by R. A. Smyth
Honestly though, it was exhausting, not knowing what to expect every day. Whether she would act like a mum, completely ignore my existence or treat me like shit if I did anything to stand in her way or argue with her; tidying up her messes and dealing with the creepy men and other strays she would bring home.
It didn’t help that, as I got older, the periods of sanity became far and few between, and the periods of depression and mania became more severe. Over the last few years, we frequently ended up at the hospital when she made some sort of suicide attempt or thought she could do something ridiculous like fly.
Each time I took her to the hospital, they would just patch her up and make some changes to her medications, not that they ever seemed to make much of a difference.
So yeah, I can’t say I’m surprised at the scene currently in front of me. Not that that makes any of this easier. All I can hope for now is that she has finally found some peace.
If I’m being honest with myself, part of me is relieved that it has finally happened. I hadn’t realised until this moment that every time I left the house, this feeling of dread would coil in my stomach at what I would come home to. Part of me has been waiting on tenterhooks for this day to come; and as devastating as it is that that day is here, it has lifted some of the weight off my shoulders that I hadn’t realised I was carrying.
Eventually, I manage to pull myself out of my trance, fishing my brick of a phone from my bag and calling the police. Once I’ve relayed the necessary details, I head back outside and sit on the brick wall surrounding our tiny square of outdoor space. I can’t bear to be in that house any longer.
Fifteen minutes later, blue flashing lights illuminate the street, as emergency services arrive. I sit and watch, still in a state of shock, as a police car pulls up onto the curb across the street and the ambulance parks in the middle of the one-way road, preventing any other traffic from getting down the street.
A policewoman gets out of the car, crossing the street to stand in front of me.
“Are you Sophie Prescott? You phoned emergency services?”
Struggling to find my voice, I just nod in confirmation.
“I’m Officer Murray. Can you tell me what happened here tonight?” she asks me gently, giving me a reassuring smile.
I give her a brief run-down of everything that has happened since I locked up at the pub an hour ago. God was that only an hour ago? It feels like a lifetime ago.
Once I’ve finished updating Officer Murray and she’s taken whatever notes she needs, she leans in to squeeze my arm in an act of comfort and silent support. “I’m sorry about your mum, Sophie. It can’t have been easy on you, finding her like that. The paramedics are in with her now, and they are going to take really good care of her, ok?”
I just nod, not having anything to say.
“This is what we’re going to do now,” she continues, laying out a game plan, giving me something to focus on other than the fact that my mum, the only family I have, is dead. “I’m going to contact a social worker, and we are going to pack up some stuff for you so you can stay with a foster family nearby tonight. Something more permanent can be sorted in the next few days. Alright?”
Was it okay? I don’t think anything was okay right now and the last thing I wanted was to spend the night in some strangers’ home. But since I’m not yet eighteen, I’m guessing I have no actual say in the decision.
So, as the paramedics lifted my mum out of the house in a black bag, I climbed into the back of the police car and was driven to a foster home a few streets away.
Chapter 2
The foster home I was taken to was a small house belonging to a pleasant older couple, John and Mary Duffy. Mrs. Duffy wrapped her arms around me the minute I stepped out of the police car, shrouding me in her embrace, threatening to break the weak hold I had on my emotions.
Thankfully, she quickly pulled back, taking my arm in hers and showing me to my room, leaving me in peace so I could fall apart alone. Peeling off my clothes and dumping them in the bin, I didn’t even bother to hoke out pyjamas from my suitcase before pulling back the covers and crawling into bed.
Curling up in a ball, I finally let my grief consume me as the tears flowed down my face, burying my head in my pillow to drown out the heaving sobs, until exhaustion finally took over and I fell asleep.
I didn’t leave that room for two days. Mrs. Duffy would knock on my door several times a day, encouraging me to get up and eat, but I just didn’t have it in me.
On the third day, Mrs. Duffy knocked again, as had become her routine, but instead of leaving me alone when she didn’t get a reply, she opened the door and barged on in, throwing open my curtains and blinding me with the daylight streaming through the windows.
“Ugh.”
“Time to get up!” She announces, pulling back my covers. “I know it’s hard and you don’t want to, but I’ve given you your space and now you need to get up. Things need sorting that only you can do, so you can’t hide away anymore, Sophie.”
Leaving me to get up, she backs out of the room before I can murder her for disturbing the warm, safe cocoon I had created for myself over the last few days. She’s right. I have to stop wallowing. The funeral needs to be organised and I’ve to meet with my social worker and figure out my long-term plans.
The next few days are a blur of funeral planning and meetings with my social worker, Nicole, who asks me all sorts of personal questions. She was initially keen to try and reunite me with my father, but I’ve no idea who he is. There is no name on my birth certificate and my mum never talked about him. The few times I asked her who he was she just fobbed me off, telling me he was a deadbeat not worth knowing. Instead, Nicole has started looking into group homes and more permanent foster placements.
When I wasn’t with Nicole or making arrangements with the funeral directors, I holed myself up in my room, pretending the rest of the world didn’t exist. I was aware I was barely existing, just going through the motions, doing what was expected of me. I just couldn’t bring myself to pretend I was doing okay any more than I had to.
The days all blended together until, before I realised, the day of the funeral arrived. The ceremony was organised, burial plot picked out and headstone ordered. There was nothing left to do.
Except, I apparently have nothing to wear. The few measly bits of clothes I grabbed from my bedroom the night everything happened are scattered all over my bed, absolutely none of it suitable for today. I’ve never been to a funeral before, and it’s not like we ever went anywhere that required a nice outfit.
There is a faint knock on the door before it opens and Mrs. Duffy peeks her head in, giving me a soft smile. “Sorry dear, I didn’t mean to bother you, but I just wanted to see how you were doing today and check that you’re all sorted.”
She’s such a kind lady, one of those people with a truly good heart. I feel bad that I haven’t made more of an effort to get to know her or her husband while I’ve been staying here, but I just haven’t had it in me to be sociable.
Taking in the mess of discarding clothing all over the bed, she must realise I have no idea what to wear today.
“Ah dear, no worries, that’s an easy fix. Let’s have a look at what you’ve got. Everyone thinks you need to wear black to a funeral, but honestly, I think some colour provides a bit of much-needed warmth on a day like today.
“Let’s see…What about that black skirt with, eh, that dark purple top? I have some black tights I’m sure would fit you, and a pair of black flats you can wear.”
And just like that, crisis averted. A decision that had felt so monumental a moment ago suddenly seems achievable.
“Thank you, Mrs. Duffy, I really appreciate it,” I mumble in response. God, I have no idea how I’m going to get through this day.
The ceremony goes by without a hitch, not that I take much of it in or even seem to be aware of what is going on around me. I’ve been sitting in a daze the whole time. None of this feels real. It
’s like I’m in some alternate universe, or playing a part on a TV show. I can see it all happening in front of me, time is moving forward, but I feel so removed from it.
Before I know it, I’m standing under someone’s umbrella - I don’t even know whose or how I ended up standing beside them - with the rain pouring down as I watch the coffin lower into the wet, muddy ground. I should probably be feeling something, anything, as my mother is buried but all I feel is numb. What is going to happen now? How am I meant to just pick up the pieces and move on with my life?
◆◆◆
I decide to go back to school a few days later, just to have a routine, something to keep my mind busy. Sitting in a bedroom that isn’t mine, with nothing to do and feeling numb and broken, isn’t doing me any good, and having no idea where I’m going to be permanently placed isn’t helping things. I just feel anxious and fidgety all the time. I need the distraction of school, even if I don’t really take in what I’m being taught.
I’ve never had any friends at school, not ever having the time to put into creating friendships or socialising, so there isn’t anyone to give me their condolences or ask me how I’m doing, and that works just fine for me.
School quickly becomes the one place I can forget about my problems. Somewhere I can just focus on the task immediately in front of me and pretend everything outside the building doesn’t exist. It turns into a haven of sorts, albeit a lonely one, but a haven nonetheless.
On Thursday, a week after the funeral, I’m sitting in maths class, completely zoning out - who needs to know trigonometry anyway - when the classroom door opens and in walks one of the secretaries from the school office. She casts her gaze around the room until she finds me, “The headmistress would like to see Sophie,” she informs the teacher, who nods at me to gather my stuff and follow the secretary.
Assuming a decision has been made about where I’m going to be permanently placed until I turn eighteen, I quickly pack up my stuff and follow the secretary to the headmistress's office.
The school office, like the rest of the school, is run down and in desperate need of modernising. The walls are covered in ageing wallpaper that I’m pretty sure is from the eighties, with its horrible green and yellow floral patterns, making it look like the design is moving in front of you like an optical illusion. I swear it makes me queasy when I look at it for too long.
The secretary directs me towards the headmistress’s office and tells me to go on in. As I approach the door I can hear voices coming from inside the office, but they stop as I turn the door handle and step into the room.
The headmistress’s office is small, with filing cabinets and bookcases, overflowing with books, taking up a lot of the wall space. In the middle of the room is a large desk with a computer on it and pages stacked in organised looking piles.
When I walk in, the headmistress, Mrs. Fulton, is sitting behind her desk. She is an older lady, probably in her sixties. I haven’t had much interaction with her over the years but she has always come across as strict but kind. I get the impression she genuinely cares about the kids that she looks after.
Today, her grey hair is pulled back in a severe bun and she is wearing a long skirt and top which you could only ever picture as suiting a grandmother type figure - not that I would know what grandmothers are supposed to wear since my grandparents on my mother’s side died when my mother was just a child.
Sitting in one of the seats opposite Mrs. Fulton’s desk is Nicole, confirming my suspicion of what this meeting is about.
“Ah Sophie, please come in,” Mrs. Fulton says, giving me a friendly smile and waving me further into the room as I close the door behind myself. “Some new information has come to light regarding your situation, which Nicole here wants to discuss with you.” She explains, smiling at me reassuringly and gesturing for me to sit in the spare seat beside Nicole.
"I’ll give you both some privacy. If you need me or want to talk about anything Sophie, my door is always open.” Getting up she vacates her office, leaving me alone with Nicole.
There is an awkward silence where I stare absently around the room, looking anywhere but at Nicole. I can feel my heart pounding as my knee bounces up and down in nervousness.
“How have you been doing Sophie?” Nicole asks me softly, drawing my attention to her as I give a small shrug in response.
“As good as can be expected, I guess. School is a decent distraction.”
“Good good, I’m glad you are coping ok, I’m sure it can’t be easy. I can’t even begin to imagine what you have been going through these last couple of weeks.” Genuine empathy laces her voice, her words unable to ease the ache in my chest or sense of loss I feel, but they are appreciated nonetheless.
Nicole doesn’t pry and ask me many questions or tell me what I should be doing or how I should be feeling, she just lets me deal with everything in my own way at my own time which is exactly what I need right now.
“So,” she begins, her voice taking on an ominous and serious tone as she gets down to the reason for why she’s here. “I have received some new information, and a plan has been implemented for where you are to live permanently,” she starts, pausing briefly to give me a moment to take in what she is saying, and allowing me time to prepare myself for whatever life-altering bomb she is about to drop.
“Now, what I have to say will come as a shock to you, and I know it might not be what you want, but I promise you it has all been decided with your best interests at heart.”
Damn I have a bad feeling about this. I hate when people make decisions without me. I knew I wouldn’t have much say over the situation, but knowing that all of this has been discussed and decided upon without my input is seriously irritating.
“Alright Nicole, just rip off the band-aid, tell me what’s going on,” I urge, the words coming out more sharply than I intended, but who can blame me, I’m on edge and my nerves are frayed.
Ignoring my tone, she gives me an understanding smile. “It's not bad news; actually, it could be great news, depending on how you choose to look at it,” she assures me. “Just promise me you will keep an open mind and hear me out,” she insists, waiting for me to nod in affirmation before continuing.
“I know you told me that you’ve never met your father, or even know who he is.”
Her words confuse me. What could he have to do with anything? I don’t know anything about my father, not his name or where he lives, or even if he knows I exist.
When I was a kid there were several times when I asked my mum who he was. What kid isn’t curious about who their parents are, especially when one of them is absent. All mum would ever tell me was that he wasn’t worth knowing or spending my time thinking about.
After hearing the same response time and again and seeing the pained look on mum’s face while I watched as she slowly withdrew into herself afterward, I stopped asking and, as I grew older, I stopped caring who he was. There were more important issues to deal with, and someone who didn’t want to know about me wasn't worth my time wondering about them.
“Sophie, the thing is, a man who said he knew your mum many years ago got in touch with me shortly after your mother’s funeral. He claims that he is your father and…” Nicole pauses, hesitating before saying whatever she has to tell me next, “Well, Sophie, the DNA test we ran, confirms he is, in fact, your father.”
I don’t even know how to respond to what Nicole has just said. I have a father?
Nicole, thankfully, doesn’t push or tell me anything else. She lets me sit there and digest all that she has said so far. There are so many questions swimming around in my head I don’t know which one to ask first. Before I can work out what to say though, Nicole, continues, answering some of my unasked questions.
“Apparently, your mother and father knew each other when they were younger, and had a bit of a fling, resulting in your mother getting pregnant. According to your father, their relationship didn’t last long and he wasn’t in the picture by the time your
mum probably realised she was pregnant with you. He had no idea you existed until now.”
“Then how did he know to get in touch with you?” I enquire, confused, and skeptical about the convenience of him suddenly appearing out of the blue now.
“Your father explained that he heard about your mother’s death and got in touch with the authorities to find out what happened. When he heard about your existence, he contacted me to find out more about you.”
Shaking my head, I’m struggling to take in all of this information. “Who is he? What’s his name?”
“His name is Robert Montgomery, he's a wealthy entrepreneur in America, California to be precise.”
We fall into silence, Nicole once again giving me time to process. I think I’m in a state of shock, which wouldn’t be surprising considering everything that has happened over the last couple of weeks.
Resting her hand in my knee, pulling me back from my thoughts and gaining my attention once again, Nicole softly assures, “I know you don’t know him, and he doesn’t know you. He would love for you to come live with him; he wants the two of you to get to know each other and try and develop a relationship”.
Maybe it’s the shock, but I'm finding all of this hard to believe. I mean, it all sounds too good to be true and good things don't happen in my life, so what’s the catch?
“Do I even have a choice? Can I choose not to go live with him, and stay here instead?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“I know you’re skeptical Sophie. Life hasn’t been easy on you, so why would you suddenly believe that your luck has changed, but we generally find that kids like yourself do better if they can be placed with family - even estranged family,” she adds on before I can interject. I can tell she is optimistic about this opportunity for me, and I don’t have the heart to tell her that this man might share my DNA but we sure as hell aren’t any sort of family.