Her Perfect Family

by Driscoll, Teresa

  ‘No, not me. Married to the job.’ Amanda smiles.

  Matthew sips at his coffee and raises his hand by way of farewell as Amanda makes her excuses and retreats. He watches her walk back across the terrace and takes in her smart navy suit and expensive handbag. He thinks fondly of Sally, who juggled part-time work with days in jeans with playdough under her fingernails. He hopes they’re having a good day today. Not too many worries for the jar.

  And then as he turns, Matthew’s surprised to see a woman he recognises, checking her watch on the concourse below. He leans closer to the glass barrier to make sure he’s not mistaken. No. It’s definitely her. Wendy March. Another private investigator he’s come across at a couple of networking functions. She’s a very different kind of operator and he doesn’t much like her. Matthew frowns, wondering what the hell she’s doing on campus.

  He stands, finishing his coffee, and is planning to head down to speak to Wendy as his phone rings. The display confirms it’s Amelie’s nursery school.

  ‘Matthew Hill.’

  ‘This is the school office. I’m sorry but we couldn’t get hold of your wife.’

  ‘Is Amelie OK?’ He can feel his heart racing.

  ‘Please don’t worry. She’s fine. She’s with a member of staff but there’s been an incident and I’m hoping you can come to collect her so we can explain properly. I’m afraid we’ve had to call the police—’

  CHAPTER 44

  THE MOTHER

  I watch the two nurses giving Gemma her bed bath. Sometimes I help but just now they’re doing all the extras – checking her catheter and her feeding tube – so I’m letting them get on with it.

  It was quite a shock at first, facing up to the day-to-day reality of Gemma’s care. In the movies a coma looks just like sleep. In the real world, there are these endless checks and the constant fear of bed sores. Physiotherapy.

  The best times are when they bring the fetal monitor and we listen to the baby’s heart. Strong. Surreal. The strength of the rhythm reassures me and yet it’s still so hard to take in – a new life in the midst of all of this.

  Today I watch them turn Gemma on to her left side, gently moving each arm in turn. Up. Down. Up. Down. Sometimes they ask if I want to take a break while they check everything. They mean – do you really want to be here while we clean her?

  But I always stay. I saw her through all that as a baby. And she’s still my baby girl.

  I can feel tears coming and so, to distract myself, I reach for Gemma’s laptop. I click through the files that have become so familiar and return to the essays, wondering just what it takes to get a first. Gemma always wrote so brilliantly.

  There’s one on Hardy – Is Tess in Tess of the d’Urbervilles portrayed as being responsible for her own demise? I’ve always loved Hardy so I open the file and start reading. But a shiver goes instantly through me. Because it’s not an essay at all . . .

  I don’t believe it. I am sitting on my bed, staring at the test stick with tears rolling down my face and I still don’t believe.

  Two blue lines. Pregnant. How? HOW?

  I read on, my mouth gaping. It’s Gemma talking. Like a diary. I’m so shocked I must let out some kind of strange noise because one of the nurses turns to me. ‘Are you OK, Mrs Hartley?’

  ‘I’m fine. Sorry. I’m fine.’

  I’m not. I race through the paragraphs. My poor Gemma agonising over what to do about the pregnancy. I glance up at her in the bed and it’s so unbearable. To hear her voice through the screen of the laptop. So distressed.

  And then I reach a paragraph which is like a knife.

  Mum would never cope – it would literally kill her and I just can’t talk to her about this kind of thing.

  I put my hand up to my mouth. It’s as if the room has changed shape. The distance between me and the bed distorted. Stretched. I feel almost faint.

  I read on – the words like bellows on the fire of my failings. Gemma didn’t talk to me because Gemma couldn’t talk to me.

  I didn’t let her. I was too closed. Too afraid.

  I skim through the rest of the file. She mentions the father – the married man – but there’s no name. Why so careful? In her own computer? And why the fake title?

  I finish the piece and feel for my phone in my pocket. Should I ring DI Sanders? I don’t understand how they missed this.

  No. Not yet. I need to try to find a name. Something concrete. I need to see if it’s just the one piece. And, although I can hardly acknowledge it, I need to see what else she’s written about our family. About me.

  I watch the nurses finishing their care. One of them marks up the charts before leaving. I thank them and as soon as Gemma and I are alone, the tears come. I cry for what feels like quite a long time and then I feel ashamed. Self-indulgent. What right do I have to tears?

  I put the laptop back on the bedside cabinet and put the headphones back on Gemma, wondering how long before Ed gets back from the cafeteria.

  I’m dreading talking to him.

  I check Gemma’s ears, first the left ear and then the right to make sure the soft cups are not pinching the flesh. I flip through the iPad selection and pick ‘seashore’. She’s always loved the sea.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Gemma. For how I’ve been. What I’ve been.’ I brush my face dry. ‘There’s so much I have to tell you, Gemma. When you’re better. When all of this is behind us.’ I’m whispering, playing with the ends of her long hair. Golden brown. The shade that catches the light and glistens like a conker or a burnished nut.

  I remember watching her in the sunshine in the garden when she was little, running in and out of the sprinkler on a hot day. The sunlight caught her hair and I thought how lucky she was to have that shade. Not like mine. Flat brown. Boring brown.

  I can feel tears pricking my eyes again but fight hard to stop them.

  ‘I’m angry with your father for telling so many lies. But the truth is I’m a complete hypocrite, darling. And a terrible coward too.’

  I’m aware that I’m only saying this because I know she can’t hear me – the words an empty echo in my head – wondering when I will find the courage to tell them both the whole truth. Out loud. No headphones.

  That my father was a drunk. That he beat my mother and I have always been terribly ashamed of that. It’s the wrong reaction; I do see that now. I should be angry, not embarrassed, but I’ve never worked it out properly in my head. I was the one who caused the biggest showdown – over the tea bags in my sandwiches. When she had to call the police and we had to leave. We can’t take all your things, Rachel. Just your favourites. Get your bear and your pyjamas . . .

  And so I closed it down and pretended I had a different childhood. And I’ve tried to gift that childhood to Gemma. The better version. The perfect version. The version with no rows. No conflict at all.

  Only I’ve stuffed it up, haven’t I? Because nothing’s ever perfect, is it? And all I’ve done is push her away from me. Been a mother she can’t even talk to.

  I’m losing the fight against the tears as the door clicks open. I can smell the coffee but turn away to wipe my face before I look at him.

  ‘I’m still struggling to believe it.’ He hands me my cup. It’s very hot and he’s forgotten the cardboard holder so I put it on the floor, not wanting it next to the laptop on the bedside cabinet. I need to keep that safe. Read what else she has to say.

  ‘You actually hired a private detective. To see if I was having an affair?’

  ‘I’ve already said I’m sorry. I wish I could take it back.’ I look up at him and then at Gemma, wishing I could take everything back. And to my great surprise, I find that I’ve simply had enough.

  Mum would never cope . . . I just can’t talk to her about this kind of thing . . .

  It’s like stepping on a twig and making a noise when you’re trying not to be seen. I can’t help it. The noise is out there and I simply don’t have the energy any more to hold in all the lies.

&nb
sp; ‘My father was an alcoholic, Ed. And violent too. The version of my childhood I told you was a complete lie. I didn’t push you about Canada or what happened there because I didn’t want you to push me about my past.’

  When I turn to him, the shock on Ed’s face is all-consuming. It’s like he’s looking at someone he doesn’t even recognise.

  He opens his mouth to speak but then changes his mind and just puts his coffee down on the floor too. For a moment, I’m afraid he’s either going to storm off or try to hug me. I don’t honestly know which would be worse but I do know that I don’t want to be touched.

  In the end he stays in the chair and his gaze moves around the room and then back at me. ‘Did he hurt you? Your father?’

  ‘Not me physically but he beat my mother. Many times. And quite badly the final time.’

  ‘He beat her?’

  ‘I don’t know why I couldn’t tell you. I didn’t tell anyone. I was actually quite ashamed. And as a child, I thought it was my fault. So I just kind of pushed it down.’ I find that I am touching my stomach for some reason. I feel this knot of familiar anxiety and recognise the matching desire to deal with it. Stop it. To go into the kitchen to bake something lovely. To smooth things over with cakes and flapjacks and the warm smell of home-made jam. But here, trapped in this room with the machines and the bleeps and the smell only of sanitiser and bad coffee, all I can do is reach across to check the iPad to make sure that Gemma’s headphones are still playing the sounds of the sea. Waves and seagulls. I need to at least be sure that none of this is seeping through to her.

  Ed reaches up to put his hand on his forehead as if processing. Thinking.

  ‘So that’s why you can’t bear arguments. Won’t work things out. Why you won’t—’ His voice trails away and he sits up straighter. ‘But I don’t understand. Why the change these past months? Why the sudden questions about Canada after all these years? Why the suspicion? Why did you start to doubt me?’

  ‘I don’t know, I don’t know. I suppose the thought of Gemma leaving. Finishing university. Leaving for good. I started to worry about what it would be like. Just you and me, and I started to think about Canada. About my lies. Started wondering about your past a bit. And when I asked you, you were really weird with me. Avoiding me. And so I thought—’

  ‘But a private detective?’

  ‘I know, I know. It feels mad now. And terribly hypocritical, given my own lies. But it was the thought of Gemma leaving us for good. Starting a job. Just me and you in the house, not just during term time but all the time. And I’m getting older. And fatter. I started to worry that we might not make it, going forward. Without Gemma. I guess I thought, why wouldn’t you have an affair? Everyone else seems to. You don’t even know me. I’m a fake. A liar.’

  ‘Oh Rachel.’ Ed is looking at me with the eyes I cannot read. This man who was married to someone else once. This stranger? ‘How the hell did we get here?’ He stands and turns away for a moment.

  I hold my breath and after a while he turns back, his expression softer.

  ‘I do love you, Rachel. I promise that I’ve never even thought about having an affair. But all these lies? I don’t know what to think any more.’ He pauses and drops his voice to add something I can’t make out.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t hear that.’

  ‘I said it was my fault, not yours. You can’t blame yourself for what your father did but I have no excuse. I don’t know what I was thinking not telling you about Laura. I suppose I just felt ashamed. For giving up on her. Walking away. I was so relieved when you didn’t push me in the early days. It was like getting a pass. Permission for a fresh start.’ He looks at Gemma now. ‘But I’ve let my guilt blind me. I honestly didn’t think she was capable of hurting anyone. Laura. I was sure the police were wrong to even suspect her. But I’m worried now that I was just hoping to let myself off the hook. I will never forgive myself if I’m to blame for what’s happened to our girl.’ His voice is terribly quiet again, hauntingly so.

  I close my eyes. A myriad of scenes suddenly swirl through my mind. Go away until you calm down, Gemma. I’m not going to have an argument . . .

  I can see her on the lawn again, running in and out of that sprinkler.

  Next I am a child again in my rabbit slippers, watching my mother on the floor of the kitchen with blood on her face.

  It’s as if the temperature in the room has changed and I feel as if I’m not quite in my own body, also a little bit sick. I listen to the rhythm of the monitors. The bleeping. The beat getting louder and louder.

  ‘Rachel. Stop that. You’re hurting yourself.’ Ed’s voice. I don’t know what he means and I don’t want to open my eyes to find out. It’s like I honestly felt until today that I was doing OK as a mother; that loving her with my whole heart was enough. And suddenly I realise that I’ve done a terrible job. No. Worse than a terrible job. I’ve done damage – and it’s like a picture coming into focus and I can’t believe I didn’t see any of this before.

  ‘Stop it, Rachel. Look at me.’

  I open my eyes to find Ed is holding both my arms at the wrists. I struggle free and pound again at my head. Bashing each word into my forehead to match the bleep, bleep of the machines.

  I’ve lied. And I’ve let Ed lie. I’ve let us build a whole family on lies, lies, lies to avoid anything uncomfortable.

  Again, Ed grabs my wrists and holds them tighter this time so I have to stop the pounding. He looks into my eyes and I feel as if I am going to fall down. As if my skeleton is melting inside my body.

  ‘No. This is my fault, isn’t it?’ I look right into his eyes but it doesn’t sound like my voice. ‘I’ve let Gemma down. Never taught her how to deal with things. How to face things . . .’

  I’m crying again, my wrists still held tight away from my body so that I cannot check the tears rolling down my face.

  ‘I’ll let go if you promise not to hit yourself.’

  I don’t want him to let go. I am afraid that if he lets go, I will crumble to a pile of dust on the floor.

  ‘Look at me, Rachel. Do you promise to stop?’

  ‘What have we done?’ I stretch out my palms like a plea. Finally he lets go and I wait to fall. Through the floor.

  Through time.

  ‘What have we done to our beautiful girl?’

  CHAPTER 45

  THE DAUGHTER – BEFORE

  Discuss the theme of isolation as portrayed in Jane Eyre.

  I honestly can’t believe how much has changed since I last wrote in this file. Seriously. A whole new avenue has opened up for me. Something completely unexpected.

  The first big news is that I’ve found someone to talk to properly about the pregnancy. It’s been a bit surprising and I won’t go into detail as it will be tempting fate and, knowing my luck, will all go horribly wrong.

  All I can say is that this isn’t through uni counselling or anything so it’s not dangerous. I mean I know uni services are supposed to be 100 per cent confidential but if I let slip anything that might identify the father, they’d be bound to do something wouldn’t they? Suspend him or something. Anyway, this has all happened very quickly. Off campus. Out of the blue. Safe. I’ve become friends with someone who really gets me. Understands exactly what I’m going through.

  It’s like having a weight lifted – to actually sit and calmly talk to someone about things that are so difficult and so serious. I keep thinking about my mum and how I couldn’t in a million years have this kind of conversation or this kind of relationship with her. I had no idea this sort of calm support was even possible.

  And suddenly I’m seeing not only that I’m strong enough to get through this but that I have more options than I’d realised. Apparently, you can do private adoptions. I didn’t really know anything about this; I’d assumed it was just part of surrogacy or something. I’d discounted adoption as I know that Mum and Dad would completely freak out at the prospect of having a grandchild ‘out there’ with no proper c
ontact. But get this. With a private adoption, you can write your own rules. Be as involved as you want in the child’s life.

  Like I say, it’s like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders because it no longer feels as if it’s a black-and-white choice. Have the baby (and put off all my dreams) or have an abortion (and possibly regret it?). I mean I’m not judging others here. Some people are fine having a termination and that’s their business and their right but I just don’t think that’s me. It’s been keeping me up at night. And I still feel fury that it was his immediate reaction – to get rid of the child.

  But a private adoption? Maybe . . .

  I’m not going to make any quick decisions, of course, as I’ve been swinging like a pendulum ever since I found out about the pregnancy. But I want to at least consider this properly.

  And I don’t have to decide until after the graduation ceremony so I just need to get my head straight, dig deep, and talk to Mum and Dad.

  Results are in ten days. All I need now is to get that damn first.

  Also – just before I sign off – I need to sort out my Facebook security settings. I’ve had another couple of weird messages. I’m trying to be calmer about it as it’s hopefully just someone random. But I’ve been googling and I didn’t even realise that you can check which devices have logged into your Facebook account.

  Unbelievable. There have been loads of log ins on devices I don’t recognise – an iPad Air (I don’t have one) and a Mac (don’t have one of them either). Obviously my money is on ‘A’. I changed my password but if he was already logged in via some other device, I’m wondering if that is a loophole? No idea.

  I can apparently disallow these other devices which might solve the problem.

  We’ll see. I just wish I was on to all this sooner. I’m always careful now about what I post on Facebook and I don’t use DMs any more, just to be on the safe side. I wish I’d taken the whole security side of social media more seriously before now.

  But I’m feeling a tiny bit better overall. Not crying quite so much. If I can just get results and graduation out of the way, and then get Mum and Dad behind me, hopefully I can make the right decisions and come out of this all OK.