Fran threw a cushion at her. Celine Dion crooned in the background and Chinese take-away cartons littered the coffee table. It was Wednesday night and the AA meeting was being held in Fran’s flat, between the two of them. Neither of them were responding to the AA meetings as well as they would have liked. Fran still felt as though she was being judged by everyone in the room even though their experiences were similar. In some ways the meetings made her want to drink more. During the time she spent in that room she could think of little else. Here, now with Kit, they talked of other things and gave each other the support they both needed and would need for a long time yet, but she at least managed to feel a little less of a freak.
‘Carry on,’ she said impatiently, watching as the stupid smile formed on Kit’s lips. I want one of those, she thought. I want to glow too.
‘We went back to bed. That’s it.’
‘My dear Kit, I think you are in lust,’ said Fran, pouring more juice.
‘I don’t care what it is. I just feel like I’ve been deflowered.’ She cocked her head. ‘Isn’t that a pretty way of saying it?’
‘What about Tyler?’
‘He apologised for standing me up. I just nodded politely and told him it was no big deal.’
‘Didn’t you say it sounded like he was in a bar or something when he called? Come on, Kit, that’s a bit off, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, but what am I going to say? Thanks for not turning up, it was the best night’s sex I’ve ever had. I’m sure he’d love to hear that.’
Fran laughed. The change in Kit was amazing. There was an aura around her that reminded Fran of the old Ready Brek adverts. She looked like she had a secret that the world was yet to learn. She’s like an out-of-focus photograph, thought Fran. Still the same but blurred around the edges. The sarcasm was still there but without the edge. It appeared that Mark had softened everything about her. She smiled with genuine warmth now. Her hairstyle had remained soft since their visit to the salon and the habitual black was often toned down with a softer colour. Fran noticed she wore little make-up these days.
‘What about you, anyway? When are you seeing Martin?’
‘Martine, you ignorant woman,’ chuckled Fran. ‘And I don’t know. I’m waiting for her to call.’
Fran tried to keep the impatience out of her voice. It had been over a week and each day she hoped Martine would call. Fear mingled with excitement made her feel like she was in a never-ending queue for a roller-coaster ride. She’d checked the answering machine twice to make sure it was working properly. She’d asked Dawn to ensure that her phone was answered at all times. But still no call. A frightening thought had hovered for days. What if Martine had changed her mind and didn’t want to spend time with her? What if she’d met someone else on her travels, someone like Cristina?
She pushed the thought away angrily. How could she be jealous of a dead woman? That was sick and she felt guilty for thinking it. But still…
‘So are we going to see you on the gay protests for lowering the age of consent and all that?’
‘Kit, you need to stop watching the television. Not every gay person feels the need to run around half-naked to prove who they are, just as not every heterosexual needs to. Some people, whatever their sexuality, just want to live a peaceful, happy life with someone they care about.’
‘Ooh, this is getting deep!’ chuckled Kit. ‘But isn’t that kind of selling-out? I mean, don’t you have an obligation to fight for the rights of people like you? The sisterhood and all that?’
‘If that argument holds weight then don’t you have a responsibility to fight for heterosexuals?’
‘I’m not the minority.’
Fran thought for a moment. ‘But who do I help by throwing my sexuality in your face? If you don’t mind gay people it won’t affect you but if you are homophobic then my aggression in stating my case will only offend more. This isn’t Vietnam, Kit. I’m not going to fight for a cause that I don’t understand. I’m not saying our society is perfect but until it understands that we are real people trying to live normal lives we’ll get nowhere.’
Kit prodded harder. ‘But don’t you want the same rights as heterosexuals?’
‘In what sense?’
‘I dunno, public displays of affection, that sort of thing.’
‘Why does every couple you see feel the need to be kissing and groping every minute of the day? While they’re having a meal, walking in the park? My God, I thought you had a better idea than this!’
‘Oh, come on Fran! This is a hypothetical debate. I’m interested.’
‘Maybe I’ll feel different in ten years’ time. At the moment I’m new to this. I’ve never stood out in a butcher’s shop never mind a gay protest but all I want is what other people want: to be happy and content. I don’t expect everyone to approve of marriage between two women, that will never happen.’
‘But being gay is not your choice, so why shouldn’t you?’ Kit goaded.
‘No, being gay is not my choice but deciding to embark on a relationship with a woman is. Now I have to decide whether I’m doing that for me or for the gay community.’ Fran gave a little chuckle to lighten the atmosphere. ‘I suppose I’m what you’d call a laid-back lesbian.’
‘Well, I think…’
Kit was interrupted by the doorbell. Fran sat up startled. ‘Who on earth could that be?’
‘Hang on, I’ll just get my crystal ball,’ said Kit, removing her legs from the coffee table.
‘But I’m not expecting anyone at this hour.’ Fran checked the clock on the fireplace. It was after ten o’clock.
The doorbell sounded again. ‘Well, we could sit here and guess for hours but you know what, why not just open the door instead?’ Kit suggested, cocking her head.
Fran looked through the security hole carefully as though it might bite. She stood back and opened the door quickly. ‘Father?’
He looked at her as though waking from a deep sleep. Fran saw instantly that his suit did not fit as it should; it hung like the skin of an obese person after a crash diet. His face was pale and drawn, with no sight of the ruddy, healthy complexion.
‘Hello, Frances, may I come inside?’
Fran was shocked at his voice. It was the low, deep voice that she remembered but much quieter. Foreboding rolled around her stomach.
‘Oh, I’m sorry I’ve disturbed—’
‘No, no, it was time for me to leave anyway,’ said Kit, rising from the sofa. She shot a questioning glance at Fran, who stood behind her father. Her slight shrug told Kit she had no idea what was going on.
‘Father, this is Kit. She’s a friend of mine.’ Fran realised it would have been more accurate to admit she was the only friend of hers.
Patrick Thornton extended his hand. ‘Do you work together?’ he asked politely, taking in Kit’s less than impeccable appearance. Her T-shirt wasn’t sure whether it wanted to be constricted beneath the waistband or hanging loose. The dark blue jeans were slashed at the knees. The sight of the leather jacket brought a panicky look to his face.
‘You’re okay, you can keep your wallet,’ Kit said sharply, seeing the result in his eyes of the instant appraisal. ‘No, I’m not a lawyer. I actually work for a living,’ she joked.
Fran cringed, knowing her father’s opinion of Kit immediately. She was concerned only that Kit would not be offended by her father’s demeanour.
Before Patrick could respond Kit was walking towards the door. ‘Nice chap, your father,’ she said sarcastically as Fran opened the door.
‘That’s him, not me,’ said Fran, a little shakily.
‘Hey, are you okay?’
Fran nodded. ‘There’s something wrong, he’s never done this.’
Kit looked into the lounge and back at Fran. ‘Want me to stay?’
The thought appealed to Fran. Let Kit stay. Let Kit tell her father what she thought of him. Sit back and watch while Kit said everything she should have the courage to say. The thought was tempting.
‘No, go home. I’ll be okay.’
Kit hesitated. ‘All right, but call me when he’s gone, whatever time it is. I’ll bill you for it later,’ she said with a reassuring smile.
Fran nodded gratefully and returned to face her father.
He was sitting as though he needed to, on the sofa nearest to the fireplace.
‘Interesting girl,’ he commented with obvious disapproval. Fran ignored the tone. He was right, ‘interesting’ was one word for Kit. There were many others but none he would understand.
She remained silent. Meetings like this were unheard of. Fran occasionally saw Alicia without Patrick but never the other way around. She’d often wondered if Alicia carried his lungs in her Chanel handbag – she was sure that was where she kept his backbone.
‘Ah, Ming vase!’ He nodded towards the centrepiece of porcelain. ‘Alicia’s favourite.’
‘It’s only a copy,’ she said uncomfortably. Her father didn’t fit in her home, especially alone with her. She couldn’t remember when they’d last been alone together.
‘You’re not well, are you?’ she asked without preamble.
‘No, I’ve known for a while now. But that’s not why I’m here.’
‘Are you…?’ Her words trailed off. She couldn’t say the word.
He nodded. ‘Yes, Frances, I’m dying.’ He shook himself and rearranged his features into the mask that she knew so well. It was his courtroom face, the one taught him by Alicia, she was sure. The grey eyes held no warmth and no feeling. His chin was set and he stared straight ahead.
‘H… how long?’ she stuttered. Surely there would be words now, explanations; details of his illness.
‘Not long. A month, maybe two.’
Fran wanted to scream at him. She wanted to know why no one had seen fit to tell her. After all she was their daughter. As she watched him amble to the window she knew it would do no good. Her parents had always played by their own rules; this time had been no different.
‘The rest is irrelevant, Frances. I say again, that’s not why I came.’
Fran wondered what sort of relationship it was that such few words were the total conversation that would take place about her father’s terminal illness. Was she not allowed to show any emotion, even now?
‘I failed you, Frances, I’m sorry.’ The words were clipped and he didn’t look at her. ‘You’ve done well for yourself and I’m proud of you.’
How many years had she waited for those words, from both of them? And they came now, more or less in the same breath that he used to tell her that he was dying. ‘The saddest day of my life was the day you were told your child had died.’ He didn’t turn; he spoke to the glass.
Fran seated herself on the sofa and waited. Why now? Why after all these years was he talking to her about something buried in the graveyard that was their family history?
‘I waited, you know. I prayed for a sign that you would show some resistance to Alicia. That you would be worthy…’
‘I was sixteen,’ she defended. ‘I told her I wanted to keep him. If he’d lived I would have fought. How can you blame me? My child had just died, what was I supposed to do?’
Fran could not believe what she was hearing. All her life she had fought a losing battle against the closed-off, exclusive unit that was her parents. Never could she remember either one of them spending any time with her as a child, other than to instil the sense of righteousness and rigidity that now controlled her life. Her heart cried at the injustice of his words.
‘Father, I’ve lived with that loss inside me. I’ve coped with it and in true family tradition I haven’t bothered anyone with it. Don’t you think I wonder how different my life might have been if I’d been given the opportunity to love? I think about it, my God, I think about it, I’ve cried about it, but I can’t bloody well change it.’
‘But you can do something about it now.’
‘I don’t understand.’
Patrick opened his briefcase and extracted a thin white manila envelope. He laid it down on the sofa beside her. She didn’t touch it; she just looked at him for an explanation.
‘He didn’t die, Frances.’
Fran had an uncontrollable need to laugh. Initially at the absurdity of the notion and then at the ridiculousness of her father making such cruel jokes. Her child alive, no, it wasn’t true. This was just another sick joke instigated by her mother to torture her.
‘Father, I don’t know why you’re here but—’
‘It’s true, Frances. Your son is alive but he was born—’
‘I really hope this is a cruel joke because accepting the alternative is impossible,’ she warned.
Patrick continued to speak as though she weren’t there.
‘He was born with an illness. Down’s syndrome, they call it. We decided it was better that you didn’t know.’
Fran slumped backwards. This was not real, only the sickness and the rising bile were real. She ran to the bathroom and vomited violently, still denying that he spoke the truth. They could not have kept her son’s existence secret from her for eight years, no way. She would have known he was alive. Surely she would have felt that he was alive. She had mourned his death for eight years, blamed herself for it for eight years and all that time he’d been alive, without her. It wasn’t possible.
Her head fell on to the toilet seat as sickness threatened her again. What parallel universe was she in and when had she changed over? Was it when Kit was here? After she left? When?
Her mind flashed back to the morning after his birth. Where was his body? Why had the doctor left so soon without making sure she was okay? Why had Maria suddenly been kind to her as though she’d been unfairly treated? Why the hell did she never ask these questions? Her mind roared.
Oh my God, it has to be true, she realised. My son is alive. Eight years old, and alive. She began to laugh, before the tears choked her and she was laughing and crying. Until she remembered her father in the lounge. And the deceit. Fran tried to regain her composure. She had to think straight; she had to get past the rock that was sinking lower in her stomach as a portion of her heart curled up and died. They were not important now, only her child.
‘Where is he?’ she asked sharply as she re-entered the lounge.
‘It’s in there,’ he stated, indicating the envelope.
‘What happened? Give me the facts and don’t try to dress them up with caring platitudes, just tell me.’
‘Frances, it was the best—’
‘Tell me!’ she screamed.
He took a deep breath. ‘You were unconscious when the baby was finally delivered by caesarean section. You were exhausted and there was nothing we could do to help—’
‘Father…’ she warned.
‘It was obvious immediately that there was something wrong with him. We all stared in silence at the bloated face with scrunched features, not knowing what to do for what seemed like hours. We looked at each other, waiting for someone else to decide what to do. Finally, it was decided by Alicia that you would be told the child had died.’
‘You do surprise me,’ grated Fran, feeling any trace of emotional attachment to these people disappear.
‘Frances, you were young, sixteen, for heaven’s sake! How could you have coped with a handicapped child? You were no more than a ch—’
‘Then what?’
He took a deep breath that rattled in his chest. ‘The arrangements for the baby were made by me. Alicia wanted no part of it; she just wanted it gone. I was the cleaner.’ He paused. ‘I have received regular progress reports since. Your mother has no knowledge of this.’
Fran cringed at the businesslike manner in which he spoke. There was no emotion behind his words. Progress reports, he could have been talking about a stock market investment. Easier to stomach but harder to believe was his secrecy from her mother.
The details of her son’s whereabouts were just a few feet away. She had only to reach out and her questions would be answered.
The black scar that had remained in her heart, closed and shrivelled up for years, now reached out to the envelope.
‘Why?’ she asked simply.
‘He’s my grandson.’
Her hand itched to move towards the envelope but she couldn’t. Not yet. ‘Why now?’
‘Because I’m dying.’
Eight years of loneliness and lies were about to end and she would from this day on always know what her son was doing. It was hard to accept so quickly. Fifteen minutes ago he’d been dead.
‘Is he happy?’ The question that had beaten all others jumped out of her mouth. This was one thing that she had to know. The details she would dissect later.
‘Yes, as happy as he can be.’
Her heart clapped and cheered.
‘What about Mother?’
‘That is your choice. I am giving this information to you, it’s all I have.’
He checked his watch. She saw his growing discomfort. Old habits die hard; he’d completed what he’d come to do, his purpose for seeing her over. But she wasn’t finished that easily.
‘Why, Father? One question you have to answer is why you wanted me? Was it a fashionable time to have a child? Did the housekeeper need something to fill her time? For God’s sake, answer me! You owe me that much.’
He appraised her as her mother did. ‘You should have been so different.’
His hand was on the door handle. He lowered his briefcase to the floor. ‘One day you will understand why it was so hard to show you the love you deserved. Don’t try to be like her, Frances. You are yourself. You are beautiful and intelligent. You have no reason to emulate Alicia.’
She ignored him. He hadn’t answered her questions so his words were no longer important to her. Nothing else mattered now except her son and the fact that his life had been withheld from her.
‘Father.’ She looked into his eyes with complete control. ‘Get out of my home and do not come here again.’
Before his surprised expression could form any response, the door was closed.
She stood rooted to the spot, bewildered by the events of their one conversation and the realisation that he had told her he was dying, he had told her that her son was alive and not once had they touched. Deep inside her she felt sadness for his illness, the way she might for a work colleague. She felt regret for the relationship they could have had but the door that had remained open and inviting for more than twenty years was now forever closed to her parents.
The Forgotten Woman: A gripping, emotional rollercoaster read you’ll devour in one sitting Page 19