Page 56 of One-Hit Wonder

Bee took a very deep breath and looked in the mirror at Belinda Wills one more time before tucking her hair behind her ears and going back to reception.

Dr. Chan was a tiny woman, smaller even than Bee. She had short black hair and was wearing glasses. She also had a large mole on her cheek with one wiry hair growing out of it.

“Good morning, Mrs. Wills.”

“Dr. Chan. Thank you for seeing me. And do call me Belinda.” She oozed a smile and squeezed the doctor’s hand.

Dr. Chan’s office looked out over a gorgeous, rolling, landscaped garden, dotted with nurses and children playing, some in wheelchairs, some with sticks, and some running around freely.

“This is a lovely place,” said Bee.

Dr. Chan looked behind her and nodded. “It’s certainly the nicest place I’ve ever worked. So. How are you feeling?”

“Nervous,” admitted Bee with a grimace.

“I’m sure you are. Now—I know you’ve already spoken at great length about Zander’s problems to Dr. Whitaker.”

“Zander?”

“Yes. That’s what he likes to be known as.”

“Oh,” said Bee, “right.”

“He’s a very depressed, very angry child. He has his reasons, obviously, but don’t let his woe-is-me victim persona make you think that he hasn’t had his fair share of attention. He’s a nice-looking boy and he’s highly intelligent. Many, many couples have expressed an interest in adopting him since his grandmother passed away but he’s refused every opportunity to make a life for himself outside of this hospital. Potential adopters have either, according to Zander, been too fat, too stupid, too ugly, too quiet, too old, too young. He doesn’t want to live in Oxfordshire, in Cheshire, in London, in York. He doesn’t like their other children, he doesn’t like their furniture, he doesn’t like their dog. Any excuse, any reason. So don’t feel too sorry for him. There are an awful lot of people in this hospital and outside this hospital who’ve done more for Zander over the years than could ever be reasonably expected.

“And you mustn’t think for a minute that he sees your visit as exciting or even vaguely interesting, in fact. So don’t expect an emotional meeting. He’ll probably do his best to ignore you. He’ll attempt to undermine you, intellectually. He’ll want to test you, to see how far he can push you, possibly even humiliate you, OK?”

Bee nodded.

“Are you sure, Belinda? Are you sure you want to do this?”

Bee nodded again. And then shook her head. And then laughed. “Sorry,” she puffed, “it’s just very frightening.”

“Yes,” said Dr. Chan, “it is. But if I didn’t truly believe that there was some potential for a positive outcome, I would never have allowed this to happen. You’re going to have to persevere. If you’re going to do this, you need to be committed to going all the way. Yes?”

“Yes.” Bee nodded more forcefully. “Yes. All the way. That’s what I want. Definitely.”

Dr. Chan smiled. “Good. That’s good. So”—she started getting to her feet—“shall we go?”

“Yes.” Bee grabbed her bag and crash helmet. “Can I leave these here?”

“Sure.”

They walked down a long, wood-paneled corridor. Bee tried not to catch the eye of any of the children they passed. To her shame, Bee found disability terrifying. And then, as they turned a corner, she saw something even more worrying to her. A pile of aluminum boxes. Some cables. A stand-mounted light. A young girl wearing headphones and carrying a clipboard. A camera.

She stopped in her tracks. “Er—Dr. Chan. What exactly is going on here?”

“Oh,” smiled the doctor, “nothing to be alarmed about. Just a TV crew. They’re making a documentary.”

“A documentary? About what?”

“About High Cedars. About us. It’s for daytime TV—heartwarming stories and such. It’s not something I would have wanted, but it’s great publicity. The directors insisted. Shareholders and all that.”

“Yes, but, I don’t want to be filmed. I mean, I really, really don’t want to be filmed.”

“Don’t worry,” Dr. Chan smiled warmly. “Everything’s already been approved in advance. They can’t film anyone who hasn’t given their written permission. And Zander has his own room—you’ll be perfectly private—I promise you.”

“Are you sure?”