I have to keep reminding myself that he is alive, that he is here, with me.
‘I’m fine,’ I say, looping my arm through his and leaning in to him. He’s already a head taller than me, broad in the shoulders but with a little ungainliness to his stride, as if he’s still trying to figure out how he fits inside his own skin. ‘It’s a bit strange coming back here with you. That’s all.’
‘Is this where you came? You know, that morning?’
I nod my response, because I have slowly been filling him in on as much as I can possibly remember about that day. He arrived at the house last night, standing in the kitchen all shy and awkward, until I set down an enormous bowl of pasta on the table and he smacked his lips in appreciation.
The information I have learnt about him from our lengthy phone calls and endless emails over the past few weeks has felt a bit like reading from a textbook, or making a long list of things I need to remember. Having him in the house with me, sharing my space, seeing the way his body folds into a chair in the exact same way as Leo, feels like I’m getting a better and more accurate picture of what my son is really like.
I know that he likes football, old movies and art. I also now know that he sings in the shower, drinks endless cups of tea and his second toes are longer than his big ones, just like his father – Erika too, and I can’t wait to tell her.
‘There was a man,’ I say, scrolling back through my memories to the morning when everything changed. ‘And a dog who looked just like one that used to live next door when I was a kid.’
‘Back in Ireland?’
‘Back in Ireland.’ I look along the river, think of the wildness of the Irish Sea, of the convent garden I first explored as a child, and then again with Sister Ingrid when I was trying to figure out what to do about my unborn child.
‘Did you speak to them?’
I have barely thought about my adoptive parents in the intervening years, the pain of being so decisively cut off preventing me from doing so. But Luke asks all sorts of questions and is quite possibly the nosiest person I have ever met. Which is understandable, given the circumstances, but sometimes he throws me a curveball, just like when he suggested it might be time to reach out, to offer the veritable olive branch to the people I once called Mum and Dad.
‘I left a voicemail. But it’s been so long, I have no idea if they’ll ever call me back.’
‘They were still your parents.’
‘Not in the way I wanted them to be. Or how I wanted to be, with you.’ I wanted so many things, none of which I ever believed would be possible. Taking a long, slow breath, I tell myself that there’s nothing I can do to change what’s happened. There’s nothing I could have done to stop Leo from taking the turn too fast, too soon.
Telling Luke about Leo was hands down the most painful, torturous thing I have ever had to endure. It breaks my heart; I can literally feel it quiver whenever I think about the look on his face when he asked me about his dad and I burst into tears. The fact they will never meet is quite possibly the worst concept that’s ever swum through my mind. It’s too difficult to process, too intangible to try and explain, but somehow I have to, for Luke.
‘It’s not your fault.’ It’s like he can see inside my head. It’s a strange but welcome feeling, to be so completely open and willing to tell him anything he wants to know.
‘I know. I just wish . . .’ I don’t really know what I wish any more. For so long, all I wanted was to hide from the past, to bury myself so deep in another life that it would be impossible for anyone to find me. But I would also wake in the middle of the night, breathless and pained from the dreams I kept having about the people I thought had abandoned me.
He tilts back his head, puffs out his cheeks and shoves his hands in his pockets, all of which tells me he’s doing his best not to cry. We have spent a lot of time crying, together and apart, over these past weeks. Crying for what happened, what didn’t happen and everything else in between. The pain he is feeling must be so very complex and tortured, and I desperately want to take it from him, carry that weight instead.
The knowledge, the understanding, that he is hurting makes me want to wrap my arms around him, hold him close and tell him everything will be OK. It also makes my heart ache for all the years I couldn’t be there for him, simply be with him and watch him grow.
‘I wish my parents had told me,’ he says.
‘They had their reasons.’ His parents were a bit tricky to begin with, clearly unimpressed that Luke had tracked me down without either their knowledge or permission. But they at least had the decency to be ashamed at not passing on any of my letters, claiming that they thought it best to wait until he turned eighteen before flooring him with the announcement that he was adopted. Not that it’s my place to judge (although clearly I can’t help it, and Erika has made no secret of how she feels about it all), because from what Luke tells me, they have been nothing but kind and supportive and loving to him.
‘But still,’ he says with a loud sniff. ‘Don’t you wonder what would have happened if they’d told me from the very beginning? Given me the letters? Let you be a part of my life?’
It hurts, really hurts, whenever I think about this. But if there’s one thing I have learnt from discovering what happened with Leo, it’s that looking back, wishing you could change things, is nothing more than a complete waste of time.
‘They were trying to protect you,’ I say.
‘Protect me from what?’ he asks with a frown. ‘From you?’
‘In a way.’ I tilt my head back to the sky, searching for the right words. ‘My mum gave me away because she had to. And even though I understand why, it never stopped me from missing her, even after I was adopted.’
‘I guess,’ he says, looking down and away. He is still so young, there’s still so much for him to try and comprehend, and I wonder if there will ever be enough time to make up for all the years that we’ve lost.
‘No regrets, remember?’ I still regret so much, but I am grateful for so much more. Not least the understanding that Leo, my Leo, wanted me, wanted us both.
‘What was he like?’
‘Your dad?’ I ask and Luke gives a shy smile in response. ‘He was sort of perfect, really. Brilliant and kind and filled with a sense of longing for something more. He was the first person who ever made me feel like I was worthy, that I was deserving of love.’
‘What about Aunt Erika?’
I have to smile, because sometimes I forget that he knows every single part of the story. And not just from me, but from Erika, Duncan, even Layla. They’ve all given him their version of events, some of which were more painful to discover than others. Like Erika telling me about the night she bumped into Leo in the pub on St Giles and told him he had to promise to take care of me. I was always so nervous of her beauty, it blinded me to how incredibly protective she is over those she loves.
‘Oh, she loved me, but in an altogether different kind of way. You’ll find that out for yourself,’ I say, bumping my hip against his. ‘Won’t be long before you’ll have all the girls chasing after you.’
‘Mum.’
‘Sorry,’ I say with a grin, because I can’t get over the fact that he’s here, with me, and calling me by a name I never thought I’d hear him or anyone else say.
‘I wanted to show you something,’ I say as we stop by a bench underneath the shade of an old oak tree. Sitting down next to one another, I reach into my bag and take out a Polaroid picture. It was taken the same night as the one of Erika, Duncan and me. The one I showed to Layla and she never thought to imagine that I might not have been who I claimed to be. This one is of Leo and me, kissing under a moonlit sky and thinking we had the rest of our lives to look forward to.
I hand it to Luke, watch his face for some kind of clue as to what he might be thinking about as he looks at a picture of the parents he never knew, one of whom he will never get to meet.
‘Leo’s mother, your grandmother, sent it to me.’ It
arrived one morning in a box filled with photographs taken that summer Leo and I spent together. Photographs of all the places we visited, as well as dozens more of the two of us, wrapped around one another and smiling back at the camera. I nearly fainted when I first realised what they were, then let out a cry of alarm loud enough to make Layla sprint down the stairs when I saw that all the letters I wrote to Leo were in there too.
I called Mrs Bonfiglio the day after Luke found me. She cried, I cried, then she cried some more because we were connected in the worst possible way. When I told her about Luke, she openly sobbed, the sound laced through with laughter and all manner of words I barely understood.
‘You really loved him, didn’t you?’ Luke says as he turns to me, and there are tears in his eyes, one of which falls down his face and he makes no movement to wipe it away.
‘I did,’ I say, cupping his face in my hands, then leaning forward to place a kiss on his cheek. ‘And he loved us too.’ He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shy away, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world for me to be comforting him. And I guess it is. I guess there are some things that are far too strong to break.
‘Luke,’ I say, dropping my hands to my lap and willing my voice to stop shaking. ‘I want you to know that I love you. That I’ve always loved you.’
It astounds me how much I love him and how instantaneous it was the second he stepped into my kitchen. A great wave of feeling, so different to anything I’ve ever had before. It made me realise it was there all along, even before he was born and I held him in my arms, crying into his hair because I was so afraid of getting it wrong.
Motherhood seems to be a strange mix of fear and elation, an idea – no, an understanding – that sits right in the very centre of you. I was so afraid I wouldn’t love him, was incapable of it, didn’t deserve to have that kind of relationship in my life. The relief I felt when I saw I was wrong is one of those turning points, those ‘aha’ moments that I will carry with me always.
‘I love you too,’ Luke says and I can’t help but laugh and cry and laugh all over again as he pulls me in for a hug.
It is Luke who has saved me, all over again. He was the one to make me determined not to give up on those horrendous ferry journeys across the Irish Sea. The power he had over me before he was even born became magnified tenfold when he was there in my home, smiling that beautiful smile that is exactly like his father’s used to be.
I remember so much about that day, but mostly I remember being overcome by a sense of calm. As if all the grief I’d been carrying around for sixteen years decided that it was time to leave me be. I also remember the look on Hector’s face when he walked into the kitchen and came face to face with all the things I’d never been able to tell him.
The journey between then and now has been rocky, with tears and laughter and a whole lot of vodka to help wash away all my regret. Luke has proven to be the glue that holds us all together. He has given me a purpose, a reason to forgive and forget and decide to start again with a promise that there will be no more secrets, no matter what.
I look down at the ring that still sits on the third finger of my left hand. The wedding didn’t happen; there was no way either of us could have stood up in front of a congregation when pretty much everyone there (including my husband-to-be), had no idea about who I really was. But he hasn’t left. He hasn’t abandoned me in the way I assumed he would if he ever found out the truth.
Hector has been close to saint-like when it comes to understanding why I did what I did. Not just about Luke, but him too. All those years when I pushed him away because I was so afraid, so convinced that I didn’t deserve to be happy. But that doesn’t mean it’s been easy for him to realise that he wasn’t the first person I truly loved.
‘Can’t be much fun competing with a dead person,’ was how Layla described it, making me snort and choke on my drink, not least because it’s the exact same thing Erika had said to me only hours before. I still feel afraid: for the future, for what may or may not happen between Hector and me.
‘What if it was all for nothing?’ The words slip out before I’ve had a chance to consider them, consider who I’m saying them to. ‘Oh, no. Luke, I didn’t mean . . .’
‘It’s OK,’ he says with a nod at my ring. ‘He’ll come around.’
I laugh and shake my head, because for fifteen, Luke is remarkably astute. Or maybe it’s because I’m starting to be more open, no longer hiding my feelings behind a fake smile. Or perhaps it’s because Luke is simply so very good at reading me, just like Leo.
‘I hope so,’ I say, because after all this time, when I’m finally ready and willing to be completely honest about what has happened, who I am, and who it is that I love, I really want Hector to be willing to give me one more chance.
NIAMH
Anam Cara (n.) – a person with whom you can share your deepest thoughts, feelings and dreams
Oxford, one year later
The Queen’s College clock chimes out the hour and I turn my head to look. There is no rain today, just warm summer sunshine and the most gentle of breezes. I didn’t want to come back, not at first, but the combination of Erika and Duncan can be so very persuasive. Add Layla to the mix and I never really stood a chance.
Everything is the same, and yet it has changed, because whenever I have thought about this place, I have always thought of Leo. To be in this city without him isn’t something I ever thought would be possible, but love – real heart-wrenching, painful love – has shown me that I am far stronger than I ever believed.
‘Niamh?’
I turn at the sound of my name and watch Erika let go of a little girl’s hand to come over to me.
‘You OK?’
‘Bit nervous,’ I reply, looking over at her eldest daughter, whose middle name is the same as my own. I cried when Erika told me. Then I cried some more at the idea that there was so much I have missed, that we’ve all missed, because I was too afraid to tell my best friend the truth about a long-lost summer.
So many conversations have been spent trying to fill in all the gaps – discovering how Erika left Oxford right after me, returning to Stockholm because her mother was sick. She never came back, instead choosing to marry the boy next door (he really did live next door and they used to play together as children), and eventually taking over the family firm. They have a house up on the lakes that she took us to last summer. Those days spent swimming in the achingly cold water and swapping stories during nights that never seemed to get dark are some of the happiest I can think of.
When I say ‘us’, I don’t just mean Erika, Duncan and me. We forgave each other the second they walked back into my life and now we are a team once more, texting or calling one another several times a day and visiting as often as our lives will allow. But the team has new members now, including the woman standing next to Erika, both of them wearing replicas of the dress once discovered in that antiques shop on the King’s Road. Little and large, as I secretly call them, and I know that I am ridiculously blessed to have them both in my life.
‘Don’t cry,’ Duncan says as he takes a pristine handkerchief out of his pocket and dabs at my cheek. ‘You’ll ruin your beautiful face.’
I laugh at his backhanded compliment and he gives my hand an encouraging squeeze before heading to the other side of the quad. Today he is dressed in a beautifully cut morning suit, but the first time I came back to visit, he bounded across the lawn in Magdalen College, his robes flapping behind him and startling a deer in the process.
Doctor D, as we all refer to him now. He lives out by the Trout (the pub with the albino peacock where Erika and I argued over Little Women whilst drinking far too much vodka, always vodka) in a nineteen-thirties semi, the interior of which would make any self-respecting designer weep with envy. Gone are the rats, replaced by a lazy French bulldog called Cyril who sits in the basket of his bike as they cycle to work every day. From what I gather, he is loved by peers and pupils alike and is soon to head off on a
trek to Nepal – with Uncle Alex no less.
They are just friends, but I wonder if there hadn’t been so much time and space between them, they might have become more.
‘See you in there,’ Layla says with a smile as she and Erika walk inside the chapel, accompanied by the sound of someone singing ‘Ave Maria’.
There is one more member of our illustrious clan, someone I have been terrified of losing for over a decade. Someone who is standing at the end of the aisle, waiting for me. It’s like something out of a storybook, the irony that it took Leo dying to make me realise I was worthy of love, deserving of it even.
I feel an arm curl around my waist and I look up into the face of the person who has made everything about this day both possible and perfect.
‘Ready?’ Luke asks, and I have to blink back the tears, because every time I catch sight of him my heart squeezes in response.
He loved us, I think to myself, smiling at the memory of Luke and me going for a walk one Sunday morning when we ended up in Kensington Gardens and I told him everything. I told him about the pain and the sorrow, but most of all about the love. Because I know now that if he had lived, Leo would have given us the most wonderful life.
At the entrance I pause, looking down at the bouquet of cabbage roses in my hands, inside of which is hidden an emerald thimble. I will carry you with me always, Leo. I will love you for the rest of my days, but that doesn’t mean I can’t give myself to another. To a man who has accepted me, warts and all, and is still willing to say ‘I do’. At least I hope he bloody is.
Peering inside the chapel, I look along the rows of expectant faces. My eyes meet those of Leo’s mother, a woman whose forgiveness I did not envisage, but who has been truly magnanimous and has pulled her grandson deep into the heart of her family, one that now belongs to my son.
The Love We Left Behind Page 29