Not My Daughter (ARC)

by Kate Hewitt

  ‘You haven’t even asked about Anna,’ I tell Matt, and he shoots me a wary look.

  ‘Why would I?’

  ‘Because you know I saw her. Because she was your friend as well as mine, once upon a time.’

  He shrugs. ‘That was then.’

  ‘Why are you so hard about this, Matt?’ When we talk about Anna, which is very rarely, he reminds me of his rather distant parents. My warm, easy-going husband suddenly turns into a cold stranger. It’s disconcerting, even though the coldness isn’t directed at me.

  ‘I’m not hard, Milly.’ He pauses, his gaze on the road, his fingers flexing on the wheel. ‘But surely we have enough to be getting on with, without throwing Anna into the equation? She’s out of our lives. End of story.’

  But she wasn’t out of our lives, not exactly, not at all. Not while her blood ran through Alice’s veins, her imprint on every single one of our daughter’s cells. Not when we still didn’t know what was wrong, and whatever it was might be because of Anna. How could she possibly be out of our lives?

  The next week, while Alice is at school, I drive out to Chepstow to see my parents. I’d told them a bit about Alice’s health concerns, but not the full, terrifying picture. I hadn’t wanted to burden either of them with the worry when we still didn’t know what, if anything, was wrong.

  Just this morning, as I sliced bananas to sprinkle on top of Alice’s Weetabix, Matt said in a low voice, ‘You know it might not be this big thing. You hear stories of people with a load of mysterious symptoms, thinking they’re on death’s door, and then it just turns out to be some strange virus that goes away by itself.’ He took a sip of coffee, looking at me seriously, as if expecting me to agree and offer statistics.

  And, of course, I would have loved to. Please, let this just be a virus. But in my heart, in my leaden gut, I knew it wasn’t. How could it be? Alice’s symptoms were becoming severe; we’d already talked to Miss Hamilton about having a teaching assistant help Alice with changing for PE and managing her lunch tray. We’d adjusted to this new reality in such small increments that, somehow, we managed to forget how big it was, how overwhelming. Maybe it was the only way we could cope, but right then her condition felt like a shadow looming over me, a stone weighing me down. This could be something big. This could be life-changing. Already, it was.

  ‘We’ll just have to wait and see,’ I told him and then turned to Alice with a smile, sprinkling the bananas over her cereal. ‘There you go, sweetheart.’

  Thankfully, Alice didn’t seem too concerned about what was happening to her. She was frustrated by her clumsiness sometimes, but she couldn’t remember the seizures she’d had and she liked her glasses. When she forgot words, we filled them in for her, and she went on happily. I wanted her to stay in childish, innocent ignorance for as long as she could. I wanted to hide our fear from her, until there was a certain diagnosis, until we knew what we were dealing with. And maybe I wouldn’t even tell her then.

  Now, as I head across the Severn Bridge, the wintry sun sparkling on the river, I think about how I am going to tell my parents. They will be devastated to know that something might be wrong, and as anxious as I am, waiting for answers. My mother is so frail, I hate the thought of worrying her about anything, and yet I’ve had enough secrets from my parents; I don’t want there to be any more.

  ‘Milly.’ My mother smiles but does not rise from her chair as my father hugs me. They are sitting in the lounge, the gas fire turned on high, the doors closed, and it is stifling. Even so, my mother has a blanket over her knees, and I notice how scrawny she has become, even more than the last time I saw her, her wrists poking out from the cuffs of her jumper like twigs.

  ‘How are you feeling today, Mum?’ I ask as I bend to kiss her cheek. Her skin is papery and dry.

  She smiles and pats my hand. ‘Tired, as I often am. But peaceful.’

  Peaceful? I pause at her choice of words, and my father smiles sadly.

  ‘We had a scan last week. The tumour’s growing again, and he thinks this time the chemo will be too hard on your mother.’

  I sink into a chair, shocked and yet not surprised at all. I’ve been waiting for this news for years. The fact that it’s taken so long is the surprising thing, not that it’s finally happened.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I finally say, looking at my mum. She smiles at me, her eyes bright. ‘What… what does this mean, exactly?’

  She shrugs. ‘Who can say? No one thought I’d live this long, not by a long shot.’ She sighs. ‘But when pushed, the consultant said a few months, if that.’

  I nod, winded, knowing this time is different. This time it’s for real. Of course, I’ve been subconsciously grieving my mother for years, because that’s what a bad cancer diagnosis does to you. It prepares you for the end, at least as much as anything can. Still, I can’t believe it’s actually here – the endgame, the winding down. No matter how expected it is, it still feels like a shock. And how can I tell them about Alice? Yet how can I not?

  ‘How’s our beautiful granddaughter?’ Dad asks brightly. ‘Cheerful as ever?’

  ‘She is the sweetest little girl,’ my mother murmurs with a smile. ‘And I am not biased.’

  I look at them both, my heart so heavy it feels like a burden I can’t carry anymore. Telling them that Alice might be ill, that she might have some disorder or condition, will break their hearts. But they deserve to know. I know they would want to, and yet I don’t want to hurt them.

  ‘Actually, I have some news to share as well,’ I say, clearing my throat. My mother looks at me expectantly, and my father frowns. ‘It’s about Alice. It might be nothing, or something small, but it might also be something… more serious.’ I hesitate, and my mum puts a hand to her throat.

  ‘About Alice? What is it, Milly?’

  And so I explain about the symptoms, the consultants, the tests. ‘Six months feels like a long time to wait,’ I finish. ‘But we might find out sooner. I just want to know what it is, really, so we can start making a plan.’ My hands are knotted in my lap, my whole body tense. Since we first started noticing the symptoms, my stomach has been clenched with anxiety, my body maintaining a constant level of tension that exhausts me – and it’s only become greater the more we find out, the more we have to wait, the more we don’t know.

  ‘Oh dear heaven,’ my mother whispers. ‘Alice…’

  ‘But it might be nothing,’ my dad insists. ‘Like Matt said. A strange virus…’ I’d thrown that suggestion out there like a lifeline, and as tempting as it is to grab onto it, I know we shouldn’t. It will just make the truth harder to bear, when it comes.

  ‘But it might not, Dad. We just have to wait and see.’

  My heart is still heavy as I drive back to Bristol, having promised my parents regular updates on Alice and, of course, to tell them any news about test results.

  We are still waiting for those results in early January, when I stand in the school yard waiting for Alice, as the other mums and childminders stand in clumps nearby, having a good natter. Everyone is talking about Christmas and what they did, how much they drank. Our Christmas was quiet, with my parents, trying to keep the ever-present fear at bay, and most importantly, from Alice. But I notice things. Every day, I notice things. Now a mum offers me a hesitant smile from across the school yard; I try to smile back but I’m not sure I manage it.

  At the start of reception, I was making inroads into these little cliques; I knew a few mums from baby and toddler groups, Mummy and Me classes, so it seemed like a natural friend group. I even went out to a drinks evening at a local pub with a few of them, but as Alice’s symptoms worsened and finding her diagnosis became more consuming, I found myself standing alone, avoiding others’ gazes. It was just easier.

  Now I see, with a sinking heart, that she is not trotting out with the others in her year; Miss Hamilton is standing to the side, holding Alice’s hand. She gives me a meaningful look and my stomach clenches even harder.

  I see the
other parents and carers sneaking me curious looks, and I know they think Alice must have misbehaved, that she is some sort of problem child, when nothing could be further from the truth.

  ‘I’m afraid Alice got a little upset today,’ she says in a low voice once the other children have been dismissed and we’re back in the classroom. Alice is sitting a few feet away, playing with some number blocks.

  ‘Upset? What about?’

  ‘Another child teased her, for not being able to hold her pencil properly.’ Miss Hamilton grimaces. ‘I spoke to the child, of course, but Alice took it to heart. She told me she can’t hold it the way she wants to.’

  I nod, swallowing hard, trying to keep my expression neutral, not wanting to break down here, over a pencil grip. And yet it’s always something like this – loss upon loss. No matter how small, they still pile up. They batter away at me until I feel completely drained and helpless. ‘I’m afraid we’re not going to have any results from the tests she’s undergone for a few more months.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Miss Hamilton places a hand on my arm, and I struggle not to cry. I feel so fragile, and what about Alice? Clearly she feels fragile too, and I hate that. I hate it so much.

  ‘It’s just so hard, not knowing,’ I manage to gasp out, and Miss Hamilton puts her arm around me. I rest my head against her pillowy warmth, trying not to completely lose it in the middle of the reception classroom. Then I feel a little hand tugging on my coat.

  ‘Mummy… Mummy.’ Alice sounds alarmed. ‘What’s wrong? Why are you so sad?’

  I push myself away from Miss Hamilton, ashamed that I came so close to losing it in front of Alice. That’s the last thing she needs.

  ‘I’m not sad, darling,’ I say, my voice veering between horribly clogged and manically upbeat. ‘Not at all.’ I force a smile and Alice regards me uncertainly. After a tense few seconds, she goes back to her blocks.

  ‘Are you going to tell her?’ Miss Hamilton asks in a low voice. ‘That something…?’

  I shake my head. ‘Not until we know.’

  Alice is not so easily satisfied on the walk home. ‘Why were you sad, Mummy?’ she asks as we walk along, her little hand slipped in my mind. ‘Was it because of me?’

  I stop and turn to face her. ‘No, Alice. No. I’m not sad because of you. I could never be sad because of you.’

  She regards me seriously, her sea-green eyes – Anna’s eyes – wide and unblinking. ‘But something’s wrong with me.’

  I am shaken to the core, but I do my utmost not to show her how much. ‘Nothing is wrong with you, Alice. Nothing.’ I kneel right down in front of her, on the cold, wet pavement, and take her by the shoulders, wanting to imbue her with that truth. ‘Absolutely nothing. Please don’t ever think that there is.’

  Her lips tremble as she gazes at me unhappily. ‘But I’m so clumsy now. And I can’t hold my pencil.’

  ‘Yes, and we are trying to find out why that is. You know that’s why the doctors have been doing those tests? To try to discover why this is happening.’ We’ve said as much before, but I don’t know how much Alice understands. How much any of us understands.

  ‘Yes, and then they might give me some yummy medicine to make me better,’ she finishes on a sigh. ‘I know.’ It’s what we told her back when we first went to the GP.

  ‘Yes, some yummy medicine.’ My voice thickens and I rise from the damp pavement, feeling heavy and aching and old. ‘Yes, that’s what will happen.’ That’s what I want to happen, more than anything. Please, let that be all she needs.

  We walk hand in hand back to the house, neither of us speaking, and after a block Alice starts skipping in her new, uneven way; it makes my heart swell with love and tremble with fear. Already she’s forgotten about Miss Hamilton and the pencil, but I haven’t. How many more things will Alice struggle with before we figure out what is wrong? How much more will she lose?

  My mobile rings just as I come into the house, Alice running ahead to scavenge for a snack.

  ‘Can I have biscuits, Mummy, with icing?’

  ‘Yes, darling.’ My former militant policing of sugar intake has become positively indulgent. There are far worse things to worry about than a few too many sweets.

  I smile as I see her on her tiptoes, reaching for the dented biscuit tin, and then I glance down at my phone, everything in me stilling when I see that it is Anna. I almost don’t take the call, but then I do, just in case. Of what, I don’t know, but I’m not taking any risks.

  ‘Anna?’

  ‘Milly?’ Her voice sounds strange, muted somehow, as if something important has been leached out of it. ‘May I talk to you, please?’

  ‘Talk?’ I close the door behind me as Alice grins at me from the kitchen, a biscuit in each hand. I smile back, and she walks unsteadily over to the sofa and flops down on it.

  ‘Yes, in person, both you and Matt.’

  ‘Perhaps it would be better if you just spoke to me, Anna. I don’t think Matt wants—’

  ‘It’s important, Milly. Really important, for both of you.’ Anna’s voice clogs and my heart freezes as she says the same words I once said to her. ‘It’s about Alice.’

  Twenty-Eight

  Anna

  I can’t stop thinking about Alice. Lying in bed, sitting at work, going out with Will… I am always thinking about her. Wondering if she really has some sort of genetic disorder. Praying with everything that I have that she does not.

  Will understands my worries, and while he’s always patient and happy to listen, I can’t help but worry that he is getting the tiniest bit impatient with my anxiety, my endless, restless wondering. He doesn’t know Alice. He understands what she once meant to me, but he doesn’t care about her, not the way I do.

  Several times over the next few months I pick up my phone to call or text Milly. Would she even let me know the results, if they find a diagnosis? The thought that she might not, that she wouldn’t even think of it, hurts me more than it should. I can’t escape the suspicion that she got what she wanted from me, and once again I’m irrelevant to her – and to Alice.

  ‘You need to let it go, Anna,’ Will tells me gently when I bring it up yet again, on a chilly, grey day in late November when we’re both in the allotment, hauling dead leaves away from his uncle’s plot. ‘As hard as that it is. And I know it is hard,’ he adds before I can protest. ‘I do.’

  But he doesn’t, not really. He doesn’t understand how Alice has, on a very basic and very real level, felt like my child. My child. How can he possibly understand that?

  ‘I just want to know,’ I say. ‘I need to.’

  ‘Do you really? What if it’s bad news? I mean, really bad news? Some of these neurological disorders are serious, Anna.’ He says all of this so calmly that I feel like slapping him. Doesn’t he realise how his words devastate me, along with Alice?

  ‘I’d still want to,’ I insist. ‘And we don’t even know if it’s something like that.’

  ‘True, but it certainly sounds as if it is—’

  ‘Will, please. This is Alice you’re talking about, someone I care—’

  ‘Someone you haven’t seen in four years,’ he reminds me gently. ‘I know you don’t want to hear that, and I feel mean for saying it, but that’s the reality, Anna.’

  I stare at him, my lips pressed together. ‘What exactly are you trying to say?’

  ‘Only that you’re taking this so much to heart, and it worries me. It’s not good for you. I know she feels like it on some level, Anna, but Alice is not your daughter.’

  ‘I know that.’ I bite my lip hard, hoping the pain will distract me from the far greater one caused by Will’s words. I know he’s right, of course I do, but it’s so painful to hear him say it. ‘Look, Will, whatever I should or shouldn’t be feeling right now… it’s not so easy to just let something go, especially when it’s important to you.’

  ‘I know.’ His tone is gentle, his face full of compassion, but I’m afraid he still doesn’t get it, t
hat he just wants me to be done with this – with her – and I turn away from him, focusing on a pile of wet leaves. ‘Why don’t we talk about something else?’ Will suggests. ‘Like Christmas.’

  ‘What about Christmas?’ For the last few years, I’ve spent a rather uninspired Christmas Day with my mother, since we’ve both been on our own. We don’t particularly enjoy each other’s company, but it feels like the right thing to do.

  ‘I thought we might spend it together.’

  I still, a handful of mulchy leaves in my hands, as I stare at him. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really.’ Will gives me a lopsided smile. ‘What do you think?’

  I think it’s a big step. A good step, but also a scary one. ‘I usually go to my mother’s.’

  ‘Then we can do that.’

  I imagine my mother’s open-mouthed shock at having me show up with a boyfriend in tow. I never have before, and I realise I rather like the image. ‘All right,’ I say slowly. ‘Why don’t we have lunch with her and spend the rest of the day on our own?’ There is, after all, only so much of my mother I can take, boyfriend or not.

  I don’t hear from Milly for the entire month of December, and I force myself to at least act as if I’ve forgotten. I focus on the charity fundraiser, which goes well, and on spending Christmas with Will, the first Christmas I’ll have ever spent with someone significant.

  It is a bright, cold Christmas Day as we drive out towards Chepstow; the sunlight on the Severn has a pure, crystalline quality and the air feels sharp. I rang a week ago to tell my mother I was bringing Will, and she seemed less interested or enthused than I’d hoped, although why I keep hoping for something more from my mother than I ever get, I don’t know. I’m almost forty; perhaps I should stop trying.

  The reality is, my relationship with my parents has always been fractured, punctured first by arguments and anger, and then later by bitterness and resentment. I try to remember good times, when I was little, but I can’t.