18
Then
Nick kicked the scrunched up Coke can to Richard. It clattered as it skittered across the pavement. Richard deftly toed it back but Nick was hunched forward, hands pressed against a stitch in his side, gasping.
‘They think it’s all over, it is now!’ Richard covered his head with his T-shirt and ran up the road, arms stretched high, chanting ‘champion, champion’, only stopping when he collided with the postbox. Nick couldn’t help laughing as Richard crumpled to the ground.
‘Serves you right.’ Nick stood over his friend, offered his hand and pulled him to his feet. ‘I don’t know how you can run after that huge dinner. Your mum is an amazing cook.’
‘Yours can’t be that bad?’
‘She is,’ Nick said; as he spoke the lie, guilt seemed to increase the pain in his side. But it seemed easier to let Richard believe he never asked him to tea as his mum was a rubbish cook; rather that than telling him they couldn’t afford the extra ingredients for guests. Besides which, there was no way he’d invite his friend into a lounge that reeked of stale lager and rotting dreams. He blanched at the image of Richard perched on the edge of the threadbare armchair, avoiding the spring poking through the seat.
Nick checked his watch, holding his wrist close to his eyes so he could see past the crack in the screen. ‘I’d better go. See you at school tomorrow.’
‘Not if I see you first, loser.’ Richard slapped him on the back and jogged past him. If anyone else had called Nick a loser he’d have been upset, but not Richard. On the first day of school, Sammy Whilton had laughed at Nick’s sandwiches wrapped in a plastic Tesco bag. Everyone else had swanky lunch boxes. Richard had stuck up for him, and at playtime he had sat on a bench in the playground, watching, as Nick raced around with a football, never once losing control. The next day, Richard had brought in a Power Rangers lunch box – ‘it’s old’ he had shrugged – but it looked new. In return Richard asked Nick to teach him to play football; his family weren’t big on sport. Nick had spent many hours in his small backyard, avoiding his dad, learning to dribble, shoot, head the ball. As he passed on what he had learned, he knew he and Richard would be friends for life.
Now, they were twelve and had just started secondary and were still as close as ever.
Nick jabbed his key into the lock and pushed open the front door. On the mat were his mum’s shoes – as frayed and tired looking as she was.
‘Mum?’ She should be at work.
‘In here, love.’ There was a forced brightness in her tone, and the first thought that sprang into Nick’s head was ‘what has Dad done now?’ Stepping into the lounge he saw his parents sitting together, and his hands furled into fists behind his back but then he noticed something he hadn’t seen for years and he wasn’t sure if he felt relieved or repulsed.
His mum and dad were holding hands. And this was more frightening than the usual shouting. Nick began to shake. He knew whatever his mum was about to tell him it would be bad. Very bad.
* * *
‘Do you think Mum will be okay?’ Nick and his father stood side by side scraping potatoes with blunt knives. Neither of them could work the peeler; Nick’s knuckles were bleeding from trying. He couldn’t remember the last time he had wanted reassurance from his dad and, for a moment, it had drawn them close together. Fear slithered into the darkest corners of his mind. Cancer. How can such a small word be the disease that was destroying his mum from the inside out?
‘’Course.’ Dad tugged a box of fish fingers from the back of the freezer. ‘Fuck’s sake,’ he shouted as they tumbled to the floor, packet splitting, golden breadcrumbs and clumps of ice slithering under the cooker. ‘Loads of people survive breast cancer nowadays,’ he said as he dropped to his knees and began cleaning up the mess. As he stood at the sink, rinsing the fish fingers he had picked off the floor under the tap, his shoulders shook. He looked as small and scared as Nick felt.
Later, they had cramped around the small kitchen table eating lumpy mash and charred fish fingers. A cool breeze filtered through the kitchen window, which was cracked open to release the smell of burned oil. The three of them had made stilted conversation the way people do when they are not used to each other’s company. Dad didn’t have a lager. His hand shook as he picked up his glass of water. Nick couldn’t stop watching him, watching Mum. Dad loved her. He never would have thought.
After they had pushed food around their plates for ten uncomfortable minutes, Nick offered to wash up. He stuck his head around the lounge door when he had finished. Elvis crooned from the record player that was once his grandmother’s. He didn’t know how to feel as he watched his mum and dad in an awkward dance. Feet shuffling over the threadbare carpet that once was red but now sun-faded pink. Dad’s arm was around Mum’s waist, and she rested her hand on his shoulder. The naked bulb hanging from the ceiling picked out the diamonds in the emerald ring Mum always wore. After the song had finished there was the crackle and hiss as the needle circled empty grooves. Nick’s parents didn’t move. Arms wrapped around each other. Once more the atmosphere was thick, not with bitterness this time, but with love.
They felt something akin to a family. Nick hoped it wasn’t too late.
19
Now
Farncaster is dingier than I remember. Without consciously thinking, I find myself indicating and turning into the estate I once called home. I crawl along, drinking everything in: the bright red postbox where I had posted applications to universities I didn’t want to go to; Mrs Phillips’s bungalow – she had always given me an apple as I walked past on my way to school; the cherry tree that coated the pavements with a pale pink blossom, obscuring my chalked out hopscotch. The house I grew up in appears to have shrunk. The engine hums while I study the front door, green paint peeling, the rotting wooden window frames, thick net curtains. Such a contrast to the rest of the road. What would happen if I knocked on the door? Who would answer? My gaze is drawn to the upper left window. I can almost picture my tiny childhood bedroom. The desk in the corner that wobbled if you leaned on the left-hand side; the bookshelf crammed with encyclopaedias; my long white nightgown, like something out of the Victorian era, smelling of Persil washing powder, neatly folded on my pillow. A movement catches my eye. The net curtain in the lounge billows as though it has been moved. I can make out a shadow. My pulse skyrockets. I can’t tear my eyes away from the window as I release the handbrake and pull out without looking. A horn blares for the second time today, and I am shaking as I mouth my apology to the other driver. Squeezing the accelerator, I leave, looking in my rear-view mirror one last time. The shadow is still there.
I have been seen.
* * *
Lisa’s old house looks exactly as I remembered. There is still a caravan in the driveway but it is yellow with age, the roof and windows covered with a thick green moss. Memories crowd from holidays with Lisa’s family: stamping bingo cards with red markers; arms raised in the air as we rode a roller coaster; lips that stung with vinegar and sea-salt-air, and later, from being kissed. I think Nancy must still live here and, if she does, she must know where Lisa is, but although I cut the engine and grip the door handle tightly, I can’t bring myself to leave the car.
Coward.
Even as I remind myself of what is at stake I find myself twisting the key and pulling away. I’ll start with the hospital where Lisa works, but first, I want to freshen up, to buy some mints and water. I feel a state and wish I’d taken the time to shower and clean my teeth before I left, but I’d been hesitant of waking Nick.
Afraid he’d try to stop me.
Afraid he’d want to come with me.
* * *
There are plenty of spaces in the car park behind the old cinema, which was replaced with a multiplex on an industrial estate while I still lived here. It’s sad to see the architecture crumble into ruin. I slot in between two smaller cars and squeeze my body out. I can never open the doors wide enough. I look longingly at the par
ent and child spaces. The High Street is half-empty but crammed full of nostalgia: HMV is now a Poundland; The Three Fishes is boarded up. It’s all so different and yet feels exactly the same; it’s as though I never left. Step on a crack break your mother’s back – my adult veneer is slipping away and I feel horribly exposed. In the doorway of the newsagents is a man. Despite his beard, the hair that hangs in his eyes, I recognise him for the boy he was. Aaron. It is almost as if the ground shakes beneath my feet. I can’t look up. Can’t make eye contact. My skin crawls. I don’t think he’s seen me as he pulls out a mobile from his pocket, shoulders hunched, anger radiating from him.
I dart down an alleyway, passing a small café called The Coffee House, and I think caffeine is just what I need. To sit. Think. My legs feel shaky after seeing Aaron. The table is rickety, covered with a red-and-white plastic tablecloth, a folded piece of cardboard stuffed under one leg. I sit with my back to the window and, ignoring the bacon that hisses and spits, I order a cappuccino. My mobile is full of missed calls and frantic texts from Nick, and I send a message telling him I am fine, not to worry, I will explain everything tomorrow.
Idly I play with the salt and pepper pots, twisting them round and round in my fingers. Engrossed in thought, I don’t look up when the bell rings again, and it isn’t until my table falls into shadow, my head rises. I see who is there and my heart sinks.
20
Now
‘Nancy!’ I almost don’t recognise Lisa’s mum. Her face sunken, grey skin stretched over her skeleton.
‘I can’t believe you’re here.’ Her words spill out with a gasp, and I don’t know if she means because of what’s taking place now, or what took place then. The last time I saw her we sat on her sofa, and I remember the feel of her hand in mine. ‘What’s happened?’ she had asked. ‘Between you and Lisa? It breaks my heart you’ve fallen out. Tell me everything.’ She didn’t know then what I had done. Neither of us knew what the fallout would be. She was so kind to me once. My eyes search hers but I can’t tell what she is thinking.
She sinks onto a chair and when she speaks again she sounds exhausted, not angry. ‘I couldn’t believe it when I saw you in that magazine. Katherine White, bit of a change from Kat Freeman, isn’t it? You’ve obviously done well for yourself?’ There’s an edge as she speaks and it sounds like an accusation, and I want to tell her that however far I move away I haven’t been able to forget.
‘You’re married then.’ She nods at my ring. ‘Family?’
She can’t know about the surrogacy, and I hesitate. ‘Not yet. I thought I was going to be a mum but—’
She raises her hand to silence me, and I press my lips together, keeping the words I want to say inside.
We stare at each other wordlessly, uncomfortably, until my drink is slopped in front of me, coffee thick and dark, and she speaks again.
‘Treasure what you have, Kat. When you’ve lost everything like me…’ She shakes her head, and I want to tell her she hasn’t lost everything. She has a daughter.
More than anything I want to reach out to her, but I don’t; instead, I start to ask: ‘Lisa?…’, but Nancy says: ‘I can’t do this, Kat…’, and heaves herself to her feet as though she is far older than she is. As she reaches the door she turns and after a beat says: ‘Take care.’
And I so want to believe that she means it, that she wishes me well, but it sounds like a threat all the same.
Seeing her has stirred up so many emotions. How stupid to think I could just come here to find Lisa. I need to say sorry. I need to make amends. I need to start with Jake.
The car park at the bottom of the hill is full of potholes. Weeds push through ground that was once covered with gravel. It’s been so long since I last saw Jake. There are so many things I want to say. Things I want him to know, but now I’m here I don’t know if I’ll be able to speak. The black wrought iron gate creaks as I push it open and coax my reluctant feet to step forward. I’m feeling edgy now I’m here. Uneasy. Constantly looking over my shoulder. There’s a sense of being watched. Clouds scud across the darkened sky and there are shadows everywhere. I tell myself the only thing following me is my own guilt. Still, I speed up my pace, striding up the incline, my feet sinking into damp, overgrown grass. I don’t care my suede boots will probably be ruined now. I don’t care about anything except finding Jake. Telling him how sorry I am.
By the time I reach the path at the top I am breathless. I hunch forwards, my hands on my thighs, waiting for my heart rate to settle. But it’s not just the exertion that’s making my pulse race. It’s unfathomable I haven’t been here before. My eyes scan the crematorium. Emotion ping-pongs around my chest. The wind chimes dangling from the tree above the children’s section sway in the breeze, tinkling a lullaby that can never soothe. The headstones surrounding me are moss coloured, names and dates faded. I head to the back where the memorials become glossier, crosses replaced by angels and elaborate designs. The flowers here are freshly laid, the plots neatly maintained. I tiptoe between the rows, watching where I tread.
Seeing Jake’s name on a black marble rectangle is like a punch in the gut. I sink to my knees as my bones turn to dust. My lungs tighten painfully as I rock back and forth in silent anguish, my ‘sorry’ stuck in my throat. Now I’m here I can’t believe it’s so real, so raw. I knew he was dead, of course I did. After all, I was there, but I was still in hospital when he was buried and, missing the funeral, never coming back here, made it easier to pretend somehow, that he was still here. Still happy.
The wind whips up and from behind me I hear the chimes in the tree, but other than that, there is silence – it’s not a comfortable silence, the air feels thick. Threatening, almost. My fingers are numb with cold and I stuff my palms under my armpits to warm. Now I’m here I’m not sure what to do. I wish I’d stopped and bought flowers to lay, something bright and colourful, because no matter where he went, Jake was always the most vibrant one in the room. I look around at the other plots, the drying wreaths, the silk bouquets; there’s even a helium balloon floating high with ‘Happy 40th Dad’ on it. The thought of a family crowding around a plaque, blowing candles, cutting cake, is devastating.
There’s a movement to my right, and I twist my head. At first, I can’t see what’s caught my eye. I squint into the gloom looking for a rabbit. A twig snaps. The bushes rustle. I crane my neck. What’s there? Shuffling, leaves move and there’s a flash of pink, a shape – a hand? Who’s there?
‘Hello?’ I call. The wind howls. The bush shakes. I can’t see anything but dark green leaves and shadow, but there’s a sense of eyes on me. Unease crawls under my skin.
‘Hello?’ I ease one foot forward, ready to run. There’s a crash behind me, and I flinch, looking over my shoulder but there’s nothing to see except the swinging gate.
I turn my attention back to the bush. There are shades of light now where dark patches were, and I think whoever was watching me has gone. I know there was somebody there. Unnerved, I reach out and trace Jake’s name as though he can calm me. Simultaneously a twig snaps behind me, and I jerk my hand away, start to stand, but it’s too late. A hand has already clasped my shoulder, forcing me back on my knees, and it all comes flooding back.
* * *
Fingers dug into my shoulder and a hand lay heavy on the small of my back forcing me forward. I tried to dig my heels in, stretching out my arms for something to grab hold of but my fingertips closed around air.
‘Please.’ My voice was high and shrill. My skin slick with sweat. ‘Don’t do this. You don’t have to do this.’
There was a grunt behind me, the sound of heavy breathing, and I did everything I could to make it harder for him. I stiffened my body and struggled. There was a second when he released his grip, when I was free, and just as my mind was processing there were no longer hands on me, there was pressure on the top of my arms and I was shaken, hard. My brain rattled around my skull. I bit my tongue and swallowed down my fear and the metallic taste
of blood.
My vision grew hazy, the ground beneath my feet felt soft, as my body grew limp. I had the sensation of falling before I was yanked back and thrust forward, landing heavily on my hands and knees. My head banged against something hard and solid and rockets of pain shot through my arms and into my neck.
Dazed I almost didn’t hear the slam behind me. The click of a lock.
‘No! Wait!’ I leapt to my feet. Nausea rose as the world seemed to rock. I blindly reached out, trying to find the door. The blackness was all-consuming. Suffocating. My hands shook as I slapped my palms over the walls, spinning around until at last I found it. I gripped the door handle but my hand was clammy and it took me three attempts to twist it, and when I did, it confirmed what I already knew.
I was trapped.
* * *
The memory has gone in a flash and again I’m kneeling on the damp grass, fingers pressing hard into my skin.
21
Now
Inhaling sharply, I smell her perfume, fresh and floral. I know who is here. Lisa. She removes her hand from my shoulder and I glance over as she kneels besides me. Bruising stains the side of her face where she slipped on the ice, but I don’t ask any questions. Instead, I stretch out my hand. She threads her fingers through mine, and I know he is here with us. In the breeze that ruffles my hair, in the rain that kisses my skin.
Jake.
His name is carved in large, swirling, impossible-to-ignore letters and that was him all over. Impossible to ignore. Pulling people to him with his charm and charisma. I loved him. I swallow down the lump that endlessly rises in my throat. I still love him. I don’t need to see the pain that will be etched over Lisa’s face right now to know she still loves him too.
The Surrogate Page 11