The Stranger In My Home: I thought she was my daughter. I was wrong.

by Parks, Adele

  ‘Well, it looks tricky.’

  ‘It’s not.’

  ‘No, you make it look easy.’ I realise I’ve just contradicted myself. I’m nervous.

  ‘I was a waitress once upon a time, you know.’ She nods at me, disinterested. Jeff finally makes his choice and she disappears back to the kitchen. Somehow, my attempt to make conversation has had the opposite effect; we sit in silence. When the waitress returns she picks up on the atmosphere. She hurries to put down Jeff’s glass of wine, stretching across the table. It’s overfull and most of it spills down my cream jacket. The table erupts. Tom looks stricken, Jeff frustrated, Katherine and Callum are mortified and Amy screams; I’m not sure whether it’s with excitement or shock. I steal a glance at Olivia. She’s making a big show of trying not to laugh. There are lots of layers in her response.

  The waitress is horrified. She instinctively starts to wipe at the blood-red stain but the cloth she has in her hand is the one she wipes down the tables with; the one that mops up smears of tomato sauce and garlic butter. ‘Oh, well, it really doesn’t matter,’ I say as I try subtly to stop her ham-fisted attempts to fix things. ‘I was always dropping things when I was a waitress! Practically every shift. Really, it’s nothing. No, you can’t pay for dry cleaning, this thing pops in the wash. A bit of Vanish will do the trick.’ I know full well it is dry-clean only and that there’s a fifty-fifty chance the stain won’t ever come out, but saying so won’t help.

  The waitress runs off to get Jeff a refill. I order a glass of white, not to drink but to throw on the stain. I know that can sometimes fix things. ‘Silly of me to wear cream to a restaurant,’ I say. ‘I should have kept it for the theatre.’ I think Katherine actually groans. I wasn’t trying to sound elitist, far from it, but I don’t go anywhere else other than eateries and the theatre; I’m a woman of a certain age, my clubbing days are long behind me. I didn’t intend to cause a fuss or a stir; the opposite.

  ‘Why did you tell her you were once a waitress?’ asks Olivia.

  ‘To put her at her ease.’

  ‘It didn’t work, did it?’ she points out with grim satisfaction. ‘I think you made her uncomfortable.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Well, she identified your overfamiliarity as embarrassment, embarrassment at your respective social positions.’

  ‘Olivia.’ I can hear the warning in Tom’s voice; Olivia, it appears, cannot. She has in fact made a very perceptive point. I’d be impressed by her intelligence if it weren’t shrouded in belligerence and an attempt to offend me.

  ‘After all, you’re not a waitress now, are you? You’re a customer in this restaurant, sitting there in your expensive clothes, so your familiarity must make things worse, not better. I mean, it’s a bit patronising, isn’t it?’

  Katherine grins, her face alight with recognition. ‘You are so right. Mum means well, but she overcompensates. When we are on holiday she won’t let us use more than one bath towel the entire week and she cleans up before room service arrives; she says it’s disrespectful expecting someone else to work around your dirty knickers.’ Amy and Olivia laugh at this, Amy with delight that the word ‘knickers’ has been said aloud at the dinner table. Olivia’s reasons are no doubt darker. Encouraged by her appreciative audience, Katherine carries on. ‘What’s the point of being able to afford five-star hotels if you’re not going to enjoy them? If you’re going to feel guilty that the guy who attends the pool looks tired?’ I place my hand over Katherine’s. She’s not embarrassing me here, she’s embarrassing herself. When she’s excited, she’s thoughtless. She sounds arrogant and inconsiderate. I can see that Tom is fighting an expression of surprise and maybe even disapproval.

  ‘Too funny,’ says Olivia.

  It’s all Katherine needs; she’s so desperate for Olivia’s approval and attention. ‘When we had a cleaner she used to scrub all the loos before she arrived. I mean, what’s that about? In the end, Dad let the cleaner go. Bizarrely, Mum seemed happy about adding to the country’s unemployment.’

  ‘OK, Katherine,’ says Jeff.

  Flushed, she ignores him. ‘Dad says it’s like she’s ashamed of what she’s become.’

  ‘OK, now, Katherine, let’s change the subject. The Trubys aren’t interested in this,’ Jeff insists. The Trubys are, in fact, rapt.

  ‘Oh, Dad, we can say anything to the Trubys. They’re practically family. They are family!’ Jeff starts to cough. It’s dramatic and prolonged. Tom and Callum scramble to pour him a glass of water and the waitress returns to the table with the fresh glasses of wine. It’s a shame because, in the commotion, I think everyone misses how Katherine finishes her diatribe. ‘It’s stupid for her to be ashamed because she’s actually very cool. A good mum. A good person. Just someone who only ever gets her hair cut by the salon director nowadays.’ Katherine beams at me, pleased with her punchline. I squeeze her fingers, but no one hears the teenager’s compliment, slipped in amidst her banter. The impression they are left with is that she is snide and I am a social climber, a slightly shame-faced one, but one all the same. I pour the white wine on the stain. It does nothing.

  11

  I give up, fall back into myself and decide to leave it to Jeff to keep things ticking over. To his credit, he picks up the mantle. He mentions that we’ve just booked a skiing trip in Andorra. ‘Are you skiers?’ he asks.

  ‘I’m a boarder, as is Olivia. Callum and Amy ski,’ replies Tom.

  ‘Oh, wonderful. Will you get away this season?’

  ‘No, not this year. None of us feels up to it.’

  The penny drops and Jeff looks stricken. I remember why I usually lead when it comes to small talk. ‘No, no, of course not. I’m so sorry,’ he says, feeling the full weight and sorrow of the dead mother at the table. I feel awful. Sorry for Jeff for putting his foot in it and distraught for these children, who lost their mother not long ago. I must make an effort, get myself together. Normally, I’d’ve asked if Tom’s wife skied or boarded. I’m a great believer in the importance of talking about people who’ve died. I think it’s the only way to keep them alive – and those who were closest, who miss them the most, do want to keep their memory alive – but Tom specifically said he wanted the evening to remain light; he more or less forbade me to talk about Annabel.

  Anyway, I can guess: she could probably do black runs with her eyes closed.

  Jeff, scrambling around for something to say to break the awkwardness, blurts, ‘Alison doesn’t ski, or board either. She’s no sense of balance.’ Tom raises an eyebrow and Jeff seems to think he has no alternative but to plunge on. ‘Utterly hopeless. When we go to the Alps she spends the week in the spa or drinking hot chocolate.’ I feel heat rise up from under my armpits; it creeps to my chest then my neck and settles on my face. I know I must look like a tomato, one of those you see trodden into the street after market day, squashed and scrappy.

  ‘Never got the hang?’ asks Tom politely. His enquiry is no doubt supposed to be kind, but the fact that I’m hopeless at something he believes simply requires a knack (rather than endless lessons and bruises) causes me to turn a deeper puce.

  ‘Neither sport has ever really appealed. I don’t much like the cold,’ I confess.

  ‘But you’re not cold if you wear the right gear,’ says Olivia. ‘And I’m certain you must have that.’ All eyes are on me now. I’ve heard this argument a dozen times before. I’ve stopped countless dinner parties in their affable tracks with my confession that I don’t like to ski. People who do enjoy hurling themselves down a mountain, whether on a board or with two sticks, never understand another person’s reluctance; it’s always seen as an inadequacy, a lack of sophistication or sense of adventure. No one ever questions the sanity of the skier (who invariably ends up with a fracture or a torn ligament), but everyone wants to have the hot-chocolate drinker certified – it makes no sense.

  Wait until they discover I don’t speak a foreign language. Or play an instrument.

  Amy announces, �
��You won’t like watching Callum play ice hockey, then. It’s always freezing!’

  ‘Oh, so you play ice hockey, Callum?’ I can’t think why I hadn’t asked about his hobbies earlier; evidently, he’s the sort of kid to have some.

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘At county level,’ adds Olivia. ‘You should have googled him.’

  ‘It never crossed my mind. I mean, that’s the sort of thing your generation do. Isn’t it? People from our generation just wait for these things to come out in conversation.’ I don’t mean to be cutting, I don’t intend to sound like a prude, but I know I do. I just can’t seem to hit the right note. I turn back to Callum, exasperated with myself. ‘I imagine that must require a lot of commitment. Do you train ferociously?’

  ‘Almost every evening.’ He glances at his iPhone to check the time. ‘Actually, that’s where I’m heading now.’ He starts to make movements that suggest he has to dash. Oh, no; he’s been instrumental in helping this evening limp on and, while it hasn’t been a roaring success, his presence has saved it from being an out-and-out disaster. I want to grab at his hoodie sleeve and beg him to stay. I think he sees the desperation in my face because he casually throws out an invite, ‘Actually, I think you would enjoy watching an ice-hockey match, even though it is chilly. It’s very exciting, and you’re clearly a family that likes a bit of competition. I think you, especially, Alison.’ He promptly looks embarrassed. ‘I didn’t mean … I just. It’s a very fast game. Exhilarating.’ I wave away his explanation. I realise he didn’t mean anything inflammatory by his comment; we’re all walking on eggshells. I try to put him at his ease.

  ‘I’ve never seen an ice-hockey game. I’m sure I would enjoy it.’

  ‘Why don’t you all come along to my game tomorrow evening? You can wrap up.’ Jeff, Katherine, Tom and Amy look delighted. Olivia looks furious. I can’t see my own face but pray I’ve pulled it into a polite enough expression to hide my horror at the thought.

  ‘Oh, we’d love to, except Jeff and I already have plans to go to friends for dinner and, as much as I’d like to wriggle out of that, I simply can’t. We’re quite strict about our noncancellation policy. It’s just a silly thing of ours. Once you accept an invite, you honour it, no matter if a more exciting offer comes along. There’s been many a time when this policy has caused Katherine to roll her eyes, I promise you.’

  ‘I bet,’ interjects Olivia.

  ‘Manners are all,’ I insist. No one looks convinced that manners are all, but I push on. ‘Maybe another time.’

  ‘Or perhaps Katherine can come on her own?’ suggests Tom.

  ‘Oh, yes!’ cries Amy.

  ‘No, no. That’s impossible,’ I counter.

  ‘Sounds like a good idea,’ comments Jeff, choosing to focus on Amy’s excitement rather than my lack of it. ‘Will that work with your lacrosse schedule, Katherine? Do you have an away game tomorrow, or have to get up early on Sunday to train?’

  ‘No, no, it’s fine,’ she replies, smiling, not even checking her timetable, which I’ve handily stored in her phone for exactly this reason. There might very well be a clash. I reach for my phone and quickly ascertain there isn’t. Damn.

  ‘Well, if that’s OK with you?’ Tom is looking at me, but what can I say? Take care of her. Bring her back to me. Go away. Just – just vanish! All these things run through my mind, thoughts like insects uselessly beating against a dirty window. Out of the question that I say any of it. I nod stiffly. ‘That’s settled, then,’ he says. ‘Should I ask for the bill?’

  ‘Settled,’ repeats Jeff. He’s beaming, and I have to concentrate very hard on not stabbing him in the hand with my fork. I catch Olivia’s eye and take no comfort in the fact that she looks as unhappy with the decision as I am. As we stand up and begin to put on our coats, I stroke Katherine’s back. The gesture is subconscious. I want her to watch herself.

  The Truby children slope out of the restaurant and set off towards their house. Callum and Amy turn to wave at us. Olivia doesn’t. She doesn’t seem to hear me when I call my goodbyes or, at least, that’s what Jeff says. I think she heard. Tom hangs back for a moment and takes the opportunity to ask Katherine how she’s getting on with her counselling sessions. I have to admit, it’s very thoughtful of him.

  ‘It’s going OK. My counsellor is called Betty Lopez.’

  ‘Pretty name,’ comments Tom affably.

  ‘Yeah, I think I’d remember even if she didn’t have a tag pinned to her saggy boobs.’ Katherine winks at me, qualms forgotten. I feel flushed with relief that we still have in-jokes, private references, not just secrets. ‘Unfortunately, she’s not as pretty as her name.’ Katherine makes this pronouncement unapologetically. Teenagers are so judgemental about how everyone looks. I’d work on that if I didn’t have to deal with a possible life-threatening disease and a brand-new birth family. ‘She wears her hair as short as a man’s, which can be an awesome look, but I get the impression Betty is not so much going for elfin beauty as for total practicality. I really think it’s possible she once tied her long hair into a ponytail and then just hacked that off with a pair of kitchen scissors because she couldn’t waste another moment washing and drying it.’ Clearly, Katherine has no more intention of telling Tom anything about her sessions than she has of telling me.

  ‘Perhaps she donated her hair to a worthy cause?’ suggests Tom.

  ‘What, like kids with cancer who need wigs?’

  ‘Yes, maybe, considering her line of work.’

  ‘She doesn’t smile properly. It’s professional but not convincing or comforting. You know what I mean?’

  ‘Does that bother you? Are you sure she’s the right counsellor for you?’ asks Tom with concern.

  ‘I don’t mind. I mean, she spends a lot of her time counselling people about their imminent deaths; she’d be weird if she was grinning from ear to ear.’

  ‘Good point.’ He breezes over her gallows humour. I wish I could do that. Is it a skill that comes with practice?

  ‘You’ve given me a pretty clear picture of her.’

  Katherine shrugs, as though she’s trying to throw off a weighty blanket. ‘I have a lot of time to think about all of this stuff when I’m in there with her, trying not to think about what they want me to think about.’

  Tom draws Katherine into an enormous, uninhibited hug. She hesitates for a moment and then I see her body relax into his. I stand aside, self-conscious and ashamed. I flick a look at Jeff. We haven’t managed to elicit a fraction of that info from her, despite regular enquiries. Tom pulls away and then makes a quick departure. He has to run to catch up with his children.

  As we wait for Katherine outside the loo, Jeff says, ‘Olivia is quite the Botticelli model, isn’t she?’ He looks delighted. ‘So very much like you.’

  I glare at him. ‘Don’t say that. We don’t know what she’s like. She seems rather—’ I break off, as my gran used to say that it’s best to be quiet if you haven’t got anything good to say.

  ‘I meant, physically, at least,’ he adds. I stare at a faded print of Venice that’s hanging on the wall, housed in a cheap Ikea frame. I wish Katherine would hurry up. I just want to go home. Close the door on this. ‘Ours is such an interesting situation.’

  ‘Interesting?’

  He looks momentarily startled, almost guilty. I wonder if he meant to make that comment aloud.

  ‘It’s unusual, you have to admit that, and this could all be a lot worse.’

  ‘It might be yet.’ I look to my feet so he won’t see the tears spring to my eyes. ‘If she has the mutated gene, I will … I will—’

  I don’t know. I want to say I will stop breathing, because that would be fitting, that would be fair, but it’s a stupid thing to say. Dramatic. Unreal. Inaccurate. A comment like that would cause Jeff to sigh impatiently. I bite my lip.

  12

  ‘I think I have a headache coming on.’ I am standing in a skirt, tights, heels and bra, flicking through the various tops
in my wardrobe, looking for something suitable to wear. A couple of things cross my mind. One: Jeff hasn’t so much as glanced at me. There was a time when he couldn’t keep his eyes off me when I was getting ready for a night out. Eyes, hands, lips. He’d often make us late and cause me to panic that my hair was going to be ruined by his impromptu amorous advances. That hasn’t happened in as long as I can remember. I suppress a sigh and console myself with the fact that my hair will at least stay in place. Two: I realise I couldn’t care less about what I wear tonight; my clothes bore me. They are irrelevant. Not one piece stands out. They all seem equally hopeless and identical; even if they are blue, black or white, they are all basically the same. From a hanger I yank a thin white top that has a silver sequin trim around the neckline and think it will do, although I’ll need a jacket; we’re going to the Fords’, and they don’t turn the heating on until November, swearing that with so many bodies the dining room will ‘soon heat up’. It never does. ‘Did you hear me?’ I demand of Jeff. ‘I think I’m getting a headache.’

  ‘No, you’re not.’

  He’s right, which, irrationally, makes me like him a little less. It’s not true that all women want to be known and understood all the time. ‘Do you think she’s going to be OK?’

  ‘She’s going to be fine.’ He’s rolling up his shirtsleeves, carefully, but in a fashion that is designed to give the impression of indifference. It’s part of his authorial look. We both know that much of tonight’s focus and conversation will be on and about him. It’s not a special occasion, not his birthday or a book launch or anything, but Jeff’s job is interesting; people want to talk about it.

  ‘I wish I could have persuaded her to have taken her ski jacket.’

  ‘Alison, she’s watching the match, not playing in it. She has about three layers on as it is, including a completely sound ordinary jacket.’ He waves his arms around a bit to show he’s at a loss for the word to describe her jacket. It’s a thin, fashionable one. Of course he has the words to describe it, he’s a writer, he is just trying to pretend that this level of concern and fuss is beneath him, unnecessary. It’s extraordinary how much we say to one another with the words we don’t use.