by Parks, Adele
I want to scream. I thought I was being so vigilant and attentive. I’ve tried so hard to protect her from every conceivable risk or threat. But I was blind.
I lie on my back. Jeff is on his side now, facing me. His eyes are closed but I know, because I’m so familiar with his breathing patterns, that he’s not asleep. ‘I have wasted so much time being anxious about the little things and the various possible horrors, and now this. This.’ He reaches out and puts his hand on my shoulder. This. I could never have imagined. ‘I have to get used to the fact that she’s not mine. Not by blood.’
‘No, not in fact,’ he says with a sigh.
‘Yes, in fact, just not by blood.’
8
I should be ironing, or cooking, or cleaning the fridge, but I’m not, I’m staring at the TV. It’s not even switched on. Jeff is not at home; he’s gone into London to use the British Library. He spends a lot of his time either there or at the local university library. He has a visiting professorship at the uni and so likes to show his face now and again. I can’t believe, in this day and age, that there is anything Jeff needs to research that he can’t find on the internet. When I put this to him, he says he likes to write in a library, surrounded by great works produced by stupendous minds. He says it’s inspiring. It’s hard to think that a comment such as that is anything other than an affectation, but writers can be very affected – at least Jeff does not insist on wearing a hat at all times, dyeing his hair purple or quoting Shakespeare’s sonnets – so I let it slide. Besides, it is a relief to hear he is writing again. A relief that he’s not going to renege on his publishing contract. That’s a complication we can do without right now.
And it’s a relief that he’s out of the house.
In truth, right now we’re finding one another’s company a bit hard going. We’re not rowing exactly, but we’re snapping at one another. Almost constantly. I did not know that it was possible to argue over the way a person stacks the dishwasher – or the fact that they fold their dressing gown. I’ve watched Jeff do this for years, but it has only just started to bother me. I mean, really, who folds a dressing gown? Most people simply throw it down somewhere, on the floor, or a chair, or perhaps hang it on the back of a door. What am I talking about? Most people don’t even wear dressing gowns: it’s so old, so settled, so annoying!
Deep breath. We’re under a lot of stress.
We have yet to have Katherine tested for the defective gene, but she is in counselling. She didn’t want to go to a counsellor but we thought – well, Jeff, in particular, thought – that she needed to talk to a professional.
‘All the websites recommend counselling before you take the test and I know that, if there’s one thing you like better than academic achievement, it’s an authoritative website giving direction,’ said Jeff.
‘Very funny.’
In the end I agreed to it, but as I drove Katherine to her first session I suggested that we didn’t need to go into too much detail.
‘By which you mean?’
‘Well, our situation is complex. We don’t want to get sidetracked.’ I risked glancing at her, trying to work out if she understood what I was saying.
‘What about “honesty is the best policy”? You’re always telling me that.’
Sometimes it’s a bit inconvenient that my daughter takes me at my word and can quote that word back to me.
‘I’m not asking you to lie, I’m suggesting you omit.’
‘So honesty is only important if it’s people – specifically, me – being honest with you. Any other sort of honesty is negotiable.’
I tried to ignore her tetchiness. ‘I mean, it’s probably easier all round if we just say you are adopted and that you’ve just found out, rather than mention the—’ I hesitated, still unsure how to refer to our predicament: ‘the mix-up.’
‘OK. If you like.’
Jeff thinks that the counsellor ought to know the full story; he said that we are adding to Katherine’s sense of confusion by not talking everything through properly. Maybe. However, I’m terrified the story will be leaked to the school, to the papers. This is just the sort of thing the tabloids like to jump on: a hospital cock-up. I can imagine the headlines: CHANGELINGS: THE PRINCESS AND THE PAUPER – not that Katherine is a princess, and nor is Olivia a pauper, but when has the truth ever got in the way of a juicy headline? I’m simply not ready for that.
‘Who would leak it?’ Jeff asked.
‘The counsellor.’
‘She can’t. Everything that’s said in the sessions is confidential. Isn’t there an oath or something? The Hippocratic oath?’
‘That’s doctors. I looked it up. Confidentiality is not absolute in counselling sessions. There are exceptions.’
‘What sort of exceptions?’
‘Public interest. Counsellors may need to make a referral to the police or social services when there is a serious risk of imminent harm to their clients or to others.’
‘That’s not the case with us.’
‘When a client is seriously mentally ill or in cases of child or elder abuse.’
‘Well, that isn’t us either. Is it? You’re talking rot.’
I don’t know. Could anyone think it was abuse that I’d brought the wrong baby home from hospital? It was certainly careless.
‘I’m just not ready for it, Jeff, can’t you understand that?’
‘This isn’t about you, though, is it?’
‘It’s about her deciding when she’s ready to take the test for the mutated gene.’
‘Yes, but what about equipping Katherine for the moment she meets the Trubys?’
‘Katherine doesn’t want anything to do with them. She’s said as much.’
Jeff sighed dramatically – he looked caught between exasperation and pity – then left the room. Recently, we’ve all spent a lot of time in separate rooms. I finally see a use for our big house beyond advertising Jeff’s success.
I have not felt a need to return Tom Truby’s telephone calls. We have enough to deal with. He’s becoming a pest. I fear it’s only a matter of time until Katherine picks up the phone and it’s him; although, in fairness, on all but one occasion he has confined his calls to times when Katherine is at school. Noticing his thoughtfulness is somehow upsetting. At least, unsettling. I don’t want him to be thoughtful, although obviously I don’t want him to be unreasonable. I don’t know what I want.
The doorbell rings, jolting me out of my stupor. When I open the door my first thought is that he looks dreadful. Possibly a fraction thinner than when I saw him last, and certainly more anxious.
‘Hello, Tom.’
‘You told her,’ he says, not bothering with any social niceties.
‘Yes. How did you know?’
‘She comes to our house, stands outside, watches us.’
I feel myself sway. I think of my gran saying, ‘Well, he could have knocked me over with a feather’ and for the first time I understand the quaint, now painfully accurate, turn of phrase.
‘That’s impossible. She’s said she doesn’t want anything to do with you. She’s sworn she only wants one family. Us.’ I’m so dismayed, shaken, I don’t even consider how rude this must sound. I just have to keep him at bay. Them at bay. The siblings, too. That’s all I have to do.
But he shakes his head and shrugs, sorry for me. His shrug is something Katherine does. Just the right shoulder. I thought gestures were learnt, not inherent, but this proves otherwise. I’m hardly surprised to be wrong. I’m always wrong. The shrug jolts something in my heart. Suddenly, I am awash with a huge sense of intimacy. It’s peculiar, because I feel I know Tom better than I do. I realise that this comes from the fact that he’s Katherine’s biological father. They are undeniably alike. Even though he is trouble, he is somehow my trouble. ‘You had better come in.’
I make him coffee. This time he accepts an Americano. As I hand the cup to him, he wraps his fingers around it, although it’s not cold in here. I notice he has eleg
ant fingers; he probably plays an instrument, the piano or the violin. Maybe even the cello, like Katherine. I can’t bring myself to ask. Her playing the cello has always been such a source of pride to me. We’d thought she got her musical talent from Jeff’s mum. I invite him to go through to the living room and have a seat there but we don’t make the move; instead, we end up sitting on the stools at the breakfast bar. Tom can’t tear his eyes away from the photos on the wall.
Eventually, reluctantly, I offer: ‘Take a proper look.’
He leaps out of his seat and dashes to the wall. His eyes drink her in. I can’t stop him. I tell myself that his enjoyment of the photos can’t diminish them for me; he can’t take away my memories. He can’t take away my daughter. Can he? ‘She looks a lot like my other two.’ I can hear excitement in his voice, but I don’t know how to reply. He suddenly catches himself and blushes, ‘Well, you know, I mean my oldest and youngest.’ I wonder whether he has a photo of Olivia with him but I don’t ask. I am curious. Certainly, I am. Late at night I find my mind drifts to the motherless girl and I wonder how she’s managing with all of this. Who is she talking to? I hope there’s someone. But I haven’t got a right to both of them. I have to choose. So I don’t indulge my curiosity by asking to see a photo of her. I need to keep my distance.
I have dozens of photo albums stuffed with every single stage of Katherine’s life. I keep them on shelves in the living room, always close by. They are ordered by the colour of the album cover, not chronology, which is fun, because whenever I reach for one I’m treated to an unexpected slice of time travel. She might be three years old, pink and plump at EuroDisney, breathless and beaming at a fairy-tale princess, or she might be eleven, smart in her school uniform, serious and eager, or eight, wide-eyed, face sticky as she devours ice cream. I could offer to show him. There are so many, if he sat through them he wouldn’t think he’d missed out on a single moment. I can’t bring myself to mention them.
I’m not ready for that yet. Sharing her.
I’m not ready for Katherine to have the gene test and, to my shame, I’m not ready to see a photo of Olivia, let alone meet her. I’m not ready for anything to change. I’m not sure when I ever will be.
After a while he comes back to his seat and I have to ask. ‘How many times has she been to your house?’
‘I’m not certain. I’ve only seen her once, but Olivia says she’s seen her a few times.’
‘When?’
‘Well, I saw her one time when I came home from work early.’
‘But Katherine goes to school in Chatterford.’ Chatterford is south of our house by twenty-five minutes; the Trubys live in Warringdon, north of us by twenty minutes. ‘I drop her off and pick her up.’ My voice trails away as I understand. Katherine has been playing truant. I feel panic that Tom Truby has drawn the same conclusion. What must he think of that? That I lack control or, worse still, knowledge, about my daughter. My mind flies to court cases, to him telling a jury that I’m not vigilant, not careful. That I’m an unfit mother. And I am! How have I failed to notice she’s playing truant? Why hasn’t anyone from the school called? They have quite strict rules about absenteeism. Katherine must be writing notes to excuse herself, possibly from my email account. As I drop her off at school, I can only assume that, from there, she takes a train and then maybe a bus to the Trubys’.
I know exactly where they live. I looked them up on Google Maps. I zoomed in on the satellite photo, trying to distinguish their red clay roof from all the others in their dense street. The thought of Katherine catching public transport into new, uncharted areas alarms me. How did she get their address? I had put it away in a drawer in my dressing table, hidden in amongst all the lipstick stubs and ancient eye shadows I’ve lost interest in. Did she stumble across it or root it out? Why don’t I know? Maybe she checked my history on my computer and put two and two together. She’s sharp enough. But does she do that sort of thing? Snooping? Truancy? Lying? I sense that Tom has worked all this out in a flash. He seems knowing – worldlier. More prepared. I hate the feeling he knows more about Katherine than I do. I want him to think of us as – well, perfect. Perfectly happy. Perfectly content. Perfectly impregnable.
Mostly that.
Not that I can say Tom is exactly battering down the door of our sanctuary; it’s more that he’s seeping in. Seeping underneath, and over; past the hinges.
‘Well, Olivia must be playing truant, too,’ I say sharply.
‘Yes, she must. I’ll have to talk to her.’ He isn’t defensive, the air around him is more defeated and I feel unexpectedly sorry for him. It must be difficult bringing up three kids on his own. Teenagers aren’t easy at the best of times and this is by no means what anyone would describe as the best of times. His vulnerability somehow allows me to admit to mine.
‘I thought Katherine was handling everything quite well. I wanted to believe that. I shouldn’t have been fooled. It just never crossed my mind that she did want to see you. Why didn’t she just say so? I’d have taken her to you. We could have done it properly.’
‘I guess she didn’t want to hurt you,’ he says softly.
I am in pain, actual physical pain. He rests his hand on my arm for a brief moment and squeezes it. It helps; it’s a comfort. The minute I feel as much, terror shoots through my body. I don’t want his comfort. Do I? I feel lonely, threatened and insecure, and it’s all his fault. I don’t want it but maybe I need it. Jeff certainly isn’t offering any. I stand up and open the kitchen window. I need air, cool air. I take deep gulps. There’s a pain in my forehead and in my neck, a tight throb, it’s been there since Tom first visited three weeks ago and no amount of paracetamol can shift it.
‘And Olivia? How is she managing?’
‘Pretty well, I think. On the whole.’
‘Yet she’s also skipping school.’
‘Well, yes, but—’ He doesn’t finish the sentence.
‘What?’ I prompt.
‘Well, she only has the swap to worry about. At least she’s free of the mutated gene.’
‘And the fact she’s lost her mother,’ I add with a deep sigh. Tom shrugs. His gesture is almost callous, but I understand: there’s only so much he can bear, only so much he can deal with. They are all grieving. Besides, Olivia hasn’t been hanging around our house. I’d know if she had because we’re home most of the day. She doesn’t seem to want or need us. We both fall silent. This situation is too horrific for relative strangers to negotiate.
He coughs. ‘Have you done the test?’
‘We’re not rushing into it,’ I snap. ‘She’s in counselling. We will do it, at some point. When the time is right.’ He nods. Doesn’t push but stares at me with her eyes, wounded, and I feel bad for snapping. He must be worried, too. He knows more about this destructive gene than most. ‘I’ll let you know when she does.’
That should be it. He’s done what he said he came to do. He’s told us Katherine’s playing truant; he must know I will respond to it appropriately. He can go now. Get out of our life.
Except that Katherine secretly visits them.
‘Have you spoken to her?’ I ask carefully.
‘Not yet.’
So he’s going to. The pain in my head and my neck sharpens; it hits me in my gut, too. I feel the strength of him. The determination. He’s planning on having Katherine in his life. He’s not going to go away. I feel breathless and sick. Caught. ‘I thought we ought to manage the situation between us.’ His suggestion is reasonable yet I recoil from it. I’m backed into a corner, I see that. If I don’t agree to work with him then he’ll still see Katherine, they’ll find a way; that much is obvious.
‘I thought perhaps we could do something together, all of us. Some quality time,’ he offers.
Inwardly, I scowl. I’m being managed – not manipulated exactly, but certainly controlled, and I resent it. I hate the expression ‘quality time’, as I hate the expression ‘me time’ and ‘family time’. I don’t understand why pe
ople divide it all up. All my time is intrinsically linked to Katherine and Jeff. It’s about them, it’s about me and it’s certainly quality. Whether I’m with them or apart from them, they are my priorities and that, in my opinion, is how it should be. I don’t have to carve out time to make them feel valued, they simply are. They are valued when I’m shopping, cooking, cleaning or lying on a beach mat in the south of France. They are my reason. Katherine, particularly, because she is my greatest achievement, my triumph, my legacy.
Or at least I thought she was.
‘That might be a bit much,’ I grumble.
‘Well, then, just the girls and the parents. I can leave the siblings at home, although they are, quite naturally, keen to meet her.’
‘Maybe.’
Instead of settling, he pushes. ‘Although I think we are all guilty of underestimating our children from time to time … are you quite sure Katherine won’t be able to cope with meeting Callum and Amy, too? I’d like to have the whole family involved from the get-go if I can. You can imagine: they’ve been through so much. They’re very excited about this.’
I doubt his kids are excited about this and I’m certain I don’t underestimate Katherine, I’m just trying to protect her, but all the same I see the situation for what it is. I look at this lean, determined man and feel a wave of defeat wash over me. He’s dogged. I bet he wore this expression when he was fighting for test results, painkillers and even when he was letting his wife go. Dignified. Untiring. Indomitable. He’s sick of the word ‘no’. He’s not going to accept it. Even though I hate his expression, I fear I will be spending ‘quality time’ with him and his children. I don’t have a choice. I shrug, with both shoulders. The way I do, not the way Katherine does, and even that seems poignant. He must take my gesture as agreement because he suggests the following Wednesday evening and starts to walk towards the door. The most I can hope for is a stay of execution.