This chapter has kind of taken on a life of its own, I am very sorry for the length! I promise the next one will be shorter, which should mean you will get it faster. And thank you so much godxrd and writerofholby for taking the time to review the last chapter, your feedback is always so appreciated.
I hope you don't mind another flashback!
-IseultLaBelle x
Chapter 17
Aberdeen, October 1990
She's woken by the shrill blaring of her alarm clock, rolls over, groans, and for a moment, it's as though she's a teenager again- well, properly so. As though her only responsibilities are getting to school on time and keeping on top of her homework, as though if she allows herself to turn the alarm off and sleep in for a while it will have consequences only for her, as though it's an option, perhaps not the most intelligent one if she wants to stay in her mum's good books and avoid another detention at school, but an option all the same.
Until she remembers.
Because her alarm clock is just a back-up, nowadays.
She turns it off every morning, sure, but Ange can't remember the last time she actually needed it to wake her up.
"Chloe?" Ange calls softly. She's sat bolt upright in moments, shuffles over to the edge of her bed, flips on the bedside lamp, reaches into Chloe's cot. "Chloe, sweetheart, are you still sleeping?"
Chloe lies still, fast asleep, tiny hands up against her face, covered with the socks Ange placed over them when she put her into her cot the night before, too tired and overwhelmed with homework to face trying to cut her fingernails.
Chloe always, always wakes her up before six am, without fail- and yes, she's five months old and still hasn't quite worked out how to cry properly, loudly, with any real volume, but Ange has never slept through her waking up before.
Did she miss her crying? Did Chloe wake up earlier, was it the glass of white she stole from her mum's fridge when she was finishing her homework? She hasn't drunk since she realised she was pregnant with Chloe… did it knock her out completely? Did she sleep through Chloe's feeble attempts at crying until she gave up on her and just went back to sleep without being fed… does it work like that? Would Chloe have given up and gone back to sleep or would she have just cried and cried until she finally got her attention? Or is she… fuck, is she…
Ange's blood runs cold.
"Chloe? Chloe?" Her scoops her baby up into her arms, cuddles her, finally able to breathe again as she takes in Chloe's chest rising and falling, her snuffles, gentle breathing. "Come on, sweetheart, are you going to wake up for me? Yeah? I need you to wake up so I can feed you before I leave for school, don't I? Hey? Chloe?"
She loves her so much.
She's tiny, light, sound asleep and still and adorable, smells of baby shampoo and the hand-wash laundry detergent Ange has had to start washing all her clothes with because everything else her mum has bought just seems to give her terrible eczema, feels far more fragile and waif-like than she ever remembers her first baby being, let alone at five months, but she's starting to accept that a little now, not let it bother her in quite the same way it did before.
Because Chloe isn't Darren.
She's Chloe.
She's her own person, smaller, more demanding, less self-assured- is that a strange thing to say about a baby? But it's true, somehow. Darren never clung to her like Chloe does, never wanted to be held constantly like Chloe does, didn't sleep as much, didn't cuddle into her quite like Chloe does, almost as though she needs her warmth as much as she needs her comfort, too small, too delicate, totally dependent on her.
Not that Darren wasn't totally dependent on her, of course. (Or on her own mum, rather, because god knows she was far too young and immature to be a mother herself the first time around, let him down hugely.)
But Chloe… it's different, somehow, with Chloe.
Maybe it's because of how she had her. Maybe it's because she was such a mess throughout her pregnancy with Chloe, because she feels so responsible for the time Chloe spent on the NICU at Glasgow Children's Hospital that sometimes she looks at her and she just wants to cry.
It's her fault Chloe is so small that she can still hold her with just one arm. It's her fault Chloe still hasn't made it onto the stupid baby growth charts, her fault that she isn't hitting the development milestones she's supposed to at five months, has barely managed the ones she was supposed to at three months. It's her fault Chloe doesn't cry, doesn't show even the faintest trace of interest in anything but her mother, her fault that the paediatricians have started using phrases like 'developmental delay' and 'too early to tell' at Chloe's medical appointments.
Most of them seem to have stopped trying to make her feel guilty now, admittedly.
It was relentless, at first, relentless all the while Chloe was on the neonatal unit at the Glasgow Children's Hospital, and Chloe's medical team had just started to back off a little there when they moved up to Aberdeen and it all started up again with the new paediatricians, the looks of disgust whenever she brought Chloe in for her check-ups and they read through her notes, the sly comments.
She already knows.
Ange knows that the drugs and the alcohol and the chain smoking she turned to after her rape and the lengths she went to in order to fund it all, sixteen and young and stupid and broken and hurting and no clue how else to channel it all have already done Chloe far too much apparent damage, that it could be even worse, that it won't be apparent until her daughter is older whether she's done her irreversible damage.
She's already ashamed- more ashamed than she's ever been over anything else before in her life. Ashamed that she didn't realise she was pregnant sooner, ashamed that even after her first pregnancy with Darren she still didn't notice the signs, didn't get her act together until she had already spent months on end poisoning Chloe's tiny system with toxins and chemicals, ashamed that when she was born she managed to…
Ange shudders.
She still hates thinking about it all.
It hurts too much.
And that's selfish in itself, she knows, because it's not about her.
It's about Chloe.
And that only makes her feel even worse when the medical team responsible for Chloe at Aberdeen General lecture her about the damage she's done to her baby, and her first instinct is to tell them to stop, because shecan't bear it.
It's worse for Chloe.
Ange loves her with all her heart, and yet all of her actions before she was born point to the exact opposite.
She lays her daughter gently across her chest, holds onto her with one hand, pulls the socks off Chloe's hands with the other, and that's when she feels it.
Chloe's hands are cold, blue-tinged, horribly still.
"Chloe?" Ange shakes her gently, heart pounding, panic rising within her now. "Chloe? You going to wake up for me, baby girl? Yeah? Mummy needs you to wake up so she can stop worrying, okay? Please? Have you got a… oh, shit," she curses, presses the back of her hand against Chloe's forehead, now acutely of the heat radiating off of her. "Alright. Chloe? Chloe? Chloe, come on. Otherwise I'm going to have to leave you with Nana, and I really, really don't want to do that while you're like this. And you're not going to like that much either, are you? Hey? Come on, sweetheart."
Chloe blinks sleepily, stares up at her mother with tired, vacant eyes.
Then the coughing starts, and it freaks Ange out completely.
It's not as though she didn't know. She's been concentrating harder during Chloe's hospital appointments than she's ever concentrated on anything before in her life, because she's her baby. She's tiny and innocent and perfect and so completely dependent on her, her mother, to protect her, and Ange loves her so completely that she just can't bear the thought of letting her down, ever.
That's what it comes down to.
Ange knows, because it's been brought up at Chloe's medical appointments over and over again, that because she was premature, abnormally tiny, her daughter's immune system is immature, leaves her more susceptible to illness.
And she's tried.
She really has.
She's read all the leaflets the hospital has ever given her on premature babies over and over until she's practically memorised the information, taken all the precautions she can ever since she's had her out of hospital. She's so, so careful to make sure Chloe has enough blankets whenever she takes her out, doesn't take her to all the baby groups the health visitor keeps telling her about because she doesn't want her picking up viruses from all the other kids (or that's what she tells the health visitor, at least; if Ange is completely honest with herself, it has rather more to do with her own fear of being judged by all the other, actually-old-enough-to-be-mothers), screamed blue murder at her mum last month when she realised she was letting all her cold-infected teenage highland dancing students cuddle Chloe in between lessons.
Ultimately, though, she's failed.
That much is horribly obvious as Chloe coughs weakly, too tiny, too fragile, and it's all so, so wrong.
"It's okay," Ange soothes, rocks her gently. "It's okay, Chloe. It's okay. Have you been doing this all night?" she worries. "Because I didn't hear you. No, I didn't, my sweet girl. No, I didn't. You need to work out how to make more noise. I keep telling you that, don't I? Hey? You're supposed to be screaming the house down when you're upset, aren't you, sweetheart?"
Chloe coughs feebly, almost as though to prove her mother's point, whines, almost as though she's asking her what she's going to do about it.
"I know. I know, my sweet girl, I know. It's okay. It's okay, Chloe," Ange murmurs, hugs her tightly, wonders how on earth she's going to be able to leave her with her own mum all day while she's at school when she's like this, clearly ill and far too young to understand that it's not going to be like this forever. "It's okay. You're alright. I've got you, you're okay. I'm not going to let anything bad happen to you. I promise. You're fine. I love you," she whispers. "Mummy loves you so much, Chloe. So, so much. You're alright. You're far, far too little to have a fever though, aren't you? I think. I don't know. I don't know what I'm doing, Chloe," she confesses helplessly, clings onto her, doesn't know what else to do, lost. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do with you, sweetheart. I'm sorry. Can I give you calpol? That's basically baby paracetamol, isn't it? That probably works for bringing temperatures down. Are you old enough for calpol, though? I'm not sure if you have to be six months, and we're not quite there yet, are we? And is that something I have to knock a couple of months off your age for because you're so tiny?"
Is this bad? Ange worries.
She doesn't know.
She's been so caught up in worrying about Chloe's development, her growth, her alarming lack of appetite it's taken forever for her to overcome, her clinginess, her painfully quiet cries that sometimes just make it so horribly impossible to work out what it is she wants, about protecting her from getting ill in the first place, that stupidly, embarrassingly so, Ange has hardly given a moment's thought to what she's supposed to do with a five-month-old baby with a fever and a cough.
That, and of course, she had her first baby with her so briefly, looked after him properly, all by herself so rarely, that her first, failed attempt of being a mother is of no use to her whatsoever.
It's a virus, surely?
It must be just a virus.
Chloe's only five months old… four months, when she subtracts a month for Chloe being born too early, three if she subtracts another month to account for her being so tiny, so underdeveloped, only just graduated from behaving like a newborn at approaching six months.
Surely, she's only so limp and uncooperative because she's ill, because she's so little, because instinct is telling her to shut down and let her mum take care of her? Surely it's not serious, surely it's not…
Ange has never felt so overwhelmed, so out of her depth.
(Except the day she had Chloe, of course. Whenever she's feeling as though it's all too much, as though she can't do it, Ange reminds herself that nothing will ever be as awful as the day she had Chloe, not ever, ever again.)
Chloe coughs bitterly, blinks up at her, unimpressed.
"I know, sweetheart. I know you don't have a clue what I'm on about, but you probably still have more of an idea than Mummy does. Okay? I'm sorry. We'll add it to the list of things Mummy's got wrong. Should have looked into how old you have to be for it to be okay for you to have a fever and when I can give you calpol before you caught something off me, or Nana's students, or that woman on the bus the other day. I know. I know, Mummy's really rubbish at this, isn't she Chloe. I'm sorry. It's just… I never had this with your big brother," Ange admits quietly, strokes Chloe's cheek. "We'll ask Nana. Okay? We'll ask Nana when she's up, she'll know. I… I pretty much left her to do everything with your big brother anyway."
But all Chloe does is moan, still, fully uncooperative.
"I know. I know, Chloe, but I'm not going to do that with you, okay?" Ange tells her. "I promise. I'm never, ever going to do that with you, my lovely girl. Never, ever. Leaving you for school's enough of a struggle as it is, I miss you too much. Yes, I do. I miss you so, so much when I have to leave you. You're really not happy, are you?" she sighs. "I can't work out if you're so lethargic because you totally slept through your first feed or you're just really poorly. We're going to have to ask Nana, okay? Sorry. We're going to work this all out together, Chloe," she promises. "Yeah? I know I might be a bit rubbish compared to all the other mums who waited until they were actually legally an adult to have kids, but I'm going to get better. We haven't done this before, that's all. And I don't have a clue what I'm doing with you, so I'm having to make it all up as I go. But I love you. I love you so much, Chloe, I'm not too young for that. I couldn't possibly love you anymore than I already do. Chloe? Chloe, look at me, darling. Are you hungry? Hmm? You should be hungry, you weren't really that bothered about your last feed, were you? I'm sorry. I'm sorry, sweetheart, I should have realised last night, shouldn't I? I'm sorry, Chloe…."
But Chloe turns her head away stubbornly as Ange attempts to lift her into position, encourage her to latch on, fusses, makes it perfectly clear that she has absolutely no intention of doing what her mother wants her to.
"Come on," Ange pleads with her, heart sinking, and she knows it's bad now, just knows, maternal instinct kicking in but she just doesn't want to admit it. "Come on, Chloe. You haven't done this for ages, have you? Hey? I thought we'd cracked the eating thing. Mummy really needs you to feed now, sweetheart. You've got two hours, you know that, right? You've got two hours before Mummy has to leave for school, okay? You know that now, though, don't you? You're pretty good with routine. So, I really need you to eat for me now, Chloe? Please? While we've got time. Otherwise you're going to have to make do without me all day, aren't you, and we all know how much you hate that. You know it's the same stuff, don't you? The stuff Nana gives you out the bottles is exactly the same stuff, sweetheart. We aren't trying to trick you. We've been through this before, haven't we, and I'm still not convinced you believe me."
Chloe whimpers between her coughing, resists all her mother's attempts to reposition her, convince her that she does want to feed after all, and Ange's heart sinks.
She wouldn't be so worried if she could just get her to feed.
She's starting to panic now.
She's trying so, so hard not to, to tell herself that Chloe is fine for the moment, that she doesn't need to panic, that they can wait until her own mum is awake and can look at her, confirm that it's just a virus, that there's nothing to worry about.
Except what if there is? What if there's everythingto worry about? What if her baby is seriously ill and she just hasn't worked it out yet, what if she's just too young and inexperienced to realise? What if…?
Ange shudders, holds Chloe tighter, rubs her back, tries to tell herself that any moment now she'll realise she is hungry after all and latch on, even though deep down, she knows she won't.
She can't imagine her life without Chloe now.
Yes, she was adamant before she had Chloe that she didn't want another baby until she was at least thirty, wasn't being a teen mum again, not for anything. And yes, balancing Chloe and her schoolwork is already proving a total nightmare and she's only two months in, is already silently panicking about how on earth she's going to manage next year when she has Advanced Highers to study for and a toddler who'll want constant entertaining. And Chloe is undeniably a never-ending source of worry for her; sometimes it feels as though she spends half her time at school and the other half in and out of Chloe's medical appointments, being told that she's underweight, still isn't even on the stupid growth chart in the baby book the paediatrician keeps referring her back to, let alone the curve, that it's too soon to know whether it's just one of those things or because she was so stupidly reckless throughout her pregnancy, because she…
Ange doesn't want to think about that.
But despite all of it, despite the struggle it's been trying to make friends at her new school, have some kind of social life alongside getting to grips with being a teen mum again and not making a total, shambolic mess of it this time, Ange wouldn't change Chloe for the world.
Because at the same time, Chloe is her everything.
Chloe is the reason she's managed to get her life back together, after… after the mess she was when she was raped. Chloe is the reason she went back to school to re-sit her Highers, her reason to be happy, her tiny little miracle baby she didn't know she needed but who changed her forever.
Everything she does is for Chloe, now.
To give Chloe the best life she possibly can, to make up for the totally, embarrassingly, horrifyingly shit start in life she gave her, to make absolutely sure that the circumstances of her coming into the world, her conception, make only the tiniest, most insignificant mark on her life, to make sure that she knows she's loved, wanted, that she's everything.
It physically hurts, seeing her like this.
It's like the NICU all over again.
"I know, Chloe," Ange sighs, as Chloe whines, irritant, frustrated at her mother's insistent attempts to feed her. "I know. You need fluids though. Okay? You're going to feel even worse if you don't try to eat, aren't you, you'll be dehydrated. That's probably a bit of a big word for you, isn't it? But you need the fluid, okay? Or I could give you water, but I think you'd hate that even more. Wouldn't you? Hey? You're fine, Chloe," she soothes. "You're fine. I've got you. Mummy's got you, you're fine. You need to eat, and then when Nana's up, we'll go and ask her what we can do with you, I promise. We might have to walk to the pharmacy and get you some calpol or something, I'm not sure what I can give you. Or… or Nana might have to take you, because Mummy has school today... oh, okay. Okay, sweetheart, it's okay," she tries as Chloe wails louder, flails half-heartedly, almost as though she knows.
Isshe going to school today?
Ange knows she really, really should.
She has a Gaelic test this morning she probably should have worked harder for, a practical to do for biology, another one for chemistry, a maths lesson she's struggling to keep up with at the best of times, and really can't afford to miss any more work towards.
She should leave Chloe as normal, go into school, trust her own mum to take over.
Because her mum will look after her.
Ange knows she will.
In some ways, Chloe is probably better off with her grandmother than she is with her mother; Peigi actually knows what she's doing, is old enough to be a proper caregiver, isn't making it all up as she goes along and desperately hoping for the best.
Rationally, Ange knows Chloe will be absolutely fine with her mum, that there's nothing she can do for her that her own mum can't.
She knows that.
But how is she supposed to leave her baby when she's like this?
"I know. I know, Chloe, I know you're not happy. I know. I wouldn't be very happy if I were you, either. I think it's just…" she trails off, feels Chloe's forehead again. "I don't know. I don't know, sweetheart, I don't know," she admits, tries to decide if Chloe is burning up more alarmingly than she previously thought, if she was too half-asleep before, too engulfed by denial, if she's too young, too inexperienced, too immature, to be any use to her baby, didn't appreciate quite how serious it is. "I'm sorry, Chloe, Mummy's really useless at this. I know. I know, you deserve a mum who actually knows what she's doing, don't you? Hey? I know, it's not fair that you got stuck with me, is it? Is it, Chloe?"
Chloe blinks at her, eyes glazed over, spaced out, almost as though she can't quite focus on her mother, coughs shakily, weak, struggling, awful rasping noise as though she's struggling to breathe, and all of a sudden, Ange is back there.
It's dark.
It's dark, and it's cold, starting to rain, and she kneels, hunched over in pain but Ange isn't remotely bothered about her own pain, not now.
Not when the tiny baby she's caught in her arms- impossibly tiny, so fragile that it feels as though she's holding nothing in her arms because her newborn is weightless, feather-light, hardly there compared to all her memories of the first time she held Darren in the delivery room, thin, frail, skin and bones- is still so lifeless, doesn't cry like her first baby did, doesn't move, doesn't… doesn't breathe.
It, not she, because Ange hadn't even looked, at that point. She didn't even know Chloe was a girl, not then; she'd set her heart on calling her Chloe convinced that she was, mother's intuition or afraid that another boy would be too painful, remind her too much of Darren, or whatever it was.
All she knew was that there was hope.
That her baby was far, far too small, not breathing, but looked like a baby, at least, wasn't the miscarriage she'd been expecting the long, awful wait through her labour, alone, no medical advice, no interventions, no nothing.
That if she could just get her, him, it, whatever, breathing, if she could just cast her mind back to the CPR she learned in S3, then maybe, just maybe, everything might be okay.
And Chloe is still breathing, now. She might be rasping, breath catching in her throat and it's breaking Ange's heart, but she isbreathing, isn't blue like she looked in the light of the streetlamps the night she was born, isn't desperate.
Not yet.
But still Ange can't stand it.
"Okay. Okay, we're going to go and get Nana," she tells Chloe, tries to keep her voice calm, level because the one thing her baby will pick up on is her panic, but she's so frantic now, so afraid, that she just can't manage it. "We're going to get Nana, alright? You're fine, sweetheart," she promises, hugs Chloe tightly as she pushes open her bedroom door, carries her along the landing, tries to avoid the fear building within her that she's just made her daughter a promise she might not be able to keep. "You're going to be fine, Chloe. Everything's going to be fine. Mum?" Ange calls, knocks on her own mum's bedroom door lightly. "Mum, are you awake? Mum?"
"Give me a minute, Angel!" her mum calls back wearily, half asleep.
A few moments pass before Peigi Godard finally opens her bedroom door, hair dishevelled, blinking hazily as she wraps her dressing gown around herself. "What is it?" she asks sleepily, takes in Ange standing in the doorway holding Chloe. "Oh Angel, I thought we agreed. You do everything for Chloe until you have to leave for school, I'm not getting involved…"
"There's something wrong with her, Mum!" Ange blurts out anxiously. "There's something wrong with her, she keeps coughing, she's burning up but her hands are freezing and she won't…"
As if on cue, all of a sudden Chloe is coughing again, shakes violently in her mother's arms with the effort- as violently as is possible from someone so small, at least.
"Well, get her upright then, Angel!" her own mum snaps. "You need to get her more upright so she can breathe better, there's no point holding her on her back like… oh, give her here." She lifts Chloe straight out of Ange's arms in one swift movement, almost before she can quite register what's happened, holds her against her shoulder, rubs her back. "Oh, Chloe, what are we going to do with you? Hey? I know, mo ghràdh. I know, it's not fair, is it? It's not fair. There you go, have you stopped? You're okay." She rocks Chloe gently, presses the back of her hand against Chloe's forehead. "Yep, she's definitely got a temperature, hasn't she? She's a bit little for the flu…"
"That's what I thought," Ange agrees frantically. "I thought… I don't know. It sounds really stupid, but I thought babies just didn't get the flu at her age, I thought that's why she doesn't get vaccinated until she's six months…"
"Doesn't mean she can't catch it. Her immune system's still immature, isn't it, they mentioned that at her last appointment at the hospital. Is she…"
"Her hands are freezing, Mum. Look, feel her hands. She's burning up but she keeps shivering, and I did the socks over her hands trick last night to stop her scratching her face again but her hands were still freezing when I got her up..."
"Alright. You do seem a bit lethargic, don't you?" Peigi worries, shifts Chloe gently in her arms. "You going to look at me, Chlo? Chloe?"
"That's what she keeps doing," Ange tells her, fidgets, tries to fight all the maternal instinct within her screaming out to take Chloe back, struggling to let her own mum hold her even though she knows she's being completely ridiculous. It's like… I don't know, she just seems really… spaced out? Can babies be spaced out? I don't know, I don't think she's… I think she normally responds to me more than this. And she won't feed, I've tried to get her to but she just won't, that's normally the first thing she wants from me when she wakes up. She's not interested. Not even that, she's… she's resisting. And I don't think she woke up for a feed in the night either, I mean… I'd remember, wouldn't I? I don't remember her waking me up in the night, she should be starving by now."
Peigi's expression clouds over, and she shifts Chloe in her arms, cuddles her, rubs her back as she enters into another coughing fit, peers over Chloe's head at Ange suspiciously. "Have you been keeping on top of your antivirals? And your antibiotics, from the…"
"I don't need to be taking either of those anymore," Ange reminds her, but she can see exactly where this is going, and she doesn't like it. "Can I have her back, Mum?"
"But did you keep taking them through to the end of the course?" Peigi asks her again, more urgency in her voice now as she tightens her grip on Chloe. "This is important, Angel…"
"Of course I did!" Ange protests. "They said on the NICU I could only breastfeed her if I kept on top of the medication, didn't they? What do you take me for, Mum? Can I pleasehave her back now?"
"And you wouldn't lie to me about this? Because this is serious," her mum warns her, still holding onto Chloe as her coughing starts again, makes no move to hand her back. "I know, my darling. I know. It's alright, Chlo, it's alright. You're alright."
"Mum, let me take her…"
"Promise me there's absolutely no chance she's caught anything off you first," her mum insists. "Because you know as well as I do after last time, Angel, this is exactly what would be happening to Chloe if you'd given her chl…"
"I haven't given her anything!" Ange argues, heart racing now, panic building within her that her mum just isn't going to believe her, that she's already made up her mind she's a useless mother, selfish, doesn't have Chloe's best interests at heart at all and that couldn't be further from the truth, it really couldn't, but if her mum is adamant she is then god only knows how she's going to convince her otherwise, not when she's taking her role as protective grandmother to new extremes with Chloe. "Think about it, Mum. When would I even have time for… you know. That. I've got Chloe, haven't I? And I'm… I'm doing it all properly with Chloe. You know I am. I don't get enough time with her as it is, I wouldn't do that. I'm not interested in boys, Mum, I'm really, really not. I'm only interested in Chloe. And I would never, ever do anything to put her at risk. Ever. I can't… I don't ever want to go through all that with her again, I can't. I can't bear seeing her like this, it's just…it's bringing it all back. All of it. I can't see her in an incubator again. Alright? I can't. I wouldn't ever do anything that might lead to that happening again, because I can't take it. I love her too much. And yes, I know I said that about Darren. But that was different. I was too young then, but I'm not too young now. I wouldn't hurt her. I couldn'thurt her. I don't know what's wrong with her, but I know it's not… that. Okay? Whatever it is, I know it isn't that."
Her mum pauses for a moment, watches her closely, contemplating.
"Okay," she says at last. "Okay. I believe you, darling. Shall we give you back to Mummy, Chlo?" she suggests gently, lowers Chloe into Ange's arms. "There you go, mo ghràdh. There you go. Are you happier now you've got Mummy back? Yeah? You're still not very happy though, are you?"
Chloe snuffles, gasps a little between shaky breaths, curls into her mother's chest but makes no attempt at all to grab a handful of her hair like she normally would, still clearly not hungry, not remotely interested- and this is bad, Ange realises now, this is really, really bad.
It's as though she's given up, somehow.
It's difficult to explain.
Chloe is only five months, only three months if Ange does the corrected age thing the neonatal team at the Glasgow Children's Hospital kept insisting she should. She's still not particularly bothered about the toys they've bought her, isn't exactly the loudest and most animated of babies at the best of times, still in the near-constantly sleeping stage.
But this… this just feels different.
She knows there's something wrong.
She hadn't realised quite how well she knew her baby's usual behaviour patterns until now.
"Do you think her breathing's really shallow?" Ange worries. She presses Chloe against her side so tightly that she can feel her heart beating, just about the only thing capable of reassuring her.
"I don't know," Peigi admits. "I don't know. I think it's difficult to think clearly, isn't it? I think we should take her into A and E," she confesses now. "I don't want you to panic. Okay? I'm not telling you that to make you panic, Angel, I'm really not. I think she's alright..."
"She's not alright, Mum! Look at her! She's not alright, she's far too little to be coughing like this. Aren't you, Chloe?" Ange cuddles her tightly, tucks the crown of Chloe's head under her chin.
"I know there's something wrong with her," Peigi agrees. "I'm sorry. That didn't come out quite right. She's alright for now. That's all I mean. She's not in any danger, Angel, she'll be alright. It's probably just the flu, she's got all the symptoms…"
"A minute ago, you were saying she's got all the symptoms of…"
Her mum sighs. "I know. I know, and I'm sorry. I just… I had to be sure. I think it's just a virus, Angel. I really do. I think she'll be fine. But that's what they always say you do with babies if they have a fever and they won't eat. It's better to get her checked out now and be sure. What do you want to do?" She watches Ange carefully for a reaction, expression gentler, kinder, no difference now between her concern for Chloe and that for her own daughter. "Angel? It's up to you. I'm not in uni today, I can take her, if you need to get into school, or…"
Ange shakes her head firmly. "I'm taking her. I don't care what I miss at school, I'm taking her. I can't go in not knowing, I don't want to leave her…"
"Okay. Okay, I get that. I wouldn't have left you like this either, if it's any consolation. Give me ten minutes to get changed and I'll drive you to A and E with her. She'll be fine, Angel," her mum tells her gently. "She'll be fine. I promise."
"Chloe Godard?" the ED doctor calls across the paeds waiting area.
Rationally, Ange knows that they have rushed Chloe through.
The triage team who assessed Chloe when they arrived tried to tell her not to worry, that they were making her a priority purely because of her age, because of her medical history, not because they suspected there was anything seriously wrong- not that Ange could fully allow herself to believe it.
But she knows they've put Chloe through as a priority, that they can't have been waiting long.
And yet still it feels like an absolute lifetime.
"Do you want me to come with you?" her mum asks Ange as she scoops up her baby, transfers her from her lap to drape her over her shoulder, Chloe's hand batting against her cheek limply. "Angel? Or do you want me to…"
"Can you wait here? Sorry," Ange apologises. "It's just… you know what it's like. They won't take me seriously if you come in with me…"
"Alright. But if you need backup…"
"I'll come and get you," Ange promises. "We'll… well, it will happen, won't it? Come on, Chloe," she soothes, adjusts the hood on Chloe's polar bear coat combined with a onesie and a snowsuit… thing, fusses over her, already conscious of the stares she's getting from the rest of the parents in the waiting area as she carries her daughter towards the corridor.
It shouldn't bother her.
Chloe is hers- she knows that Chloe is hers, that she's a good mother.
It shouldn't matter what anyone else thinks.
Ange does know that.
It just isn't always that easy.
"So this is Chloe?" the ED doctor asks as she leads Ange through into a cubicle, frowns. "My name's Yvonne, I'm going to be looking after her today. Is Chloe's mum on her way? Only I'm going to need her permission to…"
'I am her mum." Ange doesn't mean for her response to sound quite as frosty and defensive as it comes out.
In all fairness, it probably isn't helping that her own mum has made her bring Chloe to A and E in her school uniform, insisted that she doesn't have to leave Chloe and go into school later if she doesn't want to, but the last thing they need is the ED staff deciding that she's skipping school.
"Oh… okay. Right." Yvonne the ED doctor frowns at her disapprovingly. "And how old are you?"
"I'm going to be eighteen in January. I'm her mum. I take her to all her routine appointments by myself, I'm her mother. I'm her only parent. I'm over sixteen, I'm practically an adult. The only permission you need to treat her is from me, and I wouldn't have brought her here if I didn't want you to help her, would I?" Ange glares defensively.
They fall silent for a moment, watch each other with looks of extreme suspicion.
"So you've brought her in with flu-like symptoms?" Yvonne asks at last, breaking the stalemate. "Do you want to take her coat off and put her down here for me?"
Ange nods, places Chloe down on the examination table, unzips her polar bear snowsuit, watches anxiously as Chloe blinks, stirs, still just as spaced out and poorly-looking as before. "Are you waking up, sweetheart? Hey? Chloe? She's been really lethargic," she explains, feels as though she's being judged, desperately needs to prove herself. "She's missed her last two feeds and she's usually pretty regular now… she… I've brought her notes. I thought it might be easier." Ange hands over the plastic folder, turns back to Chloe. "She was okay last night, but when I got her up this morning she was coughing, I think her temperature's…"
"Her temperature's a little high," Yvonne agrees, checking the thermometer reading with one hand, opening Chloe's notes with the other. "Okay. And she was premature…"
"She was born at just under thirty-six weeks. But she was tiny, at the Glasgow NICU- she was born in Glasgow- they said she was closer to what they would expect from a thirty-two weeker, developmentally, and even then, she was tiny…"
"Okay. And you know as she's a preemie she's more vulnerable when it comes to viruses…"
"I know. I've… I'm always careful…"
"And who looks after her while she's at school?"
"My mum. She doesn't ever go to a childminder, or anything, I really try to make sure she doesn't come into contact with too many people." Ange decides now isn't the moment to mention that Chloe spends a minimum of half an hour a day at Peigi's dance school, that she's not entirely convinced that the kids there aren't still allowed to pick her up whenever they feel like it. "I know her immune system's weak…"
"Would she normally be more responsive than this?"
"She's normally more alert. Much more alert. She's… she's not really trying to sit up or anything yet, she's… she's not really out of the newborn stage completely, to be honest. But she's not usually this… I don't know. Limp."
"Her breathing's okay. Heartrate's a little elevated…"
"She keeps coughing, though…"
"But her airway's fine. She's wheezing a little bit, isn't she, but her symptoms aren't severe enough to be worried about bronchiolitis. She hasn't got a cold?" Yvonne turns the pages of Chloe's notes, stops for a moment.
And then all of a sudden, she's eying Ange with the look of disgust and contempt she's so used to encountering from medical professionals responsible for her daughter now, and Ange's heart sinks.
"It says here that when Chloe was born she had neonatal her…"
"I didn't know," Ange protests weakly. "I… have you read that page in full? I didn't know I was pregnant, it was… the whole thing was a mess. I had no idea, if I'd known, I would have got myself tested, I would never have risked going into labour with her naturally if I'd known, I really wouldn't have…"
"She needed eight weeks of NICU intervention," Yvonne points out, must have realised she's only making Ange feel worse and clearly doesn't give a shit. "Are you still breastfeeding?"
She nods. "We gave up on the formula supplementing a couple of months ago, it just kept making her sick…"
"Okay. Chloe must have been very ill to need the dosage of antivirals they had her on in Glasgow…"
"So you think this is the same thing? Is that it?" Ange accuses. "Because the symptoms are the same as if she had a flu virus? Go on, you can say it. You think I gave her it once so obviously I didn't learn from that, I've given it to her again because I'm a stupid, irresponsible teenage mother…"
"I didn't say that…"
"You implied it. I know that isn't what's wrong with her. Alright? I know. I haven't risked exposing her to that. I wouldn't. So if that's all you've got to say, I'll take Chloe and we'll go and…"
"That's not what I said. I had to ask… Angel…"
"It's Ange. And you'd know that if you'd bothered to ask…"
"Alright," Yvonne sighs. "Alright, I'm sorry. Ange. I had to ask. It's in Chloe's medical history, it's significant, we have to…"
"I know. I get it. But do you not think I'm embarrassed enough about it as it is?" Ange protests. "And I know, I know what you're going to say. It's not about me, it's about Chloe. And I couldn't agree with that more. That's what I'm trying to say. I don't want Chloe being judged her whole life because I was such a crap mum at the start, I don't want it being assumed every time she's sick that it's another flare up from when her mother gave her…"
"Ange," says Yvonne gently. "It's almost certainly not that. Okay? I'm going to run some tests, just to be sure. But I'm almost certain this is just a virus. It just seems worse because of her age. We'll run some tests, we'll keep her in for a couple of hours for observation, just to be sure. But I really don't think you have anything to worry about. And for what it's worth," she tries, tone gentler now, calmer. "I think you're doing a brilliant job. I really do. Anyone can see you love her. I wouldn't tell you that if I didn't mean it."
