.

‘I’m sorry.’ I say, unsure of what else would be appropriate. Anna blinks, seemingly snapping herself out of her daze.

‘No, I’m sorry.’ she says, her voice a little clearer now. ‘I’ve not slept enough. It feels like I’m going mad most days.’ She takes a deep breath. ‘Let’s start again. I’m Anna.’

She holds a hand out to me, and I take it, shaking it limply. ‘Abigail.’ I murmur. She seems crackers. And I’d know.

‘Abigail.’ she repeats, a warm, practiced smile spreading over her face. ‘Abigail, as you can see, I need some help.’

‘Yes.’ I say, without thinking. ‘I mean- no, that’s not what I meant.’

Anna chuckles. ‘I’m not offended. Obviously, I need help, that’s why I posted the advert. Do you have much experience with babies?’

Loaded question. ‘Some. My qualification is fairly recent, but I’ve been taking care of babies since my sister was born.’ It’s not a lie; I helped Mum change Tash’s nappy at least twice when she was little, and I babysat for the neighbours a few times after I dropped out of school. Anna doesn’t need to know that my experience amounts to ‘enthusiastic amateur’ (although, ‘enthusiastic’ might be a stretch).

‘Do you like babies?’ Anna asks. I’ve practiced this question with Mum enough times.

‘I love babies. Before my little sister, I used to dress up my Nan’s old dog in a bonnet and push her around in a doll pram.’ We laugh at this adorable, fabricated story. Bitsy was a shit of a dog, and I’d have lost a finger if I’d tried dressing her up.

‘I always wanted to be a mum.’ Anna says, dreamily. ‘I didn’t think it would happen so soon, but nature took its course, and I decided I didn’t want to wait.’

How lovely to have the option I think, bitterly. I clench my teeth, as if biting back that nasty, unwarranted thought. Anna seems so sweet, and my family baggage isn’t her fault.

‘Do you live here alone?’ I ask, though I’ve not seen any evidence of another adult. I can’t imagine what she does to afford living here without a housemate.

‘Just me and Ruthie.’ Anna confirms. ‘Her Dad and I moved in a few years ago. If it were up to me, we’d have bought somewhere more remote. If it was up to him, we’d have been slap-bang in the middle of the city. This was our compromise.’ she smiles sadly. ‘I guess I should have insisted.’

‘So, you own it?’ I ask. I’m still so curious about her circumstances.

Anna blushes a bit, avoiding my eyes. ‘I’ve been very privileged.’ she says, evasively.

Ah. Family money.

‘Shall we head upstairs? You can meet her.’ Anna suggests, clearly eager to change the subject.

I follow Anna up a carpeted staircase, noting the dust and hair gathered in the crevasses of the steps, the slight stickiness on certain points of the banister. From my experience, people in houses like this either get a cleaner in twice a week and keep it like a museum, or they stuff it to the rafters with crap in some vague attempt to feel down-to-earth and worldly. Anna seems to be a rare anomaly; Not regimented enough for column A, but nowhere near column B. Yet. I suppose single-motherhood will decide it for her.

The nursery is clearly Anna’s main focus – a sparkling white tooth in a mouth full of cavities. Pristine, tidy, and decorated in soft muted pastels. Soft classical music floats out of a high-end speaker, barely loud enough to discern. Anna, too, changes; her harried exhaustion turned to a blissful languidness. She drifts over to the painted wood crib, old-fashioned but clearly safeguarded for modern sleeping standards.

‘Good morning, sweet Ruthie.’ Anna sings, reaching her arm into the crib. She smiles at some unseen reaction, and beckons me over, not taking her eyes off her daughter.

‘I want you to meet Abby- sorry, Abigail.’ She shoots an apologetic glance at me, before turning her attention back to Ruth. Eager to see the baby now, I step forward and lean to see over the crib’s edge.

I feel the smile slowly fall off my face as I try to comprehend what I’m seeing. In the crib, lying on a mattress with a soft, pink sheet, is a plastic baby doll. Large, painted eyes staring permanently into space, plastic fingers curled into loose fists.

It’s a joke. Any second now, she’ll straighten up, sneer at me for thinking I could ever work for someone like her, then laugh me out of the house. Maybe point out a hidden camera that had captured the realisation on my face. I wait. Anna doesn’t laugh, and when I glance over at her, she’s still smiling beatifically at the plastic facsimile of her daughter.

‘I can’t believe she’s mine.’ Anna whispers, her voice thick with emotion. ‘Why didn’t your Daddy want to be in your life, eh? Stupid Daddy.’

She straightens up then, squeezes her knuckle to a rapidly forming tear in her left eye. ‘Sorry, I’m just being silly. She’s due for a feed, wait here with her while I get her bottle.’

I wait for her to leave the room, then go back to the crib and stare at the fake Ruthie. She’s dressed in a onesie – lilac with puppies frozen in various dancing positions.

There had been a girl on my childcare course like this – overweight and soft spoken, she brought in a silicone baby doll on her first day. She’d sit in the front row, rocking the thing with one arm while she took notes with the other, steadfastly ignoring the whispers and giggles and stares. She hadn’t made it through the second week – she didn’t turn up on the next Wednesday, and we never saw her again. I hadn’t been very kind to her, something I regretted greatly when I started researching reborn dolls, and the way they were used for dementia patients, grieving mothers and traumatised children. I had an idea of which category Anna fell into, but was again surprised by the thriftiness of her choice of doll. Most people paid into the thousands to get the most realistic, hand-painted doll they could find. Real hair, not molded plastic, and articulated limbs that could be manoeuvered into any position an actual baby could make, instead of the rigid, bent elbows of Anna’s baby. She looks like the sort of doll you could buy at Toys R Us. I’d have thought that someone of Anna’s standing could at least afford something from Hamleys.

Fascinated, I reach a hand into the crib, plucking at the fabric of the onesie. This, at least, feels like good quality; soft, warm cotton. I pass my hand over the doll’s face, as if I can snap the toy out of its inanimate state. The eyes continue to stare into space. Some impulsion grabs me, and I poke my finger into one of the painted pupils.

‘Like clockwork!’ Anna says behind me, bustling into the room. I jump, snatching my hand back guiltily. Poking babies in the eyes, real or fake, is unlikely to secure me the job. ‘If I’m even a minute late for her feed, she screams the house down!’

She hurries over to the crib, bottle in hand, placing her hand on the chest of the toy as if soothing it. I watch, feeling awkward.

‘There, now.’ she intones in her soft, sing-song voice. ‘Mummy’s got your milky.’

I cringe at that. What is this? Is it a fetish thing? She’s not the usual demographic of pervert you’d expect. But maybe that’s stereotyping; maybe perverts can be young, pretty, middle-class women, too. Or maybe she’s just batty, like the girl on my course. I watch as she lifts ‘Ruthie’ out of the crib with such care, such love. I guess crazy’s better than sexual.

‘She’s a hungry girl.’ she says, tipping the bottle to the doll’s mouth. For a few seconds, she just stands there, bottle in hand, staring adoringly down into the plastic baby in her arms. Then, shushing placatingly, she pulls the bottle away and holds it out to me.

‘Do you want to try?’ she asks. I think about saying no, about making some polite excuse, then getting the hell out of there. But then, how hard can it be to look after a fake baby? Surely not as hard as looking after a real one. If I can keep Anna sweet, this could be an easier scam than Nana’s pension.

‘I’d love to.’ I say, smiling warmly. I take the bottle, and let her gently transfer the doll into my arms. She’s heavy for a doll – probably weighted for realism. Summoning all of my physical improv skills, I guide the nipple of the bottle to the doll’s mouth. On instinct, I squeeze the bottle ever-so-slightly, and milk runs into the channel of its plastic lips and dribbles down its face.

Instantly, Anna swoops in, plucking her baby out of my arms.

‘Oh, not too much! Like I said, she’s a good feeder, so she’ll get enough by herself.’

I don’t know why I’m so embarrassed. I’m not the freak giving a Baby Born real milk. I wonder if it’s real breast milk. Surely not, right? But if she lost the real Ruthie, like I suspect she did, then all that milk has to go somewhere. I surreptitiously wipe a few droplets of milk off my hand with my cardigan, and make a mental note to wash it as soon as I can.

‘You don’t mind if I change her, do you?’ she asks, once she’s finished with her little play-pretend feeding.

‘Of course not.’ I say, faintly. How much weirder is this going to get? Anna has a whole changing station; beautifully engraved, varnished wood, probably Victorian. 6-year old me would be green with envy – It’s like she has a life-sized dollhouse. Ruthie looks even more fake and plastic against the antique wood.

‘Stinky girl.’ Anna coos, kissing the doll’s tummy and twiddling its feet. I watch as she gathers everything from the drawers under the changing table – wipes, baby powder, a fresh flannel and a small box of nappy pins.

‘Have you ever changed a cloth nappy?’ Anna asks.

It was part of my childcare course, but I don’t want to risk embarrassing myself like I did with the bottle, so I say,

‘My last job thought disposable nappies were more hygienic.’

Anna rolls her eyes and chuckles. ‘That’s crazy. Reusable nappies are so much better, for baby and for the environment. Watch me.’

Hesitantly, I step towards her. She’s not just going through the motions; she’s fully committed to the act. She sings to Ruthie, walking her fingers down the plastic torso and carefully undoing the nappy pin. She unfolds the nappy, and I gasp, stepping back.

Anna laughs, folding the nappy in on itself. ‘Apparently, we Mums have weird hormones that make us think it smells delicious and buttery. I forget it must smell like death to everyone else.’

I don’t know how I didn’t smell it before. The nappy is full – not of plastic or paint or some other sort of faked substance, but of human excrement. It must have been in there the whole time, even when she was briefly in my arms. How I hadn’t smelled the fetid mess when it was literally under my nose, I’m not sure.

Unfazed, Anna drops the dirty nappy in a small, lidded basket by her feet, and continues her task.

‘The boil wash only takes an hour, and I usually put them on once a day. I wouldn’t leave it more than that, they pile up quickly. Just make sure you don’t put anything else in with them.’

I think, then, about Anna wiping herself with the cloth and pinning the messy nappy onto her fake daughter, multiple times a day. I feel sick.

‘Where’s your loo?’ I ask, hurriedly. Mum would be mortified to hear me call it a ‘loo’ instead of a ‘WC’ or whatever other ridiculous genteel name she’d want me to use, but at this point, I risk dry-heaving if I open my mouth to correct myself.

‘Down the hall,’ Anna says, pointing, a coy smile playing at the corner of her lips. I walk out, trying not to look too much like I’m dashing for it. Anna’s laughter echoes after me.

‘You’ll get used to it, I swear!’

__________

I’m not sick, thankfully, but the lavender scent of the bleach is giving me a bit of a headache. Anna must have done a quick clean of the toilet before I arrived, as the bottle is still perched on the cistern. I didn’t know rich people had a fancy alternative to Toilet Duck. I take a quick drink out of the tap, splashing some cold water on my wrists so that I don’t ruin my makeup. I look at myself in the mirror. I’d thought I looked quite nice when I left the house, but compared to Anna, even in her tired, unwashed state, I do just look a bit…cheap. My cardigan does look ratty; Mum was right.

Still, maybe that’s my appeal. An agency nanny would have reported her right away. Whether this is genuine delusion, or just wanting someone to play along, some chavvy girl from Facebook is more likely to suck it up for the money than an actual professional.

I can do this. 13 days, the advert said. Not even a fortnight. 13 days on my own; free from Mum, free from responsibility. Just me and a fake, shit-covered baby with a huge house to ourselves.

When I step out, I’m a new Abby. This is Abigail, the confident, reassuring amateur nanny who fields questions and coos at Anna’s baby like she’s been doing this for years. Period cramps, I say to explain away my hesitance from earlier, and the badly-covered nausea. I only get them for a day or two, but they’re murder every time! Anna, pleasantly surprised at my complete about-face, nods sympathetically. Hers were awful up until she got pregnant, so she knows my pain.

We spend the better part of an hour just chatting away – abandoning instructions mid-way to go on some unrelated tangent. I get the feeling we’re both a bit starved of connection with women our own age.

By the time I’m on her doorstep, waving back as Anna waggles Ruthie’s crooked arm up and down, we’ve abandoned the pretense of if I’m chosen for the job altogether. I have the dates blocked out on my calendar, and an invitation to stay the night before, so I don’t have to brave the traffic of the morning commute. I leave feeling good, truly good. I have a job. I have prospects.

The shock on Mum’s face when I tell her I got it is too satisfying to be hurtful.

__________

I’m back on Anna’s doorstep a week later. The childcare course was pretty much redundant by the time Mum had seen me off; my door nearly swung off its hinges with how much she kept coming in to remind me of some piece of common sense I was surely too stupid to know.

Anna welcomes me warmly, but she looks even more tired than I remember. I expected that we might stay up a little while, maybe nurture the sparks of friendship I felt at my interview. But Anna announces an early night as soon as she’s taken me through the general housekeeping and reminded me of my duties. I’m a little deflated, but mostly hungry. It’s only 8pm, and I’d thought she might make dinner, or at least order something in. But I forgot that rich people are on different time – she must have eaten early, and I don’t mention that I haven’t, in case it’s considered uncouth.

I ‘feed’ Ruthie her evening bottle while Anna gets ready for bed. The plastic eyes are a little unnerving, but she’s not quite as uncanny valley as she felt when I first saw her. I suppose now the shock has subsided, she feels more like a toy, and less like she might be haunted.

Later, when I’ve retreated to my temporary bedroom, I find half a sleeve of Polo mints in the front pocket of my rucksack; so that’s dinner sorted.

__________

I sleep well on Anna’s expensive spare mattress. It’s amazing how it affects your quality of sleep when you’re not on second-hand box springs. Refreshed, I get up to do a quick blitz of the house. I should do something while I’m here. I’ve always hated Mum’s weekend ‘spring cleans’, but without her over my shoulder every step of the way, it’s quite relaxing doing the tidying. If only Mum didn’t think cleaning for money was skivvy work, I’d probably be better suited to that than childcare.

Anna’s already gone, a half-drunk coffee and some crumbs by the sink, evidence of a last-minute dash out of the house. I find a note scrawled on the back of a receipt on the hallway table while I’m hoovering. Her phone number, and the closest A&E. Better than nothing, I suppose.

By 11am, all the laundry piles have been consolidated, sorted, and are either in the machine or waiting in a nearby basket. Thankfully, the nappy wash has already been done, the cloths drying on the line outside. I’ve washed the couple of dirty dishes in the sink, and put away what was in the dishwasher. Hoovering done, all spills wiped up. The house is hardly spotless, but it’s neat and tidy in a way that I’m sure Anna will appreciate coming home to. There’s just one rather big task left to do.

I decide to commit to caring for Ruthie properly. Anna might be sick, but it’s clear she loves her ‘daughter’, and is paying me a lot of money to be here. The least I can do is play along. It’ll be good practice, if nothing else.

Putting on my game face, I tiptoe into the nursery.

‘Rise and shine!’ I say cheerily, opening the gauzy curtains above the crib. Warm morning light bathes Ruthie in an ethereal glow, and for a moment, she almost looks like a real baby. I stroke my knuckle down her cheek, and it’s soft. I pick her up, carefully supporting her head, and carry her over to the changing table. I check her nappy with some trepidation, but it’s clean, of course. I refasten the nappy pin, and leave it at that.

I spend some time going through the miniature wardrobe that Anna has curated. The doll is better dressed than I am, but then I can’t afford to buy Monsoon, in baby or adult sizes. I spend a few minutes agonising over what to put her in – there are so many cute little outfits, and I’m tempted to try them all on her. Then, inspiration strikes. Anna will want photos, of course. My options are either to pick out a new outfit every day, and stage some activity with my plastic ward; or, I can get it all out of the way now. Stock up, so to speak. Plus, I’ll be getting paid to play dress up with a baby doll.

I’d never had a lot of dolls as a kid, but I loved dressing up my Barbies with whatever clothes I’d found at the car boot sale that weekend. I learnt to sew so that I could make little dresses for them out of my old socks – shapeless sacks that had seemed like fashionable mini-dresses to my nine-year-old eyes. But this is a lot more fun.

I work my way through Ruthie’s wardrobe. I start with pyjamas – easy enough to shoot; I arrange her in her crib, changing her position slightly each time. All of them sleep-safe, just in case. The light is even on a dimmer switch, so I have a nice selection of nap photos, bedtime photos and waking-up photos. Now for the real fun.

I catch myself singing to Ruthie as I dress her up; little nonsense rhymes that my Nan had sung to me, from some unknown origin. Elephants joining the circus and singing puppies and the like. Maybe I should go work in one of those baby photo studios instead of babysitting. All the dressing up and cute smiles, and none of the mess.

However tiny the clothes are, it’s still time-consuming work. My fingers seem unusually clumsy fumbling with the tiny buttons. I’d have as hard a time dressing a real baby; it’s almost like the doll is evading me, squirming around in my grasp. But, I manage, and have an enjoyable afternoon staging my photoshoot around the house. Ruthie naps in my arms while I sit on the couch. She has tummy time with her soft toys. I even get a shot of her in her little baby bath, a miniature rubber duck tucked into her hand. Satisfied that I have enough photos to last the two weeks, I dry her plastic body off with a little pink towel, and go to find her one more outfit.

In the end, I decide on a black and white striped dungaree dress with a red love heart embroidered on the front. I stand Ruthie up in her finished outfit; making her do a little dance to show off her neat white socks and patent shoes.

‘Let’s go for a walk.’ I tell her, the idea hitting me suddenly. I should get at least one picture of her outside. You wouldn’t leave a real baby cooped up inside for an entire fortnight; and for all intents and purposes, Ruthie is a real baby to Anna.

I leave Ruthie on the floor of the nursery, even putting a little toy mouse next to her, like she might be bored otherwise, and creep into Anna’s bedroom. It’s my second time in there this morning, as I’d made her bed already. Still, I feel a little anxious in her room, like I’m not supposed to be there. But, if I’m here already, why not have a snoop? I open drawers and read book covers, careful not to leave any trace of my nosiness. Apart from the pair of pyjamas and couple of cardigans I picked up off the floor, her room seems surprisingly barren of clothes. She can’t have taken them all with her, and considering the size of Ruthie’s wardrobe, I can’t imagine Anna’s wearing the same few outfits over and over. It’s as I’m pondering this that I open the cupboard hidden behind her door, and answer my own question.

There’s a whole walk-in closet. Shelves of shoes like she’s in Sex and The City, and rails of beaded taffeta and soft cashmere, jewel-toned velvet and beige linens. I channel my inner Vogue editor and sort through the designer labels.

I wonder if I’d have needed to be sectioned in the first place if I’d just had the money to be eccentric.

In the end, I can’t quite bring myself to go full Carrie Bradshaw, and Anna’s smaller than I am anyway; but I take a belt with a Chanel buckle, a Steve Madden handbag, and the iconic Ralph Lauren American flag jumper that must be too big on her. I get dressed, careful not to snag or stretch the jumper, and look at myself in Anna’s full-length closet mirror. The belt makes my jeans look expensive, and even my messy updo looks chic and effortless paired with my expensive accessories. I feel transformed, and I swan through the house like I own the place. I scoop Ruthie up from the nursery floor, and place her in the huge, fancy black pram by the front door.

I’m so consumed in my little game of make-believe, that I don’t realise what I’m doing until I’m halfway down the road, half-a-dozen pictures snapped on my phone. I’m wearing stolen clothes and photographing a pram with a fake baby in it. These are not the actions of a young woman who is sane and thriving. I put my phone in my back pocket and grip the handle of the pram, trying not to give the game away, but I catch sight of myself in the reflection of a cafe window. I don’t look mad, I assure myself. I look like a normal woman taking her baby out for a walk. I’m not the one who thinks she’s real. A couple come out of the cafe, and the man holds the door open for me, flattening himself to the side to make room for the pram.

Go for it.

‘Thank you.’ I say, carefully pronouncing every letter, and push the pram inside.

I order a coffee, and the barista smiles at me as she steams the milk.

‘How old?’ she asks, nodding at the pram.

‘Three months.’ I say, without even thinking. The barista’s eyebrows raise, impressed.

‘Wow, you look incredible for having given birth three months ago!’

I think about going along with it, praising some mystery personal trainer for getting me back to my pre-baby weight in record time, but this is not my world, and I don’t want to get caught out.

‘Oh, no. I’m just the nanny.’

She laughs. ‘Oh! I should have known; you look far too young to be someone’s Mum!’

I return a tight smile, thinking of my own Mum; fourteen and pregnant and working in a stock room. People were not so kind to her, as she tells it. No one told her she looked incredible, they just shot her dirty looks and muttered about the state of the world as she passed them. I pay for my coffee with minimal small talk, and manage a quiet thank you as I leave.

I’m not Anna. I’m not a fashionable, wealthy young woman who can pass off a mental illness as a kooky little quirk; I’m working class, I’ve been sectioned before, and I need to get inside before someone notices that I’m treating a doll like a real baby.

I take a sip of the tiny cup of coffee – too tiny for what I paid – and grimace. It’s not bitter, exactly, but there’s an odd taste there. It’s probably what coffee actually tastes like, I think. I’m used to Nescafe and Costa, not dry roasted or ethically-sourced Colombian coffee or whatever the hell I’m drinking. I take another sip, just so it doesn’t feel like a complete waste, and then dump it in a nearby bin.

‘Let’s go home.’ I tell the doll, and reach for the pram.

I almost make it back to Anna’s. Almost. But, a few houses down from hers, an elderly woman emerges from the front gate. No pearl-and-cardigan set on her; she’s wearing a sari and trousers, her streaky grey hair gathered in a long, thin plait that hangs down her left side. She’s hunched over, her back crooked and swollen with some sort of arthritis. As I attempt to manoeuvre the bulky pram around her, she claps her hands in delight.

‘Oh, a baby!’ she says, in accented English. ‘Let me see the baby.’

‘The b- oh, she’s sleeping.’ I stammer out. The woman just smiles, and taps her forefinger to her lips. Her fingers, too, are bent unnaturally.

Ruthie, thank God, is mostly swaddled in a blanket; only her face peeking out. Still, there’s no mistaking her eyes for those of a real baby, and I have no desire to startle this poor woman, or worse, to cause a scene.

I hope that she’ll just take a quick peep and let me on my way. But no, her gnarled hands reach into the pram, and to my horror, she peels the blanket back. Ruthie’s whole head is exposed, in all its fake glory.

Please don’t scream, I think, heart thudding in my chest. But the woman doesn’t scream. She coos, and says something to the baby in some melodic, lilting language, tickling her under the chin. If at any point she notices that the baby isn’t real, she doesn’t mention it.

‘Beautiful girl.’ she says, smiling warmly at me. I plaster on a smile back, nodding. I don’t know what to say. Maybe she knows Ruthie isn’t real, and is playing along to be kind. But, more likely, she’s an old, demented woman who’s too far gone to tell the difference anymore. I’m relieved when she finally puts the blanket back and goes on her way. I’m trembling as I reach the front door, and fumble with the key.

The air feels different once I’m inside. Cool and quiet. I hadn’t noticed how shaky my breathing was. I think back to my mindfulness strategies. Five things I can see; clock, pram, TV, rug and stairs. I run through the exercise automatically. Four things I can touch; jumper, pram, hair, door. It doesn’t feel like a panic attack; just anxiety. That’s normal, I remind myself. Just for good measure, three things I can hear; clock, car, fridge. I feel more in my body now. I leave Ruthie in the pram, and head upstairs, stripping off Anna’s clothes and putting them back as neatly as I can.

If my twelve year old self could see me now, she’d be disgusted at how boring and fragile I’ve become.

But then, if I could see her, I’d be terrified for her.

I wasn’t a bad kid; but I was far from a sensible one. It feels like I went from watching The Tweenies after school and playing with Barbies to spending my evenings in the weed-smoke haze of Elliot’s flat within the blink of an eye, grimacing my way through glasses of cheap scotch to impress him and his loser pub friends. I’m still younger now than Elliot was then, and the thought of even looking at an eleven year old like that makes my skin crawl. So what the hell was wrong with him?

I know what was wrong with him, of course. I didn’t spend the next five years of my life in therapy for no one to point out exactly what Elliot was doing to me. It took a long time to finally believe the counsellors when they told me it wasn’t my fault. In the moment, it felt like I knew what I was doing. I wasn’t a baby, after all, I was twelve years old. Practically an adult. Idiot.

I’m in my head. I know which road this leads down, and I’m not in the mood. I rummage through my bag for my headphones, turn on the wordiest rap I can find, and crank the volume up on my phone. Noise is peace, ironically.

__________

I sleep deeply, but wake up from a nightmare with my heart pounding. The memory of the nightmare flashes in my head only for a second before slipping out of my grasp, and I’m left to calm myself down without knowing why I need to.

Breakfast is usually a coffee and my meds, a slice of toast if I’m hungry. But I can’t work out Anna’s coffee machine; it’s a proper one, all dials and pipes, and real coffee grounds. I don’t dare go back to the coffee shop, and my exploration into Anna’s bread bin finds only the heel of a sourdough and a loaf of seeded rye. Yuck. I skip breakfast.

__________

The next few days run like clockwork. I wake up, get dressed, brush my teeth, and send Anna one of Ruthie’s photoshoot pictures. Clearly, she’s enjoying her time away; I get short messages back – some variation of ‘my cute/lovely/pretty daughter/Ruthie/baby girl’, and a ‘thank you so much for taking such good care of her!’ By day four, her responses are just emoji reactions. Fine with me.

I’m not going through the rigmarole of changing a doll’s nappy twice a day, so I leave Ruthie’s on, and put a clean one in the nappy pail. That way, Anna will come home to freshly washed nappy cloths regardless. I do make her a bottle, though – I test the temperature on my wrist and everything – and ‘feed’ Ruthie for a minute or two. I just use the same bottle throughout the day – I stick to the feeding times, but I’m not making up 8 separate bottles a day for a doll. I feel bad putting the excess formula down the sink, but it’s clear Anna’s been using them, and I don’t want her to come back to full cans and accuse me of starving her imaginary daughter.

Then, the rest of the day is mine. I can watch whatever I like on Anna’s big telly – no Mum over my shoulder turning her nose up at all of my watch suggestions, or commenting on how ugly she finds the actors. I really never wanted to go into childcare, but if most of the job is watching TV in peace, then maybe Mum was right after all. I can’t tell her that, of course. I’d never hear the end of it. I listen to music, I play on my phone. I relax, and I feel relaxed for the first time in a long time.

I go to bed at whatever time I like (which I’m annoyed to find out is not much later than Mum’s been demanding), and dress Ruthie in her onesie pyjamas before I settle down for the night myself. It can be fiddly fitting her bent arms into the narrow sleeves, but I manage. The novelty hasn’t quite worn off, so I have enough shots of Ruthie in different outfits to keep me going for at least an additional week. Job well done.

The nightmares aren’t fun, but it’s easier to get out of bed in the morning when the adrenaline makes you feel like you’ve just snorted a line.

__________

On day five, my phone rings. It’s Mum. I stare at the phone screen for a moment, and consider rejecting the call. I don’t, though, and I take a deep breath before pressing the answer button.

‘Hi, Mum.’

‘Abigail, it’s been nearly a week. I’ve been worried sick.’

‘Why? You know where I am.’

‘Do I? For all I know, you’ve run out on your job and gone to France.’

‘France?’ I ask, stifling a laugh. ‘Why France?’

Mum sighs exasperatedly on the other end of the phone. ‘Abby, please don’t change the subject. Why haven’t you stayed in touch?’

I try to think of a way to say because being away from you has been absolute bliss that won’t set her off, but I come up empty.

‘I guess I’ve not been on my phone much.’ That’s a lie. I lost three hours to Instagram doom scrolling this morning. ‘Sorry, Mum.’

‘You’re definitely feeding the baby enough, aren’t you? They need more than three meals a day.’

I roll my eyes. ‘I know, Mum. There’s a schedule.’

‘And you can’t give water to a baby that young.’ she adds

‘Yes, we covered that in the course. Remember, that course I did for a whole year?’

‘I remember you saying that poor woman who taught you was barren. What would she know?’

‘I didn’t say she was barren, I said that she and her partner were trying IVF. She only told us because they thought one of the embryos might have taken.’

‘And it didn’t.’ Mum retorts.

Peaceful thoughts. ‘She had 30 years’ experience working with kids. I think she knew what she was doing.’

‘Well, let’s just hope you do, too.’

I hold the phone away from my mouth so that she doesn’t hear me trying to compose myself. I know Mum doesn’t have the most faith in me. I just wish she didn’t have to make it so bloody obvious.

‘Thanks, Mum.’ I grit out.

‘She sounds like she needs changing, Abby. When was the last time you changed her?’ I pull a face at my phone. Is Mum receiving messages from Ruthie via long-distance osmosis? The house is silent, save for the gentle hum of Anna’s double-door fridge, so I’m not sure what Mum thinks she’s hearing.

‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘I’d better go and change her. Talk soon.’ I hang up before she can get another word in.

I saw some Haagen-Daazs in the freezer earlier. I think I deserve it after a chat with Mum.

__________

For the first time in five days, I forget one of Ruthie’s feedings. For a second, I panic, before realising how silly I’m being. What’s she going to do, starve to death? Still, I can’t shake the weird guilt as I go up to the nursery for the belated feeding routine. I open the door with some trepidation, and Ruthie is…

Fine. Obviously. Still, I think the formula is starting to turn – I shouldn’t have left it so close to the radiator. There’s a slight sickly-sweet smell pervading my nostrils, and I have to breathe through my mouth so I don’t get nauseous. I pick up the bottle, and pick up Ruthie, and hold the nipple to her plastic lips.

I stand there for a while, rocking the doll, staring out the window to the street below. No one looking in would be able to tell she wasn’t real, but the people passing by don’t look up once, too focused on their journeys home from work. My mind wanders, and I think about Anna. How did she get to this point, and why is there no one looking out for her?

Her partner left her, clearly. Maybe when they lost the baby, maybe when she got the doll. But then, maybe the doll was his idea. Maybe he left when she stopped treating it like a doll.

Where are her friends, her parents? I imagine myself in the same situation; insisting to Mum that she wasn’t a toy, that my baby had come back, can’t you see her?

For all my Mum’s faults, she’d never let me end up like this; playing house with a child that wasn’t really there. I snort then, realising that that’s exactly the situation I’m in, and all thanks to Mum, after all.

I start, suddenly. Tension in my scalp, a sharp pain. Looking down, my hair has gotten twisted around the doll’s arm, as if she’s reached up and pulled on it. I tuck her under my arm and fix my hair. I’m going loopy. Maybe this is how it started for Anna.

Enough.

I put Ruthie into her crib, her plastic eyes staring straight ahead of her into the baby monitor camera. Grasping her by the skull, I twist her head around until she faces the wall. I don’t need a creepy doll staring me down all night.

What I need is to feel normal again. I’ll go back to playing dollies in the morning; tonight, I need to be in the land of the living.

Downstairs, I find a packet of microwave popcorn in the pantry, out of place amongst the supergrains and muesli. Perfect.

I pair my microwave popcorn with a shit sauvignon blanc I smuggled in when I arrived, and even shitter television, and settle in for the night. Anna has properly posh throw blankets – thick and soft and so warm. I let myself imagine being in Anna’s shoes; maybe not the baby, but living by myself in a big, lovely house. Away from the oppressive atmosphere of Mum’s flat. Just space and quiet and independence. Maybe I could get my own fake baby to keep me company. I’d probably prefer a cat, though.

My head starts to nod during the final 15 minutes of Love Island. I could fall asleep right here, but my anti-depressants wreak havoc on my skin if I don’t take my makeup off at night. At least I can go through Anna’s cabinets and see what expensive products I can afford to take a swipe out of. Then I’d see how effective my Superdrug stuff really is.

The credits roll, and I gather my bowl and glass to take to the kitchen. The baby monitor is on the counter, placed in a way that seems almost accusing. I feel a twinge of guilt; I had promised Anna I’d keep an eye on Ruthie. But exactly what trouble was a lump of unsupervised plastic going to get into? I dump my stuff in the sink, and pick up the monitor. Then nearly drop it again.

I’d turned Ruthie away from the camera. Why, then, was she now facing it, mere inches from the lens? For a few minutes, my eyes are locked with the doll through the monitor, my heart pounding in my chest. Like I’m scared that if I take my eyes off her, she might suddenly vanish, then show up behind me or something.

Get a grip, I tell myself. I must have misremembered. Maybe there’s some sort of motor in the doll, like those backflipping dogs. Unlikely, but still more likely than the doll coming to life. I hurry up the stairs, storming into the nursery. Ruthie is staring straight at me with those painted eyes. I pick her up by the arm, dangling her as I push up her top and inspect her for a battery pack, or wires, or something. I drop her back into the crib, and take a few deep breaths. The doll didn’t move. You just remembered wrong.

I hate this feeling. I hate feeling like I can’t trust my own eyes, my own memory. I thought I was doing better. I have been. I spent six months of my childhood on a fucking psych ward, and I am not going back.

I grab the knitted blanket that’s draped over the edge of the crib, and cover the doll. There. She can toss and turn as much as she likes under there, as long as I don’t have to see it.

I go into Anna’s bedroom and find her Macbook on the desk. Sitting, I fire it up and start googling flights.

It was a conversation I’d had with my therapist after my last attempt; You don’t want to die, you just don’t want to be here. So why pick the nuclear option?

She was right. Ending my life didn’t have to mean dying; it could just mean escaping to a new one. Suicide felt like freedom, but so could selling all my earthly possessions and working on a rice paddy in China, or volunteering at an animal sanctuary in the Dominican Republic. I could do anything, go anywhere, and I’d never have to speak to Anna, or Mum, or the girls from the ward again.

For an hour, I research yoga retreats in some of the most remote locations in the world, then how to get hired at one. I look at nearby hostels, the local currency, traditional food from the region, until the buzzing in my head is finally silent. Then, I delete my browsing history, and shut down the laptop.

It’s a coping mechanism, that’s all. I’m never actually going to up sticks and Eat, Pray, Love my way through Asia. It’s just not an option for someone like me, unless Anna decides to up my payment by several tens of thousands. But deleting my history is far cleaner and easier than scrubbing blood off Mum’s bathroom tiles at 2 in the morning. Still, I’m tired. My head hurts, and my body aches from the tension I’ve been holding in it.

I go straight to bed without washing my face or brushing my teeth. I forgot to take this morning’s dose of medication anyway.

__________

I can’t sleep, because the bed has lumps. Sharp lumps. I cry out as something digs into the flesh of my hip, breaking the skin. I inspect the damage, and there are tiny half-crescents carved into my skin, blood beading up in the wounds. Little fingernails. I roll over, getting tangled up in the duvet, clumsy with panic. Ruthie is crushed in the dip left by my body, her head at an unnatural angle, and her mouth gasping for air like a fish.

I wake up.

I fumble for the baby monitor, sure that Ruthie will have thrown off the blanket somehow. It takes me a moment to process what I’m looking at. But, despite my paranoia, I realise that the dark shape on the screen is just the blanket, exactly how I placed it. I force myself to slow my breathing down.

The doll is not possessed, get a grip.

Still, something’s wrong. The red light on the monitor is flashing. Not quickly or evenly, which might indicate a low battery, but lighting up randomly for a few seconds at a time. As if it’s picking up noise. I hold the monitor to my ear. Nothing. I turn the volume dial all the way to the right, then try again.

Silence.

I twiddle the dial, in case it turns the wrong way, for some reason. Apparently not. Low battery? But the picture doesn’t flicker. I stand still, and strain my ears. The house is silent, save for the ticking of the kitchen clock, loud enough that I can hear it from downstairs. I approach the staircase, straining my ears for any noise. The monitor continues to flash, though the blanketed shape doesn’t move.

Slowly, I creep into the hallway, padding along as if I’m afraid of rousing something. The blood is rushing in my ears, but it’s the only sound I hear. The door looms ahead of me, a portal to whatever chaos is being quarantined inside. I press my ear to the wood, but can only hear my own heartbeat.

I curl my fingers around the doorknob, knuckles blanching white as my grip tightens, but something stops me from turning. A creeping, rising dread in the pit of my stomach. I don’t want to see her. The idea of looking into her lifeless, painted eyes makes me sick, the nauseating sour milk smell suddenly coming back to me.

I let go of the knob.

The light on the monitor has stopped flashing, and stays off. Ruthie, I decide, can look after herself tonight.

__________

I sleep fitfully; waking up from half-remembered dreams of babies and shitty nappies and women in saris, before plunging back into sleep. I’m finally startled awake by a high-pitched scream. The adrenaline courses through my body as I sit straight up in bed. I wait, and listen, but no other sound comes. The scream must have been part of a dream; the sound produced inside my own head.

The central heating hasn’t quite kicked in properly yet, so I pull my cardigan over my pyjamas, and steal downstairs, not sending so much as a glance towards the nursery door. I make a disgusting bowl of muesli with soy milk and bring it back to bed with me. I spend the entire morning watching TikToks on my phone, though I rarely manage to make it through a whole video, as short as they are. So much for taking this job seriously. Well, as seriously as you can take caring for an inanimate object. Anna doesn’t seem particularly preoccupied with the welfare of her daughter – she hasn’t even seen the message with the last photo I sent. Still, I send her one of Ruthie’s wake-up photos, sending it to my recycling bin afterwards so I don’t use it again.

Just after noon, the doorbell rings. I freeze. A parcel? Or a friend of Anna’s? I don’t want outsiders coming into the house, not with whatever sinister presence is lurking just beyond the nursery door. But if I don’t answer, they could tell Anna, who might worry and return, cutting the sit short. I force myself out of bed, and hurry downstairs.

I shouldn’t have worried. Not about that, at least. It’s Mum.

‘What are you doing here?’ I ask, opening the door and stepping back to give her space to enter.

‘I wanted to see how you were getting on.’ Mum says, already scanning her environment. And I want to see that baby.’

‘You can’t.’ I say bluntly. ‘She’s sleeping.’

Mum purses her lips disapprovingly. ‘At midday? You should have gotten her up by now. And still in your pyjamas. I thought you were going to take this seriously.’ She tuts at me. I just stare back numbly.

‘So? How’s the baby?’ she asks, labouring her words like I’ve refused to answer a question she never asked in the first place.

‘Sleeping.’ I say again.

‘Yes, you said. How are you getting on?’

‘It’s fine. She’s really easy.’

‘Really?’ Mum eyes me. ‘You look like you’ve barely slept.’

‘The mattress I’m on,’ I lie. ‘It’s really uncomfortable.’

‘Don’t tell me she’s got you on boxsprings, a big house like this?’

‘It’s memory foam.’ I say. I don’t know why I feel the need to defend Anna. ‘I just find it too soft to sleep on.’

‘Oh, well; apologies for not getting you accustomed to memory foam mattresses.’ Oh good, sarcasm. ‘I did the best I could with the lot I was given.’

‘I didn’t mean it like that.’ I say wearily. Conversations with Mum feel like I should have warmed up for them, sometimes.

‘It’s nice.’ Mum says, gesturing to the house; her attention already diverted. ‘I would have chosen a different colour for the walls, but maybe it’s a work in progress.’

‘I’m actually really busy today-’ I begin, but she cuts me off.

‘Nonsense, they’re easy at this age. Or is she making you clean for her, too?’

‘She’s paying me a lot of money.’

Mum tuts again. ‘Figures. I’m sure you’re cheaper than hiring a nanny and a cleaner.’ Moving to the kitchen, she sees my unwashed dishes in the sink, and shoots me a look. I pretend not to notice. Finally, she finishes her self-guided tour of the bottom floor, and waits expectantly at the bottom of the stairs.

‘Well, take me to the baby.’

I swallow. ‘I said no, Mum. She’s sleeping. She doesn’t sleep well.’

‘No wonder; you have her sleeping at all hours! Why would she sleep at night? Come on, I want to make sure you’re looking after the baby properly.’

I bristle at that. After all her insistence that this was my calling, pushing me into taking this job, she’s not convinced I can do it?

‘Anna asked that I don’t have visitors round.’ I say.

‘Good.’ Mum nods approvingly. ‘You’re caring for a baby, you’re not on holiday.’

‘That includes you.’

Mum sighs.

‘Darling,’ she begins, her voice dripping in faux concern. ‘You’ve not been well. This is a big responsibility for you, and unfortunately, you still need me to make sure you’re progressing forwards, not back.’

I swallow hard, and bite back tears. I’m doing better. I am.

Aren’t I?

Mum’s timing, as usual, is spot-on. The weird stuff that’s been happening lately; I can’t help but worry that I’m slipping back out of reality. The pit in my stomach threatens to bubble over, and I try my best to breathe through it.

Mum’s watching me, a vague expression of satisfaction on her face. Sometimes it feels like she wants me to stay sick. Stay reliant on her. I can’t let her live my life for me.

‘I’d like you to leave, please. I’ll see you when the job is finished.’

Mum cocks her head condescendingly. ‘It’s nice to see you assert yourself. But I need to check on the baby.’ She begins to climb the stairs, and I get a flash of her finding Ruthie under the blanket. How would I even begin to explain? Even if she believed that Anna was the one who thought the doll was real, she’d probably end up getting her sectioned.

‘Why don’t you run out and pick us up some coffees?’ I try, my brain working overtime to get her away from the stairs. ‘My treat. There’s a lovely little coffee shop at the end of the street.’

‘You go.’ Mum replies immediately. ‘I’ll stay with the baby.’

‘Anna would kill me.’ I gabble, adrenaline thumping in my chest as she inches closer upstairs. ‘She said specifically that I had to be with her at all times. She said the only reason she hired me was because she trusts me, and she’s never been able to trust anyone else. Plus, I’m pretty sure there’s cameras, so she’d know.’

I’m just talking, now. Mum’s not an idiot, but my half-panicked rambling wouldn’t convince her even if she was. But she has paused her journey up the stairs, at least, and turns towards me slowly.

‘Oh, God.’ Mum says, her eyes widening in melodramatic horror. ‘You’ve not done anything to the baby, have you? Have you, Abby?’

‘What? No, of course not. She’s fine. Ruthie’s fine!’ I need to get her out of the house. My chance to tell Mum the truth has well and truly passed; I can already see her working herself up, and if she finds out the truth, she’ll come up with some ridiculous theory – I killed the real Ruthie and buried her under the floorboards. There never was an Anna, and I’ve just broken into someone’s house to play a reverse Norman Bates. Or, most likely, that this is some jab at her; a convoluted metaphor for her horrible parenting that I’ve set up, because everything is about her.

‘Get out, Mum.’ I say, surprising myself at the quiet threat behind my firmness. Mum also falters for a moment. But then, her expression turns nasty. I know this look all too well; the curled lip, the bright eyes. The sneer. The mask hasn’t slipped for a while. We got the hang of playing Mum and Daughter while I was on the course, because for so long, her favourite role was bully.

‘The thing is,’ she spits, through gritted teeth, ‘your track record with babies isn’t the best, is it, love?’

It’s like a punch in the gut. She always knows exactly what to target. When I was younger, I used to wish she would just hit me instead. At least I’d have bruises to show someone, bruises that would fade with time, and not stick around for years after, haunting me every time I tried to sleep. Chipping away at my sanity, until I’m being tackled to the ground at 14 years old with a bloodied compass in my hand and deep red gashes trailing up my arms.

‘Don’t.’ I murmur softly. Mum just nods, her expression regretful but her eyes still fierce.

‘I have to, Abby. No baby deserves what you did, and if I can save this one from a similar fate, then it’s my moral responsibility.’

I hate you, I think, repeating those words over and over in my head until I’m silently screaming them at her. But I don’t dare open my mouth. If the waterworks start, she wins.

‘Now,’ Mum continues, her voice still low and dangerous, ‘I’m not leaving here until I know that little girl is alive and well, because I just can’t trust you, my darling.’

‘Please, Mum.’ I choke out. Mum just smiles, then turns and starts back up the stairs. As soon as her back is turned, I slump against the banister. Of course she wins, she always wins. This was my chance to get away from her, if only for a while. Time for the house of cards to fall down.

Halfway up the staircase, Mum stops. She turns back to me, her face registering something like…disappointment? I search her face for some clue for what comes next.

Just like that, the mask is back in place, and she sighs heavily.

‘Well, I’m relieved.’ she says. ‘I don’t know what all the melodrama was about, Abby, I really don’t.’

I watch her in stunned silence. I can’t work out what just happened. Is this a trick? Is she trying to distract me so she can tackle me into submission? I step back as she descends down the stairs, just in case, but she moves past me, towards her bag and jacket.

‘I have neither the time nor energy to go through this again, so you get your wish; I’ll leave you alone. Natasha will be pleased; she’s probably been feeling quite neglected with all the time I’ve spent worrying about you instead of looking after her. And in the state she’s in, too.’ she adds, reproachfully.

Tash will definitely not be pleased. I’d gotten a mardy text from her a couple of days ago, sarcastically thanking me for freeing up so much of Mum’s time that she was now able to turn her attention on Natasha and her bump. Mum was never as awful to Tash as she was to me, not by a long shot, but it doesn’t mean she can stand her either.

It takes another minute or so to usher Mum out the door, and my arm is itching to slam it in her face. Before she finally leaves, she tells me,

‘You know I’m proud of you, don’t you?’

It hurts. The insincerity, the gaslighting. The fact that despite everything, I want her to mean it. I roll my eyes to hide the tears welling up in them, and her lips purse.

‘I think you should probably check on the baby.’ are her pointed, parting words. It takes every ounce of my mental fortitude to close the door without slamming it behind her.

I go to the couch, bury my face in Anna’s thickest, fluffiest cushion, and I scream and scream and scream.

It’s the first night in this house that I don’t dream.

__________

In the morning, I go to take a shower – I was instantly enamoured with the rainfall shower, and have been using it daily – but my hand falters on the tap. I’ve ignored the big, clawfoot bath under the window. I can’t even remember the last time I had a bath. It was CAMHS’ treatment of choice whenever I’d ring them for help, but the pokey little tub in Mum’s bathroom wasn’t so much a suicide deterrent as it was an inviting receptacle for a toaster. This, however, was a bath you got in for pleasure, not one you got crammed into with your sister after a muddy day at the park. There was a basket so chock-full of Lush bath bombs that I could take one without it being missed. And besides, hadn’t Anna told me to make myself at home?

I use a bath bomb and bubble bath. They kind of cancel each other out, but the real luxury is being able to use either without Mum in my ear warning me about bacterial vaginosis. The bath is absolutely steaming, and I dip my fingers into the colourful, soapy surface. I snatch my hand back out. Of course, someone like Anna wouldn’t be relying on a crappy boiler that only got going once the bath was half-full. I brace myself and plunge my hand back in to pull out the plug, dousing my hand with the cold tap before I can feel the burn.

While I leave the water to equalise to a more bearable temperature, I nip to the kitchen for a hot chocolate. I’ve well and truly given up on the coffee machine, but a hot bath and a fancy Whittard’s hot chocolate almost make the whole haunted doll thing worth it. I check my phone while the microwave heats up the milk, swiping away the message and voicemail notifications from Mum. She hates me giving her the cold shoulder; that’s her strategy. If I ring her back, she’ll start acting aloof; as if I’m not the one returning her call. She’ll string me along until I finally apologise, like I always do. But I don’t need her; I can handle this. I’m a fucking adult now; a fact I think she’d like me to forget sometimes.

Mug in hand, I make my way back up to the bathroom. A few more minutes of twiddling with the taps, and I finally have a bath that’s a decent temperature. I slip into the water, and lean back against the sloped end of the bath.

For a few minutes, it’s wonderful. Peaceful and warm, the concoction of bath products just short of being overwhelming. But then, I remember exactly why I stopped having baths.

__________

I’m twelve years old and I’m staring at a pregnancy test I swiped from Boots; the cheap ones they don’t lock away in the cabinets.

‘What does two lines mean?’ Elliot asks. Even at that age, in that moment, I recognise the irony of having to explain how a pregnancy test works to the grown man who’s made it necessary for me to use.

‘Pregnant.’ I say. My voice doesn’t sound like mine.

‘Check again.’ he says.

‘What the fuck do you think’s going to change?’ I snap. ‘Two lines means pregnant, check it yourself.’ I pick the box up from the sink and throw it at him. I was so bold back then; I didn’t even care that it would probably earn me a slap. He doesn’t move, though, and the box hits him in the shoulder, before falling to the floor.

‘I can’t be a dad.’ he says blankly, and I let out a wordless shriek, pushing him out the door and slamming it in his face, my knickers still around my ankles.

I’ll kill you if you end up like me, Mum had always said. I’ve beaten her record; pregnant two whole years younger than she was. The tummy ache I’ve been feeling for weeks straight is worse than ever. There’s a baby inside me. I want to vomit and vomit and vomit until it comes out, but even I’m old enough to know that’s not how it works.

Naked from the waist down, I stand in the filthy bathroom and contemplate what comes next.

I’ll get fat and throw up every morning. A great, disgusting whale that smells of sick and cries all the time. I have vague memories of Mum pregnant with Tash. She’d always been so glamorous and energetic, and suddenly she was this big, angry lump on the sofa, who never had the energy to wash herself or tidy up. For the first few months of her life, I hated Natasha for it. I used to give her little head or body a smack when Mum was out of the room. It didn’t matter; I always got shouted at when the baby started screaming; whether it had been my fault or not.

I’ll have to stop going to school. I’ve only just been deemed cool enough to hang out with Daisy and the other girls; the bullying would be even worse than before. Not just a chav, not just a crybaby, but worse. All the names I’ve used on other girls I know; skank, slut, sket. Short, guttural words you can spit at someone, or hiss under your breath when they pass.

Elliot will go to prison. I can tell the police it wasn’t him, but Mum will sing like a canary once she knows her suspicions were true. She loves being right, much more than she loves me. I’ll get put into foster care; maybe Tash too. Besides, if one of Mum’s kids could go so astray, it must be her parenting. We’ll get dragged out of the house in front of the neighbours, and Mum will never talk to me again, even when I’m older, and the father of my child is a registered sex offender.

Because then, there’s the baby. They’ll make me keep it, probably, like Lila from over the road did, even when they put her in the group home. I’ll have to feed it and bathe it and change its shitty nappies, and pretend that I love this creature that’s ruined my entire life.

But I have options. Babies are delicate, even more so before they’re born. After all, Mum had tried her hardest to keep her pregnancy after Tash. She was determined not to have the same complications that had come up with baby number 2, so she ate healthy, rested as much as possible, and took so many pills and vitamins she could have run a pharmacy out of our medicine cabinet.

And it still died inside her.

__________

I can hear a baby crying.

I clamber out of the bath. All the therapy, all the medication, all the fucking years, and the memories are still vivid as day. I know better than to let myself go back there, but here I am; in a nice, head-clearing bath – like a clear head isn’t exactly what I always try to avoid.

I don’t bother towelling myself off; I just pull last night’s knickers and t-shirt onto my wet skin. I hate the feeling, but it’s comfortingly distracting. The crying continues, needling its way into my head. I hum, trying to drown it out. It’s so lifelike – high-pitched and desperate, with a raw edge to the sound.

It’s coming from the nursery.

I burst into the room, dripping water and bubbles all over the floor. The sound persists, seemingly muffled under the blanket that covers Ruthie.

Five things I can see; blanket, crib. Don’t break down. Window. Four things I can touch; who cares? Three things I can hear; screaming. Why is the doll screaming? Dolls don’t scream. I can’t hear two other things, it’s just screaming, filling up my head until it’s about to explode. Screaming, my screaming this time. Do I sound scared or do I sound angry? I don’t know, I can’t think shut up shut up shut up.

I rip the blanket off, and the screaming stops. Mine and hers. But her plastic has turned to flesh, and it’s a real baby squirming under my horrified gaze.

I know who’s haunting me, now. I never gave you a name. It would have made you real. But you’re not real; you’re a memory, and Ruthie is a doll. I know what you want, but I can’t give it to you. I pick Ruthie up by her onesie; I couldn’t bear to feel skin instead of plastic. She dangles in my hand as I take her through to the bathroom.

I remember your face – eyes blinking up at me from the bottom of the toilet bowl. Your little mouth opening and closing for a moment before I flushed you away; like you were trying to form the word mama. Of course; you didn’t have a face. You couldn’t have been more than 7 weeks of growth – you weren’t baby-shaped yet, just a clump of blood and tissue, like everyone says. But I saw you clearly, a fully-grown newborn with tiny fingers that reached for me. And I pulled the chain.

I’m sorry, but you’re going back into the water. It’s where you belong. At least the bath probably smells nicer. This whole house seems to reek of rotten milk.

__________

I climb back into the spare bed, still naked and dripping wet. I don’t feel tired, or scared; I don’t feel anything. Just a slight ringing in my ears from the screams. Maybe I sleep. More likely, I stare at a blank wall for hours on end.

__________

The sun is setting by the time I finally drag myself out of bed. My hair feels neither dry nor wet, but some stiff, greasy combination of the two. I feel empty. Physically empty – I haven’t put anything in my body since the two sips of cocoa I managed before my bath – but also spiritually empty; exorcised. I wish it felt like a relief, to have the metaphorical monkey off my back, but there’s a creeping dread I have to push down; like I’ve lost some vital part of myself.

Ruthie is still floating in the bath; plastic once more. I pick her up and hold her to my chest in some ghoulish parody of skin-to-skin contact. I just hold her and rock my body from side to side, water running down in rivulets between my breasts.

‘Sorry.’ I mumble to her.

I’m not ready to live on my own; that much is clear. I’ll finish out the week, then tell Mum I’m sorry, and can I stay in my room? She’ll pretend to be annoyed, or disappointed, but secretly, she’ll be glad. Things are always good for a while once I’ve admitted that I need her. She’ll remind me to take my medication more regularly, and I’ll go back to the bland, agreeable shell of a person I’ve been until recently. Turns out that is the better-case scenario.

I carefully dress Ruthie in the prettiest dress I can find in her tiny wardrobe, and tuck her into her crib. I even press a kiss to her tiny, plastic head. Then, I go back to bed.

__________

The dreams are back, with a vengeance. I chase my mother down an endless, darkened corridor. She never once looks back, even as I scream my throat hoarse calling for her. She disappears into doorways and feints around corners. Still, I pursue her, her hair floating behind her, just out of my grasp. She turns suddenly into a doorway I recognise. I don’t want to follow, but I do. In the silver gloom of the nursery, she stands over Ruthie’s crib, finally still, and I reach out to her for comfort. But when she faces me, she’s not Mum. She’s Anna. And from two black, eyeless holes, she weeps tears of blood. The rivulets cascade down her cheeks and drip off her chin, falling onto her chest. Her jumper is stained dark red at the nipples, the wetness spreading outwards.

Anna whispers something, barely audible. I ask her to repeat it, even as I realise what she’s said. This time, she screams it.

‘What have you done?’

I wake up, clammy and sweating. I can’t move, I just clutch the covers around me and try to calm down. My breath comes fast and shuddery, and I feel sick and scared and overheated.

Five days. Five days until Anna is back, and I can be gone from this house, and rid of Ruthie.

I spend the next hour typing, then deleting, multiple texts to Mum. Some are complete admissions of defeat; the ‘I told you so’ she so desperately craves. Some are bitter, ugly messages, blaming her for my dysfunction, my arrested development. Everything I’ve ever wanted to say, but have been too much of a coward. I’m still too much of a coward – those messages are deleted, too. Mostly, I draft excuses for why I want to come home. Looking after Ruthie has really made me appreciate our mother-daughter bond? She’ll see right through that. I need some time off? When I’ve only just started working. I can babysit for Tash? What, and deprive Mum of another little dolly to dress up? She’d never allow it, qualification or no qualification.

In the end, nothing gets sent. Mum must have been watching the typing notification bubble, because as soon as mine stops, hers pops up. I wait, but finally, hers stops too, and her green online status switches to grey. Our own little cold war.

__________

It’s a good thing Ruthie isn’t a real baby. I can no longer take care of myself, let alone an infant. I spend the next couple of mornings psyching myself up to go downstairs and get ready for the day, before stumbling to the bathroom, then to the kitchen to cram a few handfuls of dry muesli into my mouth before going back to bed. By the third day, the muesli box has been moved to the side of the bed. I don’t go into the nursery.

__________

Two nights before Anna returns, I dream of being a baby. I’m rocked in Mum’s arms while she sings to me; it’s a song I recognise from when I was little. She gazes down at me adoringly, but her expression turns sad. From there, her sadness turns to anguish, then to grief – her face contorting into a teary grimace. She plucks me away from the warmth of her chest, her arms outstretching as she plunges me into icy water.

My eyes snap open. I’m back in my body. Worse for wear, but back, at least. I get out of bed, moving gingerly; my body aches from the lack of movement. It’s early; only just light out. Most people won’t even be on their way to work yet. I pick my jeans up from the floor and pull them on. I make my way down the stairs with painstaking effort, suddenly desperate for fresh air. In the time it takes to reach the front door, I miraculously remember to pick up the keys before I leave the house. Outside, I heave in huge lungfuls of fresh air, clearing out the stale from days cloistered in my depression nest.

I find myself at the same cafe from my early adventure outside. I haven’t left the house since I was last here, and it’s obvious from my reflection in the cafe window. I use my nails to scrape my hair into an acceptable shape, and tuck my pyjama shirt into my jeans to make it look more intentional. I still look scruffy, but I can’t bring myself to care. Scruffy people are still allowed to buy coffee.

I trip over the lip of the threshold, stumbling slightly. From the barista’s expression, I can tell that she was watching my attempt to neaten up from inside. Hopefully, she doesn’t recognise me.

It takes me three tries to order what I want. My tongue is clumsy in my mouth, and I jab my finger at the menu as I mumble out an order. The barista does her best to help, and eventually, she repeats something drinkable back to me. I nod, relieved to be at the end of this interaction. I don’t want to be in the house with the doll, but I feel so exposed out here, unable to hide my anxiety.

‘…after?’

She’s saying something to me.

‘What?’ I ask, blearily. Pardon, my mother’s voice corrects in my head.

‘How’s the baby you’ve been looking after?’ she repeats, clearly trying to keep her sidelong glances at me discreet as she heats the milk.

‘Oh, the baby. Right.’

I should say something. Some bullshit about how often she’s been smiling, or holding her head up by herself. Something light, positive and casual.

‘She isn’t real.’ is what I end up blurting out.

The barista stares at me, only pulled out of it when the milk starts to bubble over.

‘What do you mean?’ she asks, an attempt at keeping her tone light as she wipes down the nozzle.

‘The baby. She’s a doll. She isn’t real.’ I hadn’t expected to tell anyone. Not for a while. I thought this would be a funny story that I’d practice in the mirror two years from now before using it as an ice breaker at parties. Did I ever tell you guys about the time I babysat a haunted doll?

‘A doll?’ the barista parrots.

‘Yeah. It’s a thing. People do it because they can’t have real babies. So I’m being paid to nanny a fake baby.’ I laugh then, too loudly and too brightly. A woman tucked behind a laptop in the corner glances over in annoyance.

‘Wow, that’s-’

‘How much do I owe you?’ I cut her off. I don’t know why I invited the conversation, but I’m eager to end it as soon as possible.

‘Oh. £4.50, please.’

I pull out a fiver and push it across the counter to her. ‘Keep the change.’

‘We can’t do that.’

‘As a tip.’

She squirms at my insistence. ‘That’s very generous, but we still need you to-’

‘Give me the change, then.’

She hands me a 50p coin, which I promptly deposit in the jar on the counter marked ‘TIPS :)’

I don’t give her time to thank me as I swipe the coffee off the counter and book it for the door. I don’t thank her, either.

__________

I finally get a message back from Anna. Sorry for the radio silence! It’s amazing here, and I’ve been so busy! I knew you’d keep it all under control. I’ll be back tomorrow 🙂 Anna

3 minutes later, there’s a follow-up.

P.S: Hope Ruthie has been behaving. Give her a big kiss from me xxx

Maybe all she needed was a break. Her ‘daughter’ is already an afterthought, and she’s not been gone two weeks. Will she realise that she’s been playing pretend when she comes back and is confronted with a plastic doll?

As an experiment, I fire off the last of my backlog of Ruthie photos. On her back, her arms posed stiffly above her, as if reaching for something. Maybe it will be the final straw, the thing that finally snaps her out of her delusion.

But, like the others, the photo just gets a heart react.

__________

I’m so exhausted after two weeks of nightmares that it feels less tiring to just stay up. I watch episode after episode of Family Guy, the big band theme tune snapping me back to alertness every 20 minutes. I must sleep for a little bit, because I lay back to rest my eyes for a moment, then open them to a completely different episode. No dreams, though. As the sun starts to rise, I drag myself off the couch, and get to work on setting the house right.

__________

Despite the lack of sleep, the cleaning job is surprisingly effective, especially as the time ticks closer to Anna’s arrival. I finish packing and cleaning up the evidence of the cleaning itself about 5 minutes after she’s due home. Thank God she’s not a prompt person. She’ll just have to deal with my slightly unkempt appearance.

__________

She’s really not a prompt person; it’s been nearly two hours. I didn’t go for a shower, in case she came home halfway through, but I washed in the sink, put on clean clothes, and even had time to put makeup on. With a little squirt of Anna’s Coco Mademoiselle, I’m downright presentable. But where the hell is she? I’m starting to get paranoid that she’s never coming back. I can feel Ruthie’s presence from upstairs; weighing on me oppressively. I just want to be out of here. Going home will be no picnic, not with the current state of mine and Mum’s relationship, but at least I’ll be back in my own room. At least no more nightmares. And best of all, no more Ruthie.

I’m actually pacing the house by the time I hear the taxi pull up. Striding back and forth like a parent waiting for an unruly child. So this is how Mum felt. I pause when I hear the engine turn off, and my chest leaps when I finally hear the sweet sound of the key turning in the front door lock. I have the last minute idea to throw myself onto the sofa, so I look like I’ve been waiting patiently, and not like I’ve been doing circuits of her living room to keep myself from picking up my phone to scream at her to get the fuck home already.

The door opens, and the awful silence is broken by the bustle and fuss of Anna and her suitcases.

‘I’m so sorry I’m late! We were delayed taking off, and then my 5G was playing up when we touched down, absolute nightmare!’

‘No problem at all.’ I reply, covering any annoyance I may feel with a huge, toothy smile. ‘Let me help you with those.’ I hurry to grab the suitcase she’s dragging behind her, and am dismayed to see another suitcase on the threshold. Who needs two suitcases and a cabin bag for a 13-day trip? I took less than that when I left home to live in a psych ward for 6 months.

I shuffle both cases in, deciding that they can stay with Anna’s cabin luggage in the hallway. No way I’m lugging them up the stairs. I hold my breath, and follow Anna into the main house.

Anna takes in the room around her, approvingly.

‘It’s so clean in here! You really did a wonderful job.’

I heave a little sigh of relief that she hadn’t taken it as a comment on her cleanliness. The house is pretty chilly from the windows being open all morning, but it seems to have been worth it; even I have to admit that after 7 solid hours of cleaning and tidying, the place looks like a showroom. ‘I hope you don’t mind, I know how overwhelmed you were.’

Anna puffs out her cheeks and nods at me. Tell me about it!

‘A little holiday has done me a world of good! And how was Ruthie, did she give you any trouble?’

‘None at all.’ I lie. ‘She was good as gold.’

‘Is she sleeping?’ Anna asks, glancing above our heads.

‘She went down about an hour ago.’ I worked out a backstory while I was cleaning the kitchen sink. ‘I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to see you, though!’

‘I really can’t thank you enough.’ Anna reaches into her handbag and pulls out a leather wallet. It looks designer, but it’s not like I can tell the real thing from a knockoff. She takes a moment to count out the amount, then hands me a bundle of bills. ‘What we agreed on, plus a little extra, to make up for my lateness! Honestly, you’ve been an absolute star!’

I try not to think about Ruthie’s vacant, plastic stare; those grasping, molded fingers.

‘Order a taxi home; I’ll pay for it. But right now, I need to go and see my baby.’ Anna grins at me, then heads for the staircase.

I pull out my phone and open the Uber app. I wonder what will happen to Anna from here. Has her time away really cured her, or will she slip right back into whatever psychosis makes her believe she has a living baby daughter?

It’s not my problem anymore. I calculate the cost of the Uber. £15.90. Call it £16.

From upstairs, a scream echoes through the house.

__________

In the weeks that follow, people have all kinds of opinions on what happened. I’m called the next Lucy Letby, Myra Hindley; Ruthie is likened to James Bulger and Baby P. They interview people on the street and ask them what punishment I deserve.

‘Everything she did to that poor child, and more!’ one woman tells a reporter, who nods in sage agreement.

There are calls to bring back the death penalty, especially for me. I get letters; long descriptions of the torture random people want to inflict on me. I take it all in, numbly.

When the police arrived, I expected them to walk into the nursery, realise the situation and break the news to Anna. She wasn’t real, she was never real. I expected them to tell me I did the right thing, or to ask if Anna seemed stable otherwise.

They didn’t.

They emerged from the nursery looking pale, the female officer holding her chest. She read me my rights with a shaky voice, while her partner called in a bus over the radio. Make sure the coroner is suited up, he said. It’s a mess in there.

I was put into handcuffs and bundled into a police car. During the ride to the station, the female officer spoke to her partner in hushed tones about her own children. I just can’t imagine anyone doing that to a baby.

I don’t remember a whole lot about being processed, the interview. I tried to tell them that whatever they thought they saw in there, it wasn’t a real baby. But the interviewing officer was talking to me in that horrible, patronising tone they used to use on me in the residential home, and I just clammed up. I should have asked for a lawyer, probably, like they always do on TV. I didn’t. I think I was still trying to wrap my head around what they were telling me.

Mum came to see me the next day, after my bail was set. She looked ridiculous in her sunglasses and trench coat, like she was undercover. It was all for nothing, anyway; when my identity was revealed to the public a week later, and my face plastered all over the papers, there wasn’t a disguise in the world that would deter the press.

She didn’t say much during that visit. She was mostly there to tell me that she wouldn’t be paying my bail.

‘You know I love you no matter what, but I just can’t stand by you on this one.’

I knew the real reason; she couldn’t afford it. I didn’t press it. They’d showed me the crime scene photos towards the end of my interview. In the same pretty dress I’d put on Doll Ruthie, was the bloated, blue corpse of a human infant; waterlogged, oozing and mottled with bruises. I don’t know how. But I know I probably should never be allowed out of prison.

__________

At the trial, I watch the friendly barista sob into her hands.

‘I should have realised something was wrong. I should have done something.’ She was kind to me. And in return, I pulled her into this horror show, traumatising her for life.

They show CCTV footage from that same day. Even when they play the few seconds of clear movement from inside the pram over and over, I can’t believe it. I saw what I saw. But, the evidence keeps coming. Not that Ruthie was a real baby; that’s proved pretty easily. Anna may have been isolated in her big suburban house, but there’s still birth records, check-ups. They can even prove that she died in my ‘care’, from the date of death reported by the autopsy. The real damning evidence is that I’m insane. And there’s plenty of evidence of that.

My own lawyer, Richard, brings in ex-workers from the unit. Most of them have moved on from care work, or even retired, but they’re all here to corroborate that I was, in fact, mental.

I keep my eyes fixed on the table in front of me. Richard says it’s good optics – I look, at best, penitent, and at worst, confused. But mostly I can’t bear to see how people look at me. I’m not just crazy; I’m evil. A career baby-killer, now that I have two under my belt. I don’t think Tash has attended a single day of trial, and I can’t say I blame her. For all she knows, her baby could have been next. Hell, for all I know.

__________

Mum’s dressed all in black like she’s come for my funeral, not my trial. I expected that she wouldn’t exactly be helpful as a character witness, but my lawyer explains later that she was perfect. Not only did she make her own case for my insanity, but he suggests that her demeanour on the stand may have convinced much of the court that mental illness runs in the family. I snort at that, the closest thing I’ve felt to laughter in a long time. It turns out that insisting you knew something was wrong with your daughter the entire time while testifying in the death of an infant, doesn’t ingratiate you to a jury. Richard quietly passes on something he overheard from a juror during recess:

No wonder, with a mother like that.

__________

I drift through the rest of the trial, only occasionally paying attention. There’s only so much you can hear about your own mental deficiency until it’s like, okay, we get it.

The jury get it, as well. Despite Anna’s lawyer fighting hard to paint me as some baby-hating, Machiavellian mastermind, it’s apparently clear to just about everyone that I’m simply not well. The psych assessments are barely necessary. Richard is thrilled when the jury come back with a unanimous verdict of Not Guilty by Reason of Insanity, but I can’t quite bring myself to share his enthusiasm about an indefinite psych hold. Maybe it seems like the better option to people who have never spent time on a ward. I almost wish they would bring back the death penalty for me.

__________

Dr Kim is a kind-looking woman, with a soft-spoken voice. She doesn’t look at me like the others; like I’m a monster, like they’re contemplating stabbing me with the closest sharp object. Her office is properly decorated with calming artwork and gentle pastels – a nice change from the stark-white brutalism of the ward. I’m even allowed to sit in here without one of the ward nurses for security, as long as Dr Kim keeps the blinds on her office door open.

‘Good morning, Abby.’ she says, and I stretch my mouth into a polite smile. It’s nice to hear my nickname again, not ‘Abigail’ or ‘Miss Fletcher’ spat out by the other nurses and residents, or clinically spoken in full on the news reports when they ‘forget’ to turn them off at TV time.

‘How are you feeling?’ she asks, which is nice to hear, too.

‘Tired.’ I say. ‘They put me on sedatives most of the day, but they won’t let me sleep. When I do sleep, it’s just nightmares.’

Dr Kim’s face twists sympathetically, and she scribbles a few notes on a pad beside her, impressively managing to do it without more than a glance at the paper. ‘That must be hard. How do you feel about everything that’s happened?’

‘Confused, mostly. I thought I knew what I saw, but none of the photos line up with my memory. It all feels like some elaborate prank.’

Dr Kim nods thoughtfully. ‘That does sound confusing.’

Then, after a pause, ‘I wonder if I could introduce you to somebody.’

I wait while she gets up, reaching into a canvas bag that was waiting for me on her desk, and pulls out a bundle wrapped in a soft, white blanket. Shifting it into the crook of her elbow, she leans forward to offer it to me. I take the bundle, and loosen the wrapping with trembling hands. I gasp.

It’s a baby. A living, breathing baby, with a scrunchy face and tiny fingernails. I stroke the baby’s little cheek, and it’s so soft.

‘You look like you recognise baby. Can you tell me who it is?’

I can feel tears welling up in my eyes as a smile splits my face, the first genuine smile in a long time.

‘It’s Ruthie.’

Credit: Rosanna Bini

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