Next of Kin

by TL Dyer

  ‘In a sec,’ I say, taking the pack of Embassy from my pocket and waving them at him. Once he disappears inside, I check my watch. Then I get up from the bench and walk to the bus stop for the last bus home.

  *

  Thirty minutes later, when I’m in my pyjamas and curled up on Jake’s bed with his night light on and my head on his pillow, I read again the messages that came through when I was on the bus ride from Newport to Cwmcarn.

  Mate, where’d u go?

  10.18pm

  I’m so genuinely sorry, Sacha. I wasn’t trying to be a twat or anything. I really hope you’re not upset ??

  10.22pm

  I feel like the biggest dickhead. I’m so sorry.

  10.25pm

  Also thank u. It’s been a while for me. It was really nice. Let me kno you’re ok, mate. I’m worried.

  10.39pm

  I’m fine, John. It’s been a while for me too. Nice to act like kids once in a while. Enjoy the rest of your night, Sarge, and I’ll let you off with a caution this time.

  10.41pm

  An officer emoji, a thumbs up emoji, and a snowman emoji I assume he’s hit by mistake.

  10.42pm

  You bitch! You fucking slag!! What kind of dirty, filthy bitch screws her own best friend’s father?! My brother will be spinning in his grave to know that all the time you were coming to our house, cosying up to him and making an idiot of yourself, it was all just so you could get to our dad, a man old enough to be your father!

  10.44pm

  Don’t ever show your face to me again or I swear I’ll fucking break your neck. And you can tell my pissant father the same thing. He’s as dead to me now as you are. He should have had more sense, but he was always weak around women. You twisted his mind and played him like the deceitful bitch you are. I hope you can live with yourself. I couldn’t if I were you.

  10.47pm

  I’d say I pity that kid of yours but I don’t. I don’t feel anything for any of you. You’re all fucking messed up. And I don’t want that for my kids, so never, ever contact me or speak to me again. I wish we’d never had anything to do with you.

  10.49pm

  Chapter 49

  When they handed Jake to me in the hospital, placed this warm, slimy, wriggling body on my chest, he stopped crying at once. Tiny fists reached out, fingers unravelled and tapped at my skin, mouth opened and closed, eyelids peeled apart, eyes shining like brand new, unblemished marbles. And as I put my quivering hands around his dainty frame, I knew immediately that he recognised me in the same way I recognised him. We’d been waiting all these months to meet, to see what each other looked like, and now we had met, it was as if we were already familiar. Old friends reuniting after a temporary absence. We belonged to one another. I was his, and he was mine, and all the worries about how this all works and whether I could do it – motherhood, caring for a baby, keeping it alive – vanished in an instant. Because I would get things wrong, I wouldn’t be perfect, but it didn’t matter, he would forgive me, we would figure it out. We were a team. As long as we loved each other, we would be alright regardless of what came our way.

  That feeling persisted. For the first three years of his life, just having each other was enough. We might have had Mam and Dad and Shaun too, but even if we didn’t, we’d have managed somehow. We weren’t ever alone.

  But then the world came in through the door. Or rather, we went out to meet it.

  It started with nursery class. Then came the school system, invites to parties, extra-curricular clubs, sleepovers, and it wasn’t just the two of us any more, there were other people. Teachers who were strangers at first and didn’t know us as well as we knew each other. Other kids, other parents, their bubbles not the same as our bubble. And with all that, the feeling we’d be fine, no matter what, came under strain. It showed itself to be unsustainable. Those promises I made to always keep him safe, always take care of him and protect him from harm, they were empty all of a sudden.

  Because he does fall and hurt. He does meet others who don’t like him. He does have teachers who shout at him when he doesn’t follow their rules, which might be different from our rules. Other children call him names. He feels scared, uncomfortable, lost and alone, and these things trouble him enough to change the way he thinks, the way he behaves, the way he sees the world. Not just our world any more, but the whole world. Good and bad, beautiful and ugly, tender and brutal. And even if I could keep that world out – which I can’t – it would be wrong of me to try. He belongs to everyone now. Not just me.

  That has been the single, most difficult part of motherhood, and the toughest lesson to learn. That, at some point, I have to open my arms and let him go.

  Chapter 50

  I step in through the front door of Ty Bryn and Darren closes it behind me. He holds out a hand, inviting me into the lounge, and I go on ahead of him. A floor lamp is on in the corner of the room, and beneath it a book lies open but upturned over the arm of the sofa, the same sofa I recall from years ago. The same rug is on the wooden floor, too. Only the computer desk beside the window is the one thing I don’t recognise. On it is the laptop that recorded the night Shaun and his friends paid Darren a visit that was far from friendly. The lid is up, and I wonder if it records now, whether he directed me towards the lounge and not the sitting room for that reason. But as he passes the desk, he snaps the lid shut with his fingers.

  ‘Habit,’ he says. ‘You understand why. Please, have a seat.’

  I sit on the end cushion furthest from where he’s been reading. It’s almost cosy in here under the glow from the lamp, as if it’s the only room that survived the fissures that tore this family apart. Even the old disused fireplace, empty now of the baskets of flowers Eliza used to fill it with, fails to bring the same chill of sadness that winds like a loosely spun thread through the rest of the house. In here it’s possible to imagine that life could still exist. Or begin again.

  ‘I was just reading,’ Darren says, taking the book from the sofa arm as he sits. On the front cover is a picture of a smiling Dalai Lama. ‘Have you read about him? You really should, it’s fascinating. Did you know he was selected as the fourteenth Dalai Lama at the age of two, formally recognised as such when he was four, and took on full duties at only fifteen years old. It’s incredible.’

  ‘I had no idea you were spiritual.’

  ‘Not per se. Doesn’t mean I’m not interested. We should always be curious, don’t you think? Otherwise we just stay the same. Locked into our own worlds, never really seeing or learning or growing. That way lies stasis. The status quo. Blind ignorance. A long, slow death by inertia.’ He looks the book over, folds the top corner of the page to mark his place, and closes it. ‘Course, wisdom only finds us later in life. Too late in some cases.’ His smile is soft when his head comes up. ‘But not too late for Jake. I’d like to teach him about all kinds of things, but mostly to keep his mind open to what he can learn for himself. I think that’s important. Don’t you, Sacha?’

  What I think is that he might be talking about his own shortcomings or maybe mine, but neither matters now the decision has been made. Setting my own personal insecurities aside, I concede that Darren has at least been persistently right about one thing. This isn’t about either of us. It’s about Jake. And young though my son is, like all children he has an uncanny way of following his instincts. And like all mothers, I have an uncanny instinct for my child’s feelings. If Jake likes and trusts his father, I’ll know. If he doesn’t, I’ll know that too. But I have to allow him the chance to decide.

  ‘Actually, that’s why I came,’ I begin, but Darren holds up his palm.

  ‘Look, Sacha, we should remember all this is going through the proper channels. I have no desire to argue with you, none at all. So anything you have to say might best be reserved for your solicitor and the Family Court.’

  I reach into my coat pocket and pull out an envelope that I hold out to him. He hesitates, eyes me with caution.

&nb
sp; ‘Take a look,’ I encourage. ‘It came yesterday. I have the original. This is a copy.’

  With some uncertainty, he takes the envelope from me and runs his thumb with care under the seal. When he unfolds the sheet of A4, his expression loosens. He touches a finger to the copy of the birth certificate, runs it over his name. Printed letters photocopied onto a piece of paper, that’s all it is. But ones that give him rights to my son.

  ‘I won’t contest visitation either. You’re right, I’ve been evasive. But that’s my problem, not yours. You’re also right that Jake deserves a chance to get to know his father. It’s the reason I came to you in the first place. And so I’m here to tell you I won’t challenge the court order. If you can be reasonable with the arrangements, I will be too. But I have a request of my own first.’

  Darren clutches the paper in his hands, his head slow to come up. When it does, there’s a gleam in his eyes that if I were being paranoid I might describe as victorious. He gathers himself, clearing his throat.

  ‘Well, I’m pleased that you’ve considered the best path through this for Jake. That shows a level of maturity that’s admirable, Sacha. You’re young, you’ve made a lot of mistakes, as we all do when we’re young. But there’s still time to redress the balance. What’s your request?’

  My eyes linger on the rug, the spot where almost four weeks ago, Darren was punched around the head and kicked in the torso, hugely outnumbered. The same spot where perhaps soon Jake will run his toy cars over the swirled patterns pretending they’re roads, and where he might sit cross-legged while Darren reads to him from a book or teaches him about life, wisdom, why ignorance is bad.

  ‘The footage of Shaun,’ I say. ‘I’d like it deleted.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I did what you asked, Darren. I registered you as Jake’s father. You hold the proof in your hands. Proof that no matter what mistakes I’ve made, you can trust I only ever intend to do right by Jake. But trust works both ways. What Shaun did was wrong. He acted on a drunken impulse and that’s no excuse, he knows I don’t condone his actions, not for a second. It was the last thing I wanted him to do and it only escalated an already difficult situation. All the same, it’s done now, and I can’t trust you fully with that hanging over our heads. I’m asking that we start with a clean slate. Both of us. No animosity, no more lies or mistrust.’

  Across from me, Darren looks once more at the copied birth certificate with his name alongside Jake’s. After a moment, he carefully folds it. Sets it aside on top of the closed book.

  ‘And how can I trust you now, Sacha?’ he asks, leaning back on the sofa cushion, hands clasping on his lap.

  ‘Because you were right,’ I reply, returning to my thoughts these last few days since the night with Russell. The cruel messages from Lauren, the depths I sank to with the bottle of Wilson’s sleeping pills clutched in my hand, the guilt that consumed me at the thought of leaving behind the one person this was only ever about. And then the choice I made in the end, to put this right instead of looking for reasons to justify it being wrong.

  ‘I shouldn’t have lied to begin with, Darren. You were prepared to be his dad and I didn’t let you. I was scared. Of what my parents would say, what other people would say. Lauren, Craig, Shaun, you, your wife. Anyway… I did what I did, just as it was both of us who consented to do what we did that night. Now we need to put that behind us if we’re to move forward.’

  He passes his knuckle back and forth beneath his lip, weighing the risk of believing me or not. ‘Do I have your word, Sacha?’

  ‘You do. If I have yours that you won’t ever show up drunk at my house, and that you’ll respect there will never be anything else between us other than this responsibility we share to care for Jake.’

  The hand drops into his lap, where he looks a moment as he nods. ‘Of course. It was not at all acceptable what I did, Sacha. Trying to kiss you like that. I’m not sure where my head was. In the past, I suppose. But I should never have done that. It won’t happen again, I can promise you that.’

  He gets up from the sofa and goes to the laptop, flipping open the lid and bringing the screen to life. He tilts it my way, and I watch as he opens a folder on the desktop, clicks on a video file and deletes its contents. In a second folder, he does the same thing. Then finally he empties the files from the recycle bin.

  ‘They’re the only copies I had,’ he says. ‘Apart from the one I gave you. I swear it on my children’s lives.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, not knowing if it’s the truth or not, but what choice do I have but to show that I’m willing to believe it is?

  ‘Your brother’s heart is in the right place. It’s just a pity about his head sometimes.’ He folds his arms as he perches on the edge of the desk. ‘He’s very lucky to have you. I wish I could say Lauren afforded Craig the same loyalty, but for twins they were unusually distant from each other.’ His eyes drift to the other side of the room, where the boxes that were in Craig’s bedroom are now stacked one on top of the other beneath the window. ‘Time for me to let his things go. Charity will take them now.’

  ‘May I?’ I ask, getting to my feet.

  ‘Of course. By all means. I told you, whatever you want, please help yourself. He’d prefer you to have them. As would I.’

  He gets up to unstack the boxes, and to fetch a bag for what I might want to take. From down the hallway, he calls, ‘He really did think the world of you, Sacha.’

  Cupboard doors clatter in the kitchen as I crouch to the first box. Craig’s navy and white GAP sweatshirt lies on top. It’s warm where it’s lain beneath the other two boxes. I bring it to my face, but there’s nothing left in its unworn mustiness that sparks a memory or a feeling. Reaching down into the box, I pull out LPs and CDs, set a few aside that I’ll take to satisfy Darren more than for their sentimental value.

  There are books in the second box. Non-fiction mostly, biographies of the musicians that fascinated him, their lives filled with mistakes and problems, but buoyed as always in the end by music and all its many gifts and pleasures, a notion of a way of life that perhaps Craig imagined for himself. The only fiction is a couple of books from school, the ones they made us read, and which wouldn’t have held any meaning for Craig. He wasn’t a fiction reader. He did his dreaming between the bars of a piece of music rather than the sentences of a novel. But at the bottom of the box is one book I don’t recognise.

  ‘Sometimes, Sacha, I think you were more of a sister to him than his biological one,’ Darren calls.

  Taking out the book – The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett – I pull open the cover. The pages are yellowed at their edges as if they’ve been left in the sun too long. In green cursive ink, scrawled between the title and the author’s name, is the message: Merry Christmas to our dearest Eliza, our most beautiful and clever daughter. The world’s garden, my darling, is yours for the tending. All our love, Mam and Dad.

  ‘Terrible thing to say, I know, but it’s true. Lauren really wasn’t the best sister to him,’ Darren continues. A switch goes off. The light in the hallway dims.

  Flicking through the book, something catches my eye. I go back to it. More writing, but this time on the inside of the back cover.

  Footsteps come down the hall. ‘We don’t get to choose our family, unfortunately, do we, Sacha?’ Darren’s voice draws closer. ‘I suppose not all siblings are going to be the best of friends, twins or not.’

  He stops when he appears in the doorway, a supermarket carrier bag hooked over the fingers of one hand. I hold up the LPs and a few books, and smile. His grin broadens and he steps forward, holding open the bag for me to drop them in.

  *

  Half a mile away from Ty Bryn, I pull the car in to the side of the road and turn on the interior light. I take The Secret Garden from the carrier bag and open it to the back cover to read again the words written in neat, blue, careful handwriting.

  Eliza Clair Castle, Age 12, 1979, Appleberry Cross Farm, Co Mayo.r />
  Chapter 51

  ‘I knew you said you’d be home for your birthday, but I didn’t think you meant on your birthday. Cutting it fine, aren’t you?’ I say to Dad, once my wriggling son finally releases himself from my clutches and runs inside his grandfather’s house, marching up the stairs to get to the bathroom.

  ‘Well, seemed a pity to come back sooner. We were all having such a wonderful time.’

  Dad’s smile is electric as he lowers his case beside Jake’s on the pavement and steps towards me for a hug. It’s less awkward than the one he left with, but I sense the tightening of his arms has more to do with his guilt at not being here than that he’s missed me.

  ‘How are you doing, kiddo?’

  ‘Dad, I’m fine.’ I pull away from him and give Shirley a hand with the cases. ‘It went well, then?’

  ‘Better than well,’ she says. ‘Jake was a wee darling the entire time, he really was.’

  ‘We talking about the same Jake?’ I tease, my heart soaring to see the little blond-haired boy reappear in the doorway as if he’s never been away.

  ‘Mam, hurry up, I’ve got loads to show you.’

  Shirley giggles as we go in through the door. ‘Give your mum a chance, sweetheart. There’s plenty of time.’

  ‘Grampy, can we put the photos on the telly?’

  Bereft of cuddles this last three weeks, I scoop my son off his feet and sit him cumbersomely on my hip. ‘Hey, crazy Jake, let Grampy have a cup of tea first, he’s exhausted after all that travelling. And don’t you want to wait for Uncle Shaun?’

  He sucks in a gasp, head flicking one way then the other. ‘Where’s Uncle Shaun?’

  ‘Still at work. But he’s finishing early to get some things for Grampy’s party. He’ll be back in a few hours.’