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

by Parks, Adele

  ‘Well, yes. I mean, less than three months ago, everything was pretty straightforward. The most she had to worry about was how to bat back a few choice jibes from Dolly Bridges. Now I think she spends all her time thinking, What if? What if? Imagining the worst.’ I shrug. I’m not telling him anything he doesn’t know.

  The teams file on to the field and the game gets off to a fast start. Katherine plays competently but not with her usual flair. She’s normally so adroit at catching, carrying and passing the little, yellow, solid rubber ball. It used to be one of my greatest pleasures, watching her run around the field. Now I find the experience profoundly perplexing; she’s so swift and strong and vital; tanned, toned, streamlined. How can her body betray her, if not now then sometime in the future? It’s wrong.

  It doesn’t seem to matter to Tom that she’s not on top form, as he appears to be unable to concentrate on the game; instead, he paces up and down the sidelines. I know he might not be entirely familiar with all the rules, but when he looks up just in time to see the opposition score he lets out an almighty celebratory whoop. The Wittington High mothers scowl at him. No matter how attractive he is, that sort of behaviour is unforgivable; polite applause is the most that can be tolerated in terms of acknowledging the opposition’s good play. He seems to be distracted by the occasional excited screeches and laughter of the small children in the nearby playground. He keeps glancing in that direction. The park is all the way across the school grounds, but I can just about make out some kids playing on the swings and dashing around the strange, bouncy animals on fat coils. Their mothers stand by. No doubt some are attentive; others are deep in conversation with their friends. I’m too far away to see but I know how the tableau looks. It’s a very ordinary afternoon: there’s a blank, colourless sky, the damp pavements are pocked with puddles from an earlier shower. Yet it’s not ordinary for us. Nothing is any more.

  ‘Did she ever play there?’ he asks.

  ‘Katherine? No, not at that playpark, it’s too far from our house.’ What can he be thinking? Actually, I wasn’t all that keen on public playparks. They made me nervous; Katherine could so easily have been knocked over by some other, bigger kid, maybe have fallen under a spinning top, or she could have been snatched. Playparks have to be Paedophile Central, surely. We had a garden that was big enough to accommodate a trampoline, a swing and a playhouse, so Katherine invariably had friends around to ours.

  ‘Amy likes to play there sometimes.’

  ‘Of course. It must be convenient.’

  ‘Well, at least she used to. Before.’ Everything is divided into before or after for him. ‘We don’t go there now. I miss it.’

  ‘They grow up so quickly,’ I comment. He nods sadly. I’ve seen pictures of Tom before Annabel died; there are a couple of family photos dotted about his house. In those photos he looks like a man who has just heard a joke or is just about to tell one. Now, even when he’s laughing, he’s a sad man. I wish I could change that.

  He shakes his head and mumbles, ‘I had so many plans, and now everything is impossible.’ I wish I could just forget the mothers on the sidelines and wrap my arms around this man who is grieving for his wife. But I can’t. I’m not that woman. I’m not that brave.

  The moment the whistle goes at half-time, Tom strides on to the pitch, heading towards Katherine’s team, all of whom are eating orange segments, huddled around the coach.

  ‘Tom, Tom, where are you going?’ I call. He ignores me. Helplessly, I watch as Katherine becomes aware of his approach. She seems to understand that he’s agitated and promptly walks towards him, heading him off before he reaches the team. It’s not unheard of for a Wittington High supporter to intervene during half-time – confident mothers and blasé fathers often throw tactical advice about, much to the chagrin of the coach; it’s the one thing I’ve never done to vex Katherine – I mean, what do I know? I wonder what Tom can be going to say. He knows nothing about the game at all.

  I watch as he folds her into an enormous hug. There, on the pitch, in front of everyone. She bears his PDA for about three seconds, which is pretty generous of her, and then she pulls apart and asks, ‘What?’

  ‘What?’ He laughs.

  She glances about. She’s standing with her knees knocked, shoulders drooped, omitting waves of mortification. ‘Was there something you needed?’

  I hear him reply, ‘Just a little talk.’

  Concerned that, if I can hear him, then others can, too, I call out and ask if he’d like some tea. ‘They serve it in the dining room. Lovely and warming.’ Katherine’s coach is calling for her to rejoin the group for the pep talk; Tom is oblivious.

  ‘So how are you doing?’ he asks.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Yes, you said that before, but really? It’s a total mind melt, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s OK.’

  ‘It isn’t. I mean, you must be scared. Waiting for the results and everything.’ I can see Katherine blinking furiously. I know she won’t want to want to cry in the middle of the game, but she might, because of his understanding. ‘You must have thought you knew exactly where you were in life, who you were. Now, nothing is certain. I understand.’ I appreciate that he’s concerned, but I’m not sure he’s helping: this isn’t the time or the place. He lowers his voice, so I don’t catch what else he’s saying, but he keeps her until the coach pulls her away, demanding that she talk tactics with the whole team before the second half commences.

  When he returns to me, he looks much brighter. However, the standard of the game does not improve. Katherine plays badly. She misses a decent chance, even though Maddie sets her up to score, and she muddles two passes. We lose 4–1 and the Wittington High supporters cast glances my way that range from faux sympathetic to maddened. They forget that it’s a team game and that, while it seems Katherine can and does sometimes win it on her own, she can’t lose it on her own.

  I’m the only one who talks much on the drive back to the school. I talk Tom through the history of lacrosse and mention the different rules between here and the US, between the men’s game and the women’s; he doesn’t seem especially engaged. He keeps looking in the rear-view mirror, trying to catch Katherine’s eye. No chance. He asks her what she’s up to over the weekend.

  ‘Nothing. Maddie asked if I wanted to go for a sleepover tonight, but I said no.’

  Tired, we wave goodbye to Tom and then clamber into our own car and set off towards home. It’s getting dark and the air feels damp. I don’t know whether to bring up Tom’s emotional dash on to the pitch. If I don’t mention it, I’m minimising it. Teens seem to want perpetually to minimise everything: their waistlines, the attention their parents pay them, the effort they put into their homework; only eyelashes ought to be maximised. But I can’t leave it alone.

  ‘What did Tom have to say that was so urgent?’ My voice has failed me. It sounds shrill and probing; I wanted to be light.

  ‘He said I’m doing brilliantly.’

  ‘Well, you are.’

  ‘He said I was strong and brave.’

  ‘That’s true, too.’

  She shrugs, ‘I don’t feel very brave.’ I’m sure Tom must have been reassuring. I know that, when he talks to me, sprinkles compliments or encouragement, it feels like a duvet being thrown over me. Settling. Although, today, he was clearly out of sorts. ‘He went on about me dealing with so much. The swap, the mutated gene, a new family, yada yada yada … and he threw in a new one.’

  ‘Waiting for the test results?’

  ‘Grieving for a new mum who is already dead.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Watch the road,’ she demands as the car in front of us brakes suddenly and a big lorry next to us grinds and lurches. I recover my composure, or at least I give the impression of doing so. She continues: ‘I know, right. I hadn’t actually thought of that one, the lost opportunity of meeting Annabel. I haven’t got it in me to imagine dealing with problems that haven’t occurred, I have too many r
eal issues. I didn’t say so, though, because it seemed offensive. I guess the lack of Annabel must be the worst thing for Tom.’

  Bad enough to make him behave inappropriately at a lacrosse game and to say tactless things to a young girl. I regret not steaming over to interrupt their conversation.

  ‘He also kept saying that everything is going to be OK.’ Katherine stares at the windscreen wipers. Swish. Clear, blur, swish. The lights change colour and someone in the car behind toots aggressively. ‘I want to believe him, but I’m also a bit annoyed that he’s giving me the cliché. I mean, he can’t know that.’

  I understand the temptation to soothe and to insist that the tests will give us the result we want, but I’ve resisted going down that path. It’s not simply because I’m forever gloom and doom, I just don’t want to lie to my child; it’s dishonest, promising her something I can’t deliver. Even Jeff – normally quite an assured, positive and poised man – has seemed a little reticent to do so. Of late, he hasn’t been himself. He’s sort of hovering on the outside, as though he’s watching everything unfold but doesn’t know how to dive in and save her. When she pushes us, the most we say is, ‘Let’s wait and see.’

  ‘He said Annabel would have loved to have met me.’

  ‘I’m sure she would.’

  ‘He said she would have been proud of me.’

  ‘Undoubtedly.’ It hurts, the thought of Katherine craving Annabel’s approval, but I smile at her, refusing to let her see anything more that might distress her.

  ‘You know what? He said, in all of this mess, if he could change just one thing, it would be that. He’d have had me meet her. I couldn’t stop thinking about that during the second half. Obviously, I realise that wishing doesn’t change a thing anyway, but I feel he’s wasted his wish, you know?’ She throws me a questioning look, disturbed and feverish. ‘Categorically, if I could change anything about this situation, then I’d have it so that Annabel didn’t have the gene in the first place. You see, if she didn’t have the mutated gene, then she wouldn’t have died and this whole business of the swap would most likely have stayed buried for ever.’ I nod but don’t trust myself to speak. Grit itches in my throat and eyes. ‘Wouldn’t that just have been for the best? Callum, Olivia and Amy would have had their two parents; I’d have had mine. We all knew where we were then. Plus, if she hadn’t had the gene, then there would be no chance of me having it. No chance of me dying. Tom should have wished for that.’

  I agree with her. She’s totally, one hundred per cent right. ‘I’m sorry, darling, I should have come and stopped him talking to you.’

  She sighs. ‘Yeah, you should have. Coach was miffed.’

  ‘He means well.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  I want to do something to make everything better. I want to wave a magic wand and grant wishes. I can’t. ‘Why did you say no to the offer of a sleepover at Maddie’s?’

  Katherine looks exhausted, fed up. ‘I thought you wouldn’t want me to go.’

  ‘Honestly, I don’t mind.’

  She looks up, excited, her face transformed in a moment. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. We can pop home, pick up your overnight things, then I can take you straight there, if you like.’

  ‘Brilliant. I’ll text her.’ Gleefully, Katherine starts to tap her phone. A giddy teenager, happy at the prospect of a night watching chick flicks and trawling Facebook to find profile pictures of teachers they can laugh at. It’s something I can give her. It’s not much, but it’s all I can do.

  27

  I know it was the right thing to do – allow Katherine to go to Maddie’s for a sleepover; she needs a valve to release all this pressure – but Jeff hasn’t got home from his lunch yet, so I find myself home alone. Listless, restless, useless. I think of the things I could do to fill the late afternoon: I could write Christmas cards, I could make a start on wrapping some of the gifts I’ve bought. There are quite a few; I tend to pick up little stocking fillers for Katherine from about August onwards. I could flick through some recipe books and start to plan the menus for the festivities. As usual, Jeff’s father and his sister and her family are going to be staying with us for three days; unusually, I’m not that excited by the prospect. Katherine’s result is due on the 18th of December. What sort of Christmas will we have?

  Tom’s emotional frailty today has left me bone weary. I can’t hide from the spread of this catastrophe. I keep hoping someone is going to be strong enough to prop me up, but that hope is fading. Jeff is distant, but I know he’s suffering; he’s drinking more than normal. Tom is open, but I feel he is a great big void that I can’t fill. I ache. Maybe I’m coming down with something. Or maybe it’s just stress. I make myself a strong cup of tea and add a heaped teaspoon of sugar. I rarely have sugar in my tea, but I need the comfort. I take the tea through to the sitting room. It all looks a bit untidy, if I’m honest. I suppose I should run the vacuum cleaner around, at least plump up the cushions and clear away the glasses and plates from last night’s TV snacks. I sigh, weary. I can’t be bothered. All I want to do is curl up under the rug and perhaps watch some mindless TV.

  I flick through a few channels. I can’t bring myself to watch the evening news, it’s too depressing, but there’s nothing other than dull, ancient repeats, programmes in which dithering couples can’t decide which house to buy, or awful tabloid shows that humiliate rather than entertain. TV is not the distraction it used to be. I once marvelled at how complicated and messy other people’s lives were. I’m abashed to admit it but I used to get a sort of hit out of the fact that mine was so sorted; as if I’d proven something, achieved or recovered something. Now I feel increasing empathy for the skinny, shouty women who, desperate and confused, demand answers on The Jeremy Kyle Show.

  I check the clock on the mantelpiece and wonder what’s keeping Jeff. I’m not one hundred per cent sure where he is today, or even who he is with. Somewhere or other. Someone or other. Is it possible that, last night while we were both doing a good impression of watching TV, he told me his plans? If so, it was in one ear, out the other. Jeff and I are in a bad place. I can’t deny it, not even to myself. We’ve barely spoken since the evening of the day we visited the counsellor with Katherine. The evening he proposed. Nine long days ago.

  I don’t know what to say to him. I don’t know how to answer. My silence is only causing more unease and tension between us, but how can I think about his proposal now? Especially a proposal that was so begrudgingly issued. The matter is too big and thorny to tackle.

  Suddenly, I want to do something nice for him. A gesture that will show him I’m still here. That I know he’s here, too, in this awful predicament. I can’t start cooking, because I have no idea when he’ll be back. I glance around the unkempt room again. I could make it look more welcoming. It’s a start. I force myself to get from under the rug and begin to whizz about.

  It doesn’t take long for me to get things shipshape in the sitting room. All that was really required was a top tidy. Next, I head for Jeff’s study. He hates me poking about in there when he’s at home, but the room is in dire need of an airing. It no longer smells of old books and leather, it smells of stale sweat and dust. I could give it a good clear-out to surprise him.

  I carefully place weights on the piles of paper scattered across his desk, floor and shelves before I ease open the window and let the chilly early-evening air drift in to the fusty room. The debris of his labour is peppered everywhere. I turn and wonder where to start; it doesn’t do to tidy vigorously because for the several months following I have to live with complaints that he can’t find whatever it is he’s looking for, and I’m trying to do a good thing here, not upset the apple cart further. Besides, he does not accept that it is chaos. To him, mess is an essential part of the creative process. He says neat piles are offensive. I argue that knowing where bills are filed is a basic necessity of being a grown up. Mess is simply mess. Aren’t we the living embodiments of that now? Still, at lea
st this is the sort of chaos I can ease.

  I gather up the coffee cups and wine glasses, then empty the waste-paper basket. I remove any objects that can definitely be counted as peculiar in a work environment, such as a random coat hanger, one of Katherine’s hoodies and a tennis racquet. The room looks better, but far from sorted. Bearing in mind Jeff’s distaste for neat piles and my need to know that the utilities have been paid, I start to carefully pick up pieces of paper from his desk and read them to see if I need to act upon anything. If not, then I replace the paper exactly where I found it. It’s a laborious and not especially satisfying process, but this is what needs to be done.

  Many writers hang on to traditions more staunchly than the average citizen. Writers often like actual books, physical newspapers and a proper desk diary. Often, they have a National Trust diary, the type that comes free with membership, as this sort advertises frugality, and most writers like to wear their poverty as a badge of honour; or the desk diary might be something arty, one that shows Mapplethorpe’s photos, or similar. Jeff has a luxurious, frighteningly expensive Smythson of Bond Street journal. He writes in it with his Montblanc fountain pen.

  Curiosity overwhelms me. In a second, I flip the pages and discover that he has had lunch with his agent, Sue, today. I’m a little taken aback. Lunches with agents are a rare enough occurrence that Jeff generally discusses them in advance. At length. He chats about the date and, more importantly, the venue. He tells me his agenda. I feel a flash of guilt that this occasion, which must be important to him, has gone unnoticed by me. I pick my way through a bit more physical paperwork – a final demand for his NI contributions, some receipts for ink cartridges – and, as I stack up the back issues of the Bookseller, I begin to wonder what they might have been meeting to discuss.

  General strategy, perhaps? To celebrate a landmark sales figure? Luckily, Jeff’s last novel is still selling at a reasonable rate. I know there isn’t an imminent launch – if only! Could it be a pitch? A treatment? It’s too much to hope that he might actually be delivering a book. It’s certainly been a very long lunch. It’s past five now. My heart gives a little skip. If he’s working on a treatment, then that is exciting news. I feel a small thrill at the thought of discussing it with him tonight.