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

by Parks, Adele

  ‘Peter,’ she whispered.

  ‘You know, I think that’s the first honest thing you’ve said to me all day. Come on.’ He took her hand and led her down the escalator and outside into the freezing London street. ‘Let’s find a quiet bar.’

  And it was there, in a tatty Wetherspoons, that she told him everything. Her grief, regret and guilt spewed on to the tiny table between them, staining it just as surely as the rings of red wine left by glasses had stained it before. She told him, because he asked, that she loved Peter with a violence, almost, that he was always with her, even though he hadn’t ever been. Not really.

  ‘I gave him up because I loved him. It might seem like the opposite, but I thought I was doing what was right for my baby.’ He put his hand on hers and squeezed. ‘I couldn’t cope. I didn’t know how to. I know other girls manage and will go on managing, but I couldn’t.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ he said tenderly. ‘You were a kid yourself.’

  ‘The social worker said there was a chance I could still do my exams, maybe one day go to university. She said Peter would be placed with parents who would adore him, who had longed for him.’

  ‘I’m sure he was.’

  ‘She kept saying it over and over: “His new family will love him very much.” I kept saying that I loved him very much, but she gave me this weird look. I understood: my love was not enough. My love was inadequate. She said it was the best thing for everyone. Best all round.’ He didn’t comment on that.

  Jeff’s reaction was perfect. In many ways, he healed Alison that day. He saw in her things that were so deeply buried, so long neglected, that even she had forgotten they existed. Good things which had, to all intents and purposes, disappeared. He dug them out. Reinstated them. He celebrated her resilience and didn’t call her a hard bitch; he insisted her unease and gaucheness were manifestations of artlessness. He saw her refusal to look back as a healthy survival instinct or possibly as natural, youthful ambition. He unshackled her from her sad past. He said he understood her choice – which had been no sort of choice at all – and that anyone in their right mind would understand why she’d made the decision she had.

  She told him that her family had never forgiven her. ‘Not that my mother was up for any parenting awards herself – she didn’t like me much even before I got pregnant.’

  ‘I think maybe your mother has baby-addiction syndrome,’ he concluded on hearing that she had abandoned Alison when she was eight years old and taken the smaller, cuter kids with her.

  Alison shrugged, but she knew she couldn’t shrug it off, not really, not completely. She confessed, ‘I needed her so much then.’ Jeff was livid with her useless mother for blighting Alison’s plans to return to school. ‘She refused to give me a roof unless I could pay rent, insisting I got a job and gave up any fancy ideas about getting above my station. She wanted to punish me.’

  ‘She’s the one who needs punishing.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ Alison dared to meet his eyes. The room was swaying, in soft focus. Any harshness and spite was banished by his warmth.

  He met her gaze. ‘I’m sure she has her reasons for choosing to live a deadening, limited life but she has no right to thrust that on you.’

  Everything they had despised or been disgusted with in Alison, he saw as understandable, even brave.

  Finally, she told him she loved kids but she didn’t feel entitled even to smile at one in the street any more.

  ‘You’ll be a great mother when the time is right, Alison. Don’t worry about that for a minute.’

  It was liberating. Under his jaunty encouragement the horrors submerged. The emphasis shifted and the guilt, the shame and her all-pervasive sense of unworthiness fell away.

  29

  I bang on the door of the house, a little too loudly, a little too desperately. Blue flakes of paint fall around my fist. Mozart starts to bark excitedly. I can see the shadow of Tom through the frosted glass, and it’s a huge relief. He could have been out collecting any one of his three kids from a friend’s house or a match or something, but he’s not. He’s here, where I need him to be. I notice that he looks hunched, a little lost, defeated, and even though I’m crazed with my own pain I feel a great swell of pity for him. A widower. A single parent. This solidifies into a real affection because, when he opens the door and sees me standing on his step, he straightens and smiles.

  ‘You said I could call around any time.’ I lift my hands from my sides, a slightly apologetic gesture.

  ‘And I meant it.’

  He opens the door wide and I follow him into the little sitting room. Today, it’s empty and the TV is switched off. The air is fat, as though the central heating has squeezed out all the oxygen, and it feels hard to breathe. Tom disappears into the kitchen and returns with two glasses and a bottle of wine. I’m glad he didn’t suggest coffee.

  ‘White OK?’ I nod. He pours and then hands me a glass. Sometimes when wine is warm and it’s the fourth glass of the night, it is functional, not very special. This is the first glass of the evening; as a matter of fact, it is my first glass of the week. It’s crisp, chilled, voluptuous. Needed.

  I take a sip, and a moment. Tom doesn’t rush me for an explanation as to why I’ve arrived at his door. I make myself inhale, exhale, as though I were at a Pilates class. I slowly try to make sense of what’s just happened. I can’t. ‘Where are the kids?’ I ask instead.

  Tom counts them off on the fingers of one hand. ‘Callum is at his girlfriend’s. Situation normal: it’s like they’re conjoined twins.’

  ‘Joined at the lips,’ I suggest.

  ‘That’s as far as I’m willing to speculate.’

  ‘Young love.’

  ‘Yes. Amy is at a makeover, sleepover.’ He grimaces. We both, no doubt, are imagining Amy’s beautiful little face clarted up with glittery eyeshadow and too-bright lipstick. ‘I told her all about Katherine’s game before she went. And Olivia—’ He pauses for a moment. ‘She’s at the library.’

  ‘On a Friday? I’m impressed.’

  He lets out a big sigh. ‘I’m doubtful.’

  ‘You don’t think she is at the library?’

  ‘No. Which library stays open this late on a Friday?’

  ‘So, if she’s not there, then where might she be? Out with the boyfriend?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘He still hasn’t been introduced?’

  ‘No.’ I don’t ask the next question. Shouldn’t he have been introduced by now? I don’t ask because I know the answer and so does Tom. I wish Olivia was at the library, or playing hockey, or rehearsing a play, or doing something productive. However, if I’m being brutally honest with myself, I find all I really care about is the fact that I found the house empty; empty, that is, except for Tom. I want to be alone with him. I suppose this is what I’d hoped for when I fled from Jeff. I just need to be able to talk to someone, frankly, uninterrupted. Unhindered.

  That said, there’s nothing hindering or interrupting me now and yet I can’t find the words. I am perched on the edge of the sofa but I feel I can’t keep as ramrod straight as I usually try to. I flop back, careful only not to spill my wine. I close my eyes for a second, trying to keep the world at bay. If only I could. When I open them, just a moment later, Tom is sitting next to me, also flopped, also with his eyes closed.

  I have studied Tom’s handsome face before. It’s impossible not to want to look at him. But my gaze has always been cut short, been fleeting. I worry that if I start examining him I might assume an intimacy I have no right to. I might slurp up his very essence, like I do with Katherine. Obviously, that’s not appropriate. I struggle to keep Tom and Katherine distinct and apart. But it’s a battle I lose. The fact is, they are interwoven. I trust him because I trust her. I think he’s kind because I know she is. I think of him because I think of her. Now his eyes are closed I can look without him knowing. Take in as much as I like. As much as I need. I can smell his aftershave. I see one or two hairs
poking out the top of his T-shirt. I notice the loaf of muscle in his thigh.

  What a day. I rushed here, outraged, shattered, wanting to tell him about Jeff’s novel, but the stale air and the small room, which is north-facing and doesn’t catch even the light from the street lamp let alone sunshine in the summer, makes me more than aware of how isolated he must feel. ‘Who do you talk about it all with?’ I ask.

  ‘All?’

  ‘Losing Annabel, the baby swap, the fact that your elder daughter might not be in the library but out with a boy you have yet to vet, what you’re going to cook for tea. All.’

  He smiles, a gentle smile, which creeps into the corners of his eyes. ‘Well, largely, I’m too busy to talk about it much. Most of the time I just get on with it. It’s surprising how consuming it can be – searching out PE kit or lost textbooks, packing school lunches, attending parents’ evenings …’

  ‘And, on top of that, you have your job.’ I shake my head. ‘I can’t imagine how you cope.’

  ‘They say that, traditionally, men are excellent at compartmentalising.’

  ‘Are you?’

  He smiles again. It’s rueful, not in the slightest bit self-pitying. ‘No, not especially. I find my concerns bleed into one another.’

  Earlier, when Jeff admitted to his feelings of stress and vulnerability, he simply sounded self-absorbed, defeatist and entitled by turn. Tom is dealing with so much more, and he’s unsupported. I am quite taken aback by his frank confession, his openness. Instinctively, unthinkingly, I put my hand on his wrist. Comfort. Sympathy. That’s all. I feel the warmth of him seep into my fingertips. He doesn’t move to shrug me off, which is a relief but also awkward, because I don’t know when to let go of him. I wait a beat. Then move my hand away. He glances at me and my breath catches in my throat. Katherine’s eyes. Beautiful. He takes a large gulp of the delicious wine; it is definitely the sort that ought to be sipped, but I gulp, too.

  ‘Tell me something,’ he says softly.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About anything.’

  I should tell him about Jeff’s bloody awful idea for his next novel – after all, that’s why I’m here – but I can’t, not yet. Something holds me back. Once I vocalise Jeff’s treachery I won’t be able to unsay the words. I am in the habit of being on his team; it’s been my position for so long it seems disloyal to expose him to Tom; besides, won’t I just be worrying Tom? Obviously, I have to talk Jeff out of this crazy idea, otherwise all the Trubys will be caught up in the media frenzy that is bound to arise. I don’t want to stress Tom unnecessarily. Tom gently nudges me with his elbow, a prompt.

  He notices our empty glasses and refills them. The crisp wine shudders into the glass. He hands me mine, which I think is kind. Most people would simply leave it on the coffee table, within reach. He sits up straight, alert, and stares at me. I can almost feel his breath on my neck. Almost. I’m self-conscious. This situation has an echo of something. Something I used to do. It sounds like the conversation one might have on a date. An early, innocent date, full of anticipation, trepidation and promise. It shouldn’t feel like that.

  ‘What’s going on with you?’

  It’s too general a question for me to dare proffer an answer. He must know things aren’t great, or why would I have rushed around to his house? I sigh and admit: ‘Jeff and I had a row.’

  I expect him to ask what the row was about and I need him to so I can edge into the conversation; instead, he shakes his head as though mystified and says, ‘I just can’t get my head around the fact that you and Jeff aren’t married.’ He looks genuinely puzzled. He stares at me with frank admiration, and I can’t resist interpreting his mystification as a compliment: he thinks Jeff is mad not to have made our relationship official. It’s an old-fashioned view, but I find I like it. I don’t know what to say and am relieved to discover he isn’t really expecting me to make any further comment. We sit in silence, sipping the wine. He’s still wearing a puzzled expression.

  It is pitch-black outside. I fight the urge to stand up and draw the curtains, block out passers-by and potential onlookers. It’s an old habit. When I was a child I didn’t want people looking in on our inadequate furnishings, our lack. I always think that people who dare to leave their blinds up, their curtains open, are incredibly lucky: they have nothing to hide, it’s as though they are inviting the whole world to party with them. This room is subtly illuminated by one table lamp next to Tom. It has the effect of throwing light around him like a halo. There’s so much falling through my mind. Katherine’s test result, Jeff’s pitch, Tom’s big brown eyes, Annabel’s lost twin baby. Peter.

  ‘What was the twin called?’

  ‘Joseph.’

  ‘Oh, a boy.’

  ‘You thought it would be a girl?’

  I shrug. I’m not sure. I think of my own lost boy. Not lost so much but given away. And it hurts. A physical, intense pain, as though I have been stabbed. I’m familiar with this agony: it happens every time I think of Peter. Even though, over the years, I’ve trained myself to accept the sting of missing him, I never get used to it; not really. A fat tear rolls down my cheek and slides under my chin. Soon another one follows, and another. I don’t try and wipe them away.

  ‘Oh, Alison, come here.’ Tom puts his strong, warm arms around me and folds me into a hug. My silent tears continue to fall, darkening his T-shirt. ‘Hey, don’t cry.’ Then when he realises that’s a suggestion I can’t follow, he recants: ‘It’s OK, let it all out.’ He’s not saying anything particularly original but I am so, so grateful for his gentle murmurings and the warmth of his broad shoulders. Finding Jeff’s book outline has created a hairline fracture in the dam holding back my emotion and now it’s splitting apart.

  I mumble, ‘Jeff has betrayed me.’

  ‘He’s having an affair?’ Tom sounds shocked, enraged.

  I break from his embrace and manage to smile through my tears. ‘No, not that.’ Even though I’m furious with Jeff right now and feel utterly betrayed, I can’t imagine that particular betrayal. It’s simply not something he’d do. I look around for some tissues. I always keep a box on our coffee table at home, hidden under a chic little cover, ready for emergencies. Tom guesses what I’m searching for and leaps up; he comes back with a roll of toilet paper. I take it appreciatively.

  ‘Jeff’s not the affair type. He sowed his wild oats when he was young.’

  ‘Did he really?’

  ‘Yes, he did. I know that for a fact.’

  ‘But I got the impression you were quite young when you met at the hat stall.’

  ‘We were, but we didn’t get together then. We were friends for a few years before we became a couple.’

  The bottle of wine is empty. That was fast. He goes to the kitchen and returns with another. I contemplate saying I’ve had enough and suggesting a coffee but I don’t really have the emotional energy to get the words out. It’s easier just to accept the wine.

  ‘Tell me all about it. Let me help you.’ Tom looks at me expectantly, intensely. I owe him an explanation of some kind. After all, I have turned up at his house unannounced and now am behaving like an emotional wreck; I suppose I am here looking for comfort. He can only really give me that if I explain what the matter is. He settles back down on the sofa; there’s hardly a centimetre between our thighs. I’m ridiculously aware of him. His heat, the wine on his breath, his socks (the right one has a hole in it; his big toe is peeking through). There’s something happening. It doesn’t feel like comfort any more. It feels heavier. I take another swig of wine. This bottle isn’t chilled or as good as the first one, it tastes a bit metallic, but I don’t care. I swallow it down anyway.

  ‘I found something on Jeff’s desk. I wasn’t snooping, I was tidying up.’ I rush to reassure myself as much as Tom. I don’t want him thinking I’m that sneaky, neurotic sort.

  ‘Of course not,’ he murmurs, gently reassuring, as though he’d never in a million years have judged me as such
.

  ‘It was a book idea.’

  ‘Right.’

  The betrayal of Jeff wanting to expose us burns and throbs inside me. I decide to explain just part of that to Tom. I can perhaps get some comfort and sympathy, even guidance, without further burdening him. ‘Jeff knows something about me that is terrifically private. He is the only person I’ve ever trusted enough to confide this particular thing to and he’s thinking of using it as the basis of his next book.’

  ‘What’s the secret?’ I hadn’t expected him to ask that. I’d expected him to generally rail against Jeff’s disloyalty, to decisively state that my privacy must be respected, to be incredibly huffy on my behalf. I stare at him, surprised. He meets my gaze. ‘You can tell me.’

  ‘I had a baby when I was sixteen and gave him up for adoption.’ The words fall out of my mouth in a breathless tumble. They take on a life of their own, determined and rebellious. The confession is so raw that my first instinct is to grab the words and stuff them back in my mouth or, if I can’t do that, then to deny them. Will Tom be disgusted with me? Angry, even? He’s told me about his little boy who was cruelly taken from him; now I’ve told him I gave one up. He’s bound to judge. Will he think I’m selfish and irresponsible?

  Tom takes hold of my hand and brings it to his lips. He kisses my fingers. It’s a long, hot kiss, his lips pushing hard on my flesh; it’s not an erotic kiss but it is full of love. It’s the sort of kiss I might have smacked down on Katherine when she was a child if she had fallen over and I wanted to make it all better. I don’t know how to respond.

  ‘I forgive you.’ It’s such a strange thing for him to say. I look at him quizzically. ‘Now forgive yourself.’

  I pull my hand away from his and tightly wrap both arms around my legs, which I’ve drawn up under me, shoes slipped off, feet now on the sofa. Katherine sometimes sits in this way if she’s lost a lacrosse game, a tight ball of disappointment. I feel strangely cheated. I thought he might ask more. That he’d want to know the circumstances of the pregnancy and the relinquishment; I thought he’d at least ask the baby’s name. Peter. I want to tell him about Peter. After all, I have just said that this is my deepest secret, and that, other than Jeff, I’ve never confided this in anyone. Shouldn’t that have some importance? My parents and brothers know, they had to, but only twice in my life have I actively chosen to share this part of my past. Tom has always been so interested in everything I have to say – he wanted to know about my clothes, my career, my parents – so why has he closed down when it comes to this?