Not My Daughter (ARC)

by Kate Hewitt

  My lower lip wobbles and he draws me to him. I tuck my head under his chin and close my eyes, savouring the steady warmth of him next to me, amazed that he is going to be my husband.

  ‘I know she’ll always be part of your life,’ he says softly and I let out a little hiccoughy sigh.

  ‘How did you know I was thinking of her?’

  ‘Because I know you.’ He rests one hand on my back. ‘Have you heard from Milly lately?’

  ‘No, I never hear from her, besides a text to thank me for a meal.’ I sigh. ‘I don’t expect anything else. I know she’ll tell me if…’ I can’t say it. I wrap my arms around him and tilt my head up to meet his concerned, crinkled gaze. ‘Let’s get married this summer.’

  ‘So soon?’ he teases.

  ‘Yes.’ I sound firm and I feel determined. I must shed these old sorrows like the ghosts they are, for Will’s sake as well as mine. They don’t need to haunt me any longer, even though I know they will always have a place in my life. ‘Like you said, we’re not getting any younger. Why wait?’

  Two weeks later, Milly calls me.

  Thirty-Five

  Milly

  A hospital at night feels like a ward of ghosts. It’s early June, and outside the world is in full bloom, the cherry blossoms masses of pink puffballs, the flower beds laden with heavy-headed tulips, but inside everything is darkened and silent, save for an occasional cough, the squeak of a trolley wheel. I feel invisible, drifting down the corridor, stretching my legs before I return to sit by Alice, who is, thankfully, sleeping.

  We’ve had half a dozen overnights in the hospital since that first grand mal seizure back in March, to adjust her medication, usually after she’s had another seizure. It takes a few days to work out the right dosage, and then we’re back home, trying to restart this strange new life we find ourselves living.

  And it is strange – a deep sadness punctuated with moments of joy, as we adjust to the ever-changing reality of loss. She is still in school, and her best friend is Violet, and her belly laugh makes me smile the way nothing else can. She’s Alice. Amazingly, wonderfully, she still is our Alice.

  I slip inside her room and stretch out on the makeshift bed they’ve set up next to her. Matt and I have been taking turns staying the night, and tonight it is mine. Looking at her now, you wouldn’t even know she was ill at all, much less so seriously – her hair is spread out across her pillow in a golden sheet, her lashes fanning her pale cheeks.

  Watching her sleep, you couldn’t tell that her vision loss is now at seventy per cent, or that she can no longer hold a pencil or spoon. If you didn’t notice the crutches propped in the corner of the room, you wouldn’t realise she couldn’t walk unassisted. If you didn’t hear her speak, you wouldn’t know that she slurs some words and forgets far too many others. Watching her now, you wouldn’t know anything was wrong with her at all.

  And maybe nothing is. Maybe this is who Alice is, who she has been all along. It’s a strange and unsettling thought that I sift through my mind, looking for the gold amidst the dross. Maybe this is who Alice was always meant to be, teaching us, loving us, helping us to be strong and thankful even as we grieve and rail.

  I shift on the bed, trying to get comfortable even though I know it’s pointless. I hardly ever get to sleep during these hospital visits, tensing at every distant noise, or just straining to hear Alice breathe. I should be used to it now, used to the whole sorry load of this wretched disease, but I’m not. Even now, I feel a ripple of surprise – Wait, really? Alice is sick? When did that happen?

  Sometimes, in these long, lonely nights, I’ve let myself play the pointless what-if game, a form of self-torture I try not to indulge in. What if I hadn’t had premature menopause? What if we’d gone with an anonymous donor? What if we’d adopted? What if… Then Alice wouldn’t be here at all. She wouldn’t exist.

  And when I think like that, I make myself ask the hardest question of all. Would that be better? Would I – could I – wish that, knowing what I do now, bracing myself for all that is still ahead, all we – and Alice – will have to suffer and endure?

  Alice stirs in her sleep and I lean forward to smooth the hair away from her face, my heart aching with love for her, just as she is now, as she’s always been. No, I could not wish that.

  ‘Mummy?’ Alice’s voice is disembodied in the darkness, the voice of a ghost.

  ‘Yes, darling?’

  ‘Mummy, am I going to get better?’ The question is soft, slurred, but all too understandable. I prevaricate, because the alternative still feels impossible, even after all this time.

  ‘The new medication should help, darling. That’s what the doctor said.’

  Alice, my lovely Alice, shakes her head. ‘No. Am I going to get better?’ And she waits for my answer, the answer my heart cries out not to give, even now. Especially now. And yet I know she deserves the truth. She’s been so patient, so brave, so trusting. And even though she’s only five years old, I see an understanding in her eyes that humbles me.

  ‘The things you’ve been feeling, Alice… the symptoms… they’ll never go away.’ I take her hand. ‘I’m so sorry, sweetheart. So, so sorry.’

  She is silent for a long moment, lost in thought, but I have no idea what she is thinking. Then she looks at me again, those sea-green eyes startlingly direct. ‘Am I going to die?’

  My eyes fill with tears as my heart lodges itself in my throat. I hold her hand like an anchor. I’m not ready for this moment. I didn’t think she’d ask; I didn’t think she’d know. She’s still so very little. And yet, looking at her, I can see that she does. ‘One day, Alice,’ I say quietly. ‘Yes. But Daddy and I will be with you. We’ll never leave you alone, I promise. We’ll stay with you the whole time, and you won’t need to be scared at all.’

  She nods slowly, her expression so serious. ‘Will it hurt?’

  A small sob threatens to escape me, but I choke it down. ‘I promise you, Alice, it won’t hurt. The doctors will make sure it doesn’t. It will be like falling asleep, and it’s not going to happen for a long time.’ God willing. God willing, we still have years with her, even if those are years of loss, of a certain kind of grief. She’ll still be with us, and there will still be joy.

  ‘And then I’ll go to heaven?’ The question surprises me, because we’re not particularly religious, but then I remember that her primary school is Church of England, and they must talk about these things there. If ever there was a time to believe in heaven, to hope and trust that there is a God who loves her, it is now.

  ‘Yes, darling. You’ll go to heaven.’

  She nods slowly, accepting this along with everything else. Perhaps the realisation, the rage and the tears will come later. At least in this moment there is peace. ‘That’s all right, then.’

  I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Perhaps she is too young to realise all the losses she faces – all the moments and milestones she’ll never know. That I’ll never see. Perhaps she will be spared that, and it will only be my grief to bear, mine and Matt’s. And Anna’s. The thought slips in and takes root. Anna.

  I have not seen Anna since that night in the wine bar, although she continues to leave meals for us every so often, and sends the occasional text. I always send one back, thanking her, but it’s clear there is still a distance between us, a distance Matt and I have put there.

  After that first seizure, I didn’t have the wherewithal to engineer a visit with her as I’d planned, with all its accompanying stresses, but now, as Alice falls asleep, I wonder at myself. Can I really deny Anna so much, simply because I don’t feel up to it?

  Now, as I watch Alice’s face soften into sleep, her chest rise and fall, I realise something I should have understood a long time ago. Anna needs to see Alice. While Alice is still seeing, talking, walking, being, Anna needs to know her daughter.

  Thirty-Six

  Anna

  ‘Hello, Anna.’

  Milly’s voice sounds quiet rather than anxio
us, and for a second my heart seems to stop, my phone becoming slick in my hand, as the potential implication punches me in the chest. No matter how much I’ve told myself I’ve let go, in this moment I am one hundred per cent invested.

  ‘It’s not Alice…?’ Surely it can’t be the end already. Please God, no.

  Milly lets out a wavery sound, something caught between a laugh and a sob. ‘No, it’s not Alice. At least… not that way. Not yet.’ She pauses to draw a quick, even breath. ‘She’s been in and out of the hospital lately, having her medication adjusted, but she came home a few days ago.’

  ‘Okay…’

  ‘And I thought you might like to see her.’

  For a moment I can’t speak. I’m trying to process what Milly said, and more importantly, why she said it. And then I realise that none of it actually matters. She’s asking me if I want to see Alice, and there is only one answer to that.

  ‘Yes, I would love to see her. When is a good time?’

  ‘Saturday afternoon? If the weather’s nice, we could have a barbecue.’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Milly…’ I have to ask. I need to know. ‘What made you change your mind? You and Matt?’

  ‘It’s the right thing to do,’ she says simply.

  I feel as if I am floating through a dream as I get through the next two days. I keep expecting Milly to text me, to call it off. Has Matt agreed to this? Why has she changed her mind? But I tell myself those questions aren’t important. Only Alice is.

  I tell Will about the visit too, half-expecting him to be reluctant, or at least concerned, warning me about how I’m setting myself up to be too involved, to get hurt, but he isn’t and he doesn’t. Instead he hugs me and tells me he is happy for me, and echoes Milly’s sentiment, that it’s the right thing to do. That I need to see Alice, and maybe, just maybe, Alice needs to see me.

  It is a gorgeous, sun-soaked day in early June when I head over to Milly and Matt’s for four o’clock. It’s the kind of day that encapsulates everything wonderful about a British summer, when the world is tinted with gold and filled with birdsong and butterflies, every moment like something caught on camera, a snapshot of happiness.

  I’ve baked a batch of chocolate-chip cookies and made a salad for the barbecue, and I heft both as I walk up the path to their house, feeling more nervous than I think I ever have in my life. I have no idea what to expect, how I’ll feel, what I should do or say. And what about Milly and Matt? What are they expecting from this visit? What do they want from me?

  I ring the doorbell, balancing dishes, trying not to look terrified.

  Milly opens the door and smiles when she sees me. ‘Anna,’ she says, and for a second I think she might actually hug me, but then she just reaches for my hand and gives it a squeeze. ‘I’m sorry it’s been so long. Come through.’

  I follow her through the house, glancing around at the changes that have taken place since I was last here – the hand railings in the bathroom and by the kitchen, the walker stood by the door.

  We step through the French windows to their strip of back garden, the grass, a verdant, Technicolor green, tumbling down to an old horse chestnut tree with a swing hanging from it, the kind with a deep bucket seat and buckles. Matt is standing by the barbecue on the terrace, and Alice – for this little girl before me is of course Alice – sits on a blanket, watching a butterfly float through the air.

  It’s such a perfect, pastoral scene that I wish I could take a photograph, but I know it wouldn’t do it justice. I stand framed in the French windows for a moment, breathing it all in, emblazoning it on my mind, and then Alice turns and looks at me.

  The first thing that blazes through my mind is that I know her. I’ve always known her. She looks just like her photos, like me, but the sense of knowing is deeper than that, soul-deep. Then she smiles at me.

  ‘Hello,’ she says shyly, and my heart is so full I feel as if it could explode right out of my chest.

  ‘Hello, Alice.’

  I walk towards her slowly, mindless of Milly, of Matt. I drop to my knees on the blanket by her and just drink her in. She watches me frankly, studying me the way I am studying her.

  ‘Do I know you?’ The words are a bit slurred, but I still understand them. Of course I do.

  Before I can answer, Milly does. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘You do, although you may not remember. But you’ve always known Anna, right from the beginning.’

  And I think it is the kindest thing she could have said. I glance at Matt, wondering how he is taking all this, but when I meet his gaze he just gives a little nod and looks away, not hostile as he once was, but something more accepting, perhaps a little bit resigned. This is still hard.

  I sit down next to her. ‘What have you been doing today, Alice?’

  ‘Watching butterflies. I want to catch one, but Mummy says they’re too fr… frag…’ she stumbles on the word, and I fill in for her.

  ‘Fragile?’ I fill in, and Alice nods.

  ‘Perhaps Anna could push you on the swing,’ Milly suggests. ‘While I get the food ready.’ She glances at me, and I read everything in her gaze – the worry about Alice’s mobility, whether I can keep her safe. But she trusts me. In this small, crucial thing, Milly trusts me.

  ‘I’d love to,’ I say, and I hold out my hand. She takes it, and as her little fingers fold around mine, my heart feels as if it is exploding in my chest, with both joy and sorrow.

  We walk slowly towards the swing, hand in hand, Alice’s gait stiff and ungainly; she drags one foot behind her a little, and I go slowly, one step at a time, to match her uneven stride, aching inside for all she’s lost, and yet so thankful that she’s here. That we’re here together.

  I help her onto the swing, and when she’s settled and safely buckled in, I gently push.

  The breeze whispers by us and the sun shines down. Alice lets out a giggle as she swings higher.

  ‘Look at me, Mummy!’ she calls, and while part of me can’t help but think that she could be calling to me, another part knows that she isn’t, and that’s okay. That’s right.

  I think of that father I saw long ago, pushing his daughter, the way she tilted her head back with joy, and I smile. Alice smiles back at me.

  Later, after hours that I will commit to my memory forever, Milly pours us both wine while Matt gives Alice a bath upstairs.

  ‘I should have called you sooner,’ she says. ‘A lot sooner.’ She pauses. ‘Years sooner.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter now.’

  ‘It does. You could have been involved in her life all along…’ Her face crumples. ‘Oh, Anna…’

  And then we are both crying, and we are in each other’s arms, hugging each other tightly, holding each other up. It’s as if the years apart never happened, and yet they are more present now than they have ever been. We have been shaped by their scars, by the silence between us, and by some miracle of grace, we’ve come out stronger, on the other side.

  ‘Do you know,’ Milly says when we have sniffed and wiped our cheeks and settled on the sofa, ‘I looked up my mother a few years ago? I finally looked at my birth records, after all this time.’

  ‘And what did you find?’

  She sighs and leans her head back against the sofa. ‘She had postpartum depression, the same as I did, only worse. That’s why she gave me up.’ She shakes her head slowly. ‘All these years I’ve thought I didn’t want to know her. I didn’t care, because I was so sure she didn’t. I judged her for giving me up at six months.’ She lifts her head to look at me directly. ‘But now I feel differently. About a lot of things. About her… about you… about everything.’

  ‘Alice is beautiful, Milly. And you’re a wonderful mother.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Milly nods slowly. ‘She belongs to both of us.’ I know it is a lot for her to admit. ‘Remember what I told you, way back when? About us all raising her?’

  I nod. Of course I remember.

  ‘I wis
h that could have happened. I really do, now.’ She smiles uncertainly. ‘But perhaps it still can. It’s not… it’s not too late, is it?’

  ‘No.’ I shake my head, swallow hard. I’ve let go, and Milly has grabbed on, and somehow all of it feels right, as if we’ve come full circle, and we’ve ended up exactly where we need to be. Even Alice. ‘It’s not too late, Milly. I know it can’t be easy…’

  ‘It’s not. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and I have to keep doing it, day after day, for who knows how long. And it’s only going to get worse. That’s the most frightening bit. Will I be able to cope? How will we manage? How will Alice?’ Her fingers tremble as she lifts her wine glass to her lips.

  ‘And yet she’s beautiful.’ I smile at the memory of Alice on the swing, stumbling after a butterfly, just being. ‘Inside and out, she’s beautiful.’

  ‘Yes, she is.’ Milly’s voice wobbles and she sets her jaw. ‘And I’m so thankful for her, in spite of everything, because of everything. Sometimes that doesn’t make sense, but it still is.’ She lets out a shaky laugh. ‘Do I sound crazy?’

  ‘No,’ I tell her. ‘Wise.’ I pause, and then I ask hesitantly, ‘And Matt…?’

  Milly sighs. ‘He was angry for a long time, but something like this… it purifies you. It takes away all the dross of anger, resentment, bitterness, hurt.’

  ‘If you let it.’

  ‘Yes, if you let it. And that’s the decision we have to make every day. Every second. To let something good emerge, out of the bad. Out of the unimaginable.’

  I reach over to clasp her hand. ‘That’s a brave thing to do.’

  ‘It’s the only thing. The alternative is to let this destroy me, and I won’t.’ Her eyes gleam and she blinks rapidly. ‘I won’t. None of us will.’

  A creak sounds on the stair, and I turn to see Matt looking straight at me. I am still half-expecting him to tell me to leave, even now.