Read Online Unspoken by Sam Hayes - Free Book Online Page B

other people’s lives. She mentions cuts and guilt and suddenly, even without hearing her words, I know exactly what she is talking about. She says she will perhaps visit Grace while we are in the hospital. I think of Julia discovering the girl and wonder how much more my daughter can take.
    ‘Mrs Marshall?’ I leave it to Julia to reply. I hope she tells them I never married; that I’m Miss .
    ‘It’s my mother,’ she says, gesturing to me. ‘Come on, Mum. Our turn.’ She pulls me upright and I go dizzy.
    It’s hard to believe that I’m shuffling like an old woman when two weeks ago I was chasing the chickens around the yard and repairing the goats’ pen. My previous foster child had returned to her family and I was looking forward to getting on with my next challenge – Brenna and Gradin. I was convinced I could help them; certain I could make a difference. Instead, it’s my life that’s pulled inside-out. Julia leads me into Mr Radcliffe’s office.
    I don’t like doctors. My skin prickles.
    ‘Well, Mrs Marshall. Dr Carlyle has referred you to me as an urgent case. I’ve known him personally for a long time and we chatted at length about you. He’s extremely keen for you to be assessed as soon as possible. I’m going to ask you a few questions and most likely refer you for some tests. How does that sound?’
    He is speaking to me like I am a child. His desk is laminated, not real wood, and there is a snag of cotton on the edge where someone has caught their clothing. The carpet is a medium blue, worn near the door but otherwise serviceable. ‘Mrs Marshall, do you understand?’ I wish he’d call me Miss. The spider plant on the corner of the desk has trailed miniature plants right down to the floor. A slice of winter sunlight cuts across the room and dust motes hover, swirling and lost.
    ‘Mum,’ Julia says, although she knows I won’t speak. ‘Shall I answer for you?’
    I would like to nod, to glance at her, to smile even or twitch my finger, but I can’t do it. There is simply nothing there. Julia’s boots have a rim of pale mud around the sole and the heel is a little worn. Brown leather, crinkled at the ankle, with a zipper up the side. Warm boots. Julia’s boots. I recall fighting with her to wear sensible shoes as a child.
    ‘I’ll answer for her, Mr Radcliffe. Will that do?’
    ‘Under the circumstances, it will have to. Dr Carlyle explained to me about your mother’s mutism. He said . . .’ Radcliffe trails off, leaving me wondering exactly what was said about me. ‘Look, selective mutes can be surprising. They’ll talk to some people and not others.’
    Does he think I selected this?
    ‘Are you suggesting that Mum is choosing not to speak? That she could if she wanted to?’ Julia sounds angry.
    ‘If she is a selective mute, then yes, to a certain extent she can choose who she speaks to. But I’m more concerned with the neurological side of things – her brain, to be precise – in case she doesn’t have a choice.’
    ‘You mean like a tumour?’ Julia is always direct.
    ‘That’s one possibility. We need to look at everything. When did Mrs Marshall stop speaking exactly?’
    Julia pauses and I know she’s looking at me. I can feel the burn of her stare on my face; the plea in her eyes for me to become normal again – the pair of us, mother and daughter, invincible against the world. ‘That’s hard to tell. We chatted on the phone a few days before Christmas, and then when I visited her on Christmas Day, she was . . . like this. So it must have happened any time in between, I suppose. Dr Carlyle said . . .’ When she says his name, her voice turns to double cream.
    ‘Dr Carlyle didn’t seem to think she should go to hospital straight away. I think he was hoping that with rest and close monitoring, she would recover. As if she’d just had a big shock.’
    ‘And has she spoken a single word since, or even made any kind of vocal noise? A grunt or squeal