The Truth About Celia Frost

by Paula Rawsthorne

  “Come on, Celia. We need to get you home and clean you up.” He reached out to her.

  “It’s okay, I can manage,” she said, rejecting his hand and hobbling along the alleyway. “You’ve done enough for me already. I feel so bad that you got dragged into that.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Celia. It’s not your fault,” he said.

  “You get home. I can make my own way back.”

  “No way! I want to check you’re okay.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she said firmly. “I promise I’ll ring you once I’m back. Please, Sol, go home.”

  He knew it was no use arguing with her. “Okay,” he said reluctantly. “But you’d better phone me, or I’ll come round whether you want me to meet your mum or not.”

  Janice had been entertaining Frankie all evening, even if she wasn’t aware of it. She’d returned from work around six, by which time Frankie was already ensconced in his car, ready to listen in to her every sound. The evening had started off well. Janice seemed in a buoyant mood, which he liked to think was due to his little phone calls. There was the sound of the kettle being boiled, clattering in the kitchen, and singing along to the radio.

  She’d phoned Celia and left a message: “Hiya, love. Make sure you’re home for seven. I’m making us a lovely chicken dinner. You know I can’t stand the sight of the things after spending all day mopping up their guts, but it’s your favourite and nothing’s too much trouble for my girl.”

  However, as the evening wore on and Celia didn’t arrive home, Janice had graduated from cups of tea to glasses of booze. She’d left several more messages, each one more rambling and uptight than the last. She warned Celia that she was late, demanding to know where she was, pleading with her to phone back. Later on there was the sound of overzealous chopping, halted by a screech. “Oww! I’m bleeding over the bloody dinner. Where are the bloody plasters?”

  Frankie considered whether it was a good time to ring Janice. She was agitated and a little drunk; an ideal state to extract information from her. Anyway, even if she wasn’t forthcoming with information, Frankie still enjoyed their little chats. It felt good to speak to someone who seemed so happy to hear from him, even if he knew it was all a charade. But as he rehearsed what he would say to her, the sound of gentle snoring started filtering through his earpieces.

  Janice’s snoring continued for over an hour until it was eventually replaced by coughs and splutters, followed by a shriek. There was frantic activity in the flat: the sound of the oven door being flung open, taps turned on, trays being slung out onto the balcony – then tears and an angry call to Celia, who did pick up this time.

  “Celia, where are you? The chicken’s burned to a cinder... The chicken I’ve been cooking for our dinner! I’ve left you loads of messages telling you to get home... Don’t give me that. You’ve just been ignoring my calls. I’ve nearly sliced my finger off cooking this dinner and now it’s ruined... You’re damn right you’re coming home now. Where have you been anyway? ...What do you mean ‘just around’? I want to know where... Who are you with? What have you been up to?”

  The call ended without any goodbyes and Frankie could hear Janice pacing up and down the flat, calming herself.

  “At least you know she’s all right,” she was mumbling. “She’s on her way home, so don’t jump down her throat as soon as she comes in, Janice. Let’s have a nice, relaxing night. No more arguments, no more shouting. Everything’s fine.”

  However, as an age seemed to tick by without any sign of Celia’s return, even Frankie began to get worried.

  Celia had forced herself up every step to the twentieth floor, the grated skin on her knees and elbows oozing with each movement of her joints. By the time she appeared in the doorway to their flat, blood was trickling down her limbs.

  “Celia!”

  “Mum,” Celia whimpered, grabbing hold of Janice’s hands.

  Janice looked down. Celia’s blood-stained hands were wrapped around hers. “Let go of my hands!” she screamed.

  “What?! Why?!”

  “Just do it, just do it. Let go now!” Janice’s face was rigid.

  The startled girl obeyed. Janice inspected her shaking hands. The plaster on her cut finger was still in place but now smeared with Celia’s blood.

  “What’s the matter?” Celia asked, flabbergasted.

  Janice scurried to the bathroom. Celia followed her, watching as Janice manically washed her hands over and over again, dousing them with a concoction of disinfectants, checking every centimetre of skin before repeating the whole process. “It’s fine, it’s fine,” Janice was muttering to herself, grappling to pull on a pair of latex gloves.

  “You look terrified,” Celia said, alarmed. “Why are you terrified?”

  “What are you talking about? You know your old mum, always a bag of nerves,” Janice jabbered. “It’s you I’m worried about.”

  Celia watched as Janice discreetly clasped her hands together in an attempt to quell their tremor. Her eyes narrowed. She searched Janice’s agitated face. “You cut your finger, didn’t you? You said so, on the phone.”

  “Yes. But it’s nothing to worry about, just a little cut,” she answered dismissively. “Now come on, love, tell me what happened to you.”

  Celia’s mind was too distracted to go into detail. “A gang attacked us. They set their dog on us.”

  “‘Us’? Who was with you?”

  “A friend.”

  “Was it that boy? The one from the drawing in the book? Did he touch you? Did anyone touch you?”

  “What do you mean, ‘touch me’?” Celia asked, needing to hear her say it.

  “When you were bleeding, did anyone touch you?”

  “What would be the problem if they did? Why are you always so bothered about people touching me? Don’t let people help you without gloves – isn’t that one of your rules? You’ve always been obsessed with keeping people away from me, away from my blood.”

  “I’m not obsessed with it,” she tutted. “It’s...it’s just not hygienic, is it?”

  “Even someone as neurotic as you, Mum, doesn’t react like that just because it’s not hygienic.” Celia suddenly fell silent. She stood perfectly still, a hundred thoughts colliding behind her darting eyes.

  “What are you doing, Celia? I need an answer. Did anyone touch you?” Janice couldn’t mask her rising panic.

  Celia spoke slowly, her brain unscrambling her thoughts. “I know that the blood clotting disorder was a lie. But what if all your crazy behaviour isn’t crazy at all? What if you know something about my blood, something that makes it dangerous, and all these years you’ve been trying to make sure people keep away from me?”

  “You’re in shock. You’re talking nonsense,” Janice said aggressively.

  “Am I? You were terrified – terrified of my blood touching that cut on your finger.”

  “No I wasn’t!” Janice retorted.

  “Are you sure of that?” Celia asked.

  “Yes!”

  “In that case you won’t mind doing something for me.” Her voice fluttered with nerves.

  “What?” Janice asked tensely.

  Celia lifted her arm to Janice’s mouth, fresh blood seeping from the skin. “Kiss it better, Mum.”

  Janice pulled away, sealing her lips tight.

  “What’s the matter?”

  Janice forced out a hollow laugh. “Don’t you think you’re a bit big for that kind of thing?”

  “But you’ve never done it, have you? Mums are meant to do things like that. If you loved me, you’d kiss my poorly elbow better,” she said, tears of anxiety pooling in her eyes.

  Janice backed out of the bathroom, keeping her eyes fixed on Celia. Stumbling through the doorway, she landed in a heap on the living room floor. “Celia...please... Stop it!” she begged.

  Celia towered over the cowering woman. “Why do you want me to stop?” she asked desperately. “I need to know the truth, Mum. Please don’t make me do this.” Ce
lia leaned in closer, the burgeoning blood from her quivering arm ready to drip onto Janice’s pursed lips.

  “No, Celia, no,” Janice whimpered, bending her head away.

  “Then tell me! Why are you terrified of my blood?”

  Janice bowed her head in surrender. “Because it can kill,” she muttered.

  Celia must have misheard. Janice couldn’t have said that. “What did you say?”

  “I said...your blood can kill.”

  “You’re lying!” Celia said, reeling.

  “I wish I was. I can’t do this any more, Celia. I’m so tired.” Janice’s head flopped into her hands. “I promise to tell you everything, everything. But I need to know if anyone came into contact with your blood.”

  “No,” Celia said in a daze.

  “Are you sure?” Janice asked anxiously.

  “Yes.”

  Janice struggled to her feet and gently led the stunned girl back into the bathroom. “Let me cover up your cuts,” she said, cleaning the blood away and smoothing plasters over the scraped skin. Janice took a pair of gloves from her supplies and put them on Celia’s limp hands.

  The woman’s face crumpled in despair. “I can’t go on like this. Everything’s out of control. I shouldn’t have let it get to this.”

  “What’s wrong with me?” Celia stared desolately at her gloved hands.

  “You have a virus. You can infect people with your blood.”

  “But you must have taken me to hospital. What did they say? Why haven’t I been getting treatment for it?”

  “Hospital was the last place I could take you. I’ve never let doctors near you. If they started testing you, they’d take you off me – I wouldn’t know who’d get hold of you. You wouldn’t have been safe.”

  “But then how do you know I’ve got it? Was I born with it? Is it a genetic thing; did you give it to me?”

  “Even if it was genetic I couldn’t have given it to you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because, Celia, I’m not your mother.”

  Celia’s face was paralysed in a bewildered grimace. Janice reached for her but she pulled away, bolting into the living room. Her eyes scanned all the photos on the wall. She’d known that there were no baby pictures. Janice had told her that all her baby mementos had been lost in one of their many moves. But hadn’t Janice always been more than happy to recount Celia’s birth: the quick, straightforward labour, how Celia popped out bearing a shock of orange hair? That, despite the stress of finding out about Celia’s blood clotting disorder, she knew that, together, the two of them could deal with it.

  “Am I adopted?” Celia asked, staring at the photos.

  “Celia...I’m your mother in every other sense of the word,” Janice said pleadingly.

  “Just answer the question.” Celia turned to face her. “Did you adopt me?”

  “No.” Janice looked her straight in the eye. “I had to take you!”

  “What are you talking about?” Celia threw her arms out. “Where did you take me from? Did you kidnap me?! Oh my God! You did, didn’t you? You took me from my real parents!” She lunged at Janice, seizing her brittle arms, aggression suddenly welling up in her. “Have they been looking for me all these years? Do they think I’m dead? You’ve put me through this crappy life with you, telling me a pack of lies instead of getting me help, when all the time I could have been with my real parents. They would have let doctors sort me out, found a cure for my blood. What kind of twisted freak are you?” Celia’s voice was piercing, hysteria taking control.

  Janice grappled her way loose and, without warning, slapped Celia hard across the cheek. Celia’s arms dropped down in shock, the imprint of Janice’s palm visible on her burning cheek.

  “I didn’t take you from your parents. I took you from a clinic. You were being used like a lab rat. I saved you! They were going to murder you!” Janice’s voice was steady and strong.

  Celia slumped onto the sofa, her mind in overload. “Please stop these lies,” she wailed, putting her hands over her ears.

  “Celia, I had to lie about the blood clotting. I had to think of an illness that would make people careful around you and make sure you never took any risks. I thought it was better for everyone to think that you were only a danger to yourself. I couldn’t let them know that your blood could kill them.”

  “But why didn’t you tell me?”

  “How would you have coped? Even when you discovered I’d been lying about the blood clotting, I reckoned it was better that you thought I was mad than have to live with the truth. But I was wrong, because once you believed you had nothing to fear, you’ve been more dangerous than ever.”

  “So all these years, you’ve let me wander around putting people in danger.”

  “What was I meant to do? I saved you. I couldn’t keep you a prisoner. I had to give you some freedom, some kind of life. I’ve tried my best to keep you safe – every day feeling sick until you were safely back home; every day living in terror that you might infect someone.”

  “But who did this to me? What is this virus in me?” Celia whispered in self-disgust.

  Janice’s eyes brimmed with anguish as she sat down next to Celia. “I only ever wanted to keep you safe, protect you from the truth, but I can’t do that any more. You’re going to have to be strong, Celia. Listen and be strong.

  “I was twenty-two and I’d been drifting around since I left care. All I’d managed to achieve was a four-month stretch in a young offender institution because I kept shoplifting. I was a mess. No one to look out for me, no place I belonged. I kept moving around the country, doing any rubbish job I could. When I’d saved up some money, I’d just get on a bus to another place, hoping it would be better than the last.

  “Then one time, just for the hell of it, I got off at this tiny village in the countryside. I got talking to a girl in a cafe. She’d been working as a cleaner at a clinic on the moors, miles from anywhere. She told me that it was a specialist place for sick babies. She was leaving because it was so depressing and the cleaning was too much for one person. I told her I wouldn’t mind working there – after all, I wasn’t one for mixing, I didn’t mind hard work, and I’d spent my entire life in depressing places, so I was used to it. She put in a word for me and the next minute I had the job. Cash in hand, no questions asked. I didn’t even give them my real name – I never did; always paranoid that people would check up on me, find out about my record.

  “I rented a room in the village and every day I’d get the bus out to work. It passed right by the driveway, but there was no sign outside, nothing to tell people what lay up that long, steep path. Security was tight at the clinic, CCTV all around the outside and codes to get into the rooms, which they changed every day. I was impressed. It made sense – they needed to be careful when they were looking after sick babies. From the outside, the place was an ugly-looking prefab building, windowless except for skylights in the roof, but inside it was spotless, with state-of-the-art equipment. There was a room for you babies, an office, and a small operating theatre with a little bedroom next door. Then there was a lab where they’d take blood samples and God knows what to test. I wasn’t allowed in there. The doctor insisted on cleaning it herself.

  “I only ever saw three staff. They didn’t tell me their names and I didn’t ask. I was told to address her as ‘Doctor’ and the other two women as ‘Nurse’. As soon as I arrived they had me in all this protective clothing, covered from head to toe. They said it was to help prevent any infection being brought in that could harm the babies. The whole atmosphere in there was draining and there was a constant noise from the generator which made my head throb. No one bothered to talk to me. The staff were forever checking you babies, writing up charts, adjusting all this equipment that surrounded each cot. It was all way above my head. But I tell you, I’d never worked so hard in my life – scrubbing, disinfecting, sterilizing the rooms. And no sooner had I finished than I’d have to start all over again. When I got back to
the village each evening I just used to collapse, I was so knackered.

  “I soon realized that the girl had been right, the place was depressing. When I first arrived, there were eight babies. I didn’t know anything about babies – I guessed some were as young as a few weeks, others a few months older – but they all looked so weak, like they were struggling to stay alive. Sometimes that room would be filled with their pathetic cries; it cut right through me.

  “Each one of you was hooked up to a drip. It was horrible seeing all your little arms covered in pinpricks, but I just kept telling myself that you were all lucky to be getting such special care. But it didn’t take me long to notice that none of you were ever picked up unless you were being examined. No one cuddled or even talked to you. Day after day, the babies just lay in their perspex cots, covered by these plastic tents, sealed in like they were buried alive. But you – you, Celia – you weren’t having any of it!

  “You were older than the rest. I’d say about a year. You were always trying to climb out of your cot, jumping up and down on the mattress, trying to pull your drips out. You’d bang your little fists against the plastic tent, squealing to get out. Once or twice I saw the nurse give you an injection; it must have been a sedative, because straight away you’d be out for the count. It wasn’t fair. I used to watch you and long to give you a cuddle. You made me laugh; this strange, spindly-looking thing with tufts of tangerine hair. You had massive round eyes and a big mouth. I used to wonder how you’d ever grow into your features.

  “I’d spend as long as possible cleaning around your cot, just so I could talk to you. You’d give the most enormous gummy smile and gabble a load of gibberish at me. I loved being around you. I couldn’t believe how bright and smiley you were and when the staff weren’t looking I’d pull funny faces to make you laugh and have a quick game of peek-a-boo – anything to make you happy. But one time, one of those nurses spotted me and I got a lecture. She said that I was ‘endangering your health’; that you babies were too sick to cope with any stimulation. But then I started asking questions and she didn’t like it. I wanted to know why you kids never had any visitors and what were your names; why there were only barcodes on the charts at the end of your cots, as if you were something in a shop? Secretly, I’d started calling you Celia. It just felt right to name you after the only person who’d ever shown me love. Anyway, that nurse told me it was all because of patient confidentiality and although someone like me couldn’t be expected to understand, I should just accept that everything being done was in the best interests of the babies. Then she warned me; she said that if I felt it necessary to keep asking questions then maybe this wasn’t the right job for me. So I stopped asking, but kept watching and listening. I was good at being invisible; the kind of person others would forget was even in the room. That suited me fine.