by Molly Ringle
“You were walking all right.”
“If you say so.” He trudged to the bathroom.
“See you after work,” I called.
He flopped a hand at me in answer. Okay. He either really did forget, or he was a good actor – which of course he was, so the devil only knew the truth on this one. Didn’t matter much anyway.
While I polished an ancient wooden chair in the church basement that afternoon, my mind replayed little hints I should have picked up about Sinter: kissing me on Halloween, keeping my secrets for me, not being nearly upset enough when he lost both Clare and Julie in a single night, happy simply to have me along on his journey to London. I might have noticed a thing or two along the way. Of course there was also his story about his gay best friend in high school, which had obviously influenced his young brain somehow.
But I thought about this latest development in only a detached and depressed way. Sinter had nothing to do with my love life, except in his usual quirky role of darting in and out at the periphery. What I had known last night when he kissed me, and every day since I last saw Julie, was that I still loved her, wanted her, and was heartbroken over it.
On the Tube home, I sat next to an old woman who looked like she spent most of her time in the parks feeding pigeons, to judge from the damp-grass smell and the bits of cracker crumbs, feathers, and dead leaves all over her clothes. She wore a hat like nobody except daft old ladies wear: gray and shapeless, with a fake red bird and some artificial holly springing from one side. She smiled at me. “Good evening,” she said.
“Evening.” I folded my hands and looked at the advertisements above the passengers’ heads. The train zoomed to the next station, stopped, picked up more people, and zoomed off again.
Her wrinkled hand patted my knee. “Such a handsome boy should smile more.”
I favored her with a wry smile. “I’m in love with my cousin. Isn’t that shocking?”
A commuter, a young man of Indian descent wearing a business suit, did a double-take at me, then turned resolutely away and went on clutching the overhead bar.
She squinted. “Now, is your cousin a boy or a girl?”
I almost laughed. “Girl.”
She leaned back, waving her hand. “Not so shocking. My grandfather married his cousin. And my mother married her second cousin. And look at me, I’m no worse for it.”
I gazed gravely at her mismatched woolen socks. “Thank you.”
The Indian bloke looked over his shoulder, caught my eye, and smiled. I even got the feeling he was laughing with me, not at me. I smiled back. Maybe my life wasn’t entirely shocking.
Or maybe the bloke on the Tube just thought I enjoyed making up funny stories to mess with old ladies’ heads. Did it matter what he thought, in the end?
LONDON WAS too hot that evening. In July the sun lingered late, and all the stone and metal soaked up the heat and radiated it throughout the short nights. Sinter worked much later in the day than I did, so he was still out when I returned from work. I grimaced at the stifling air in our flat, opened our windows, packed up my laptop in its satchel, and set out walking.
In Regent’s Park I found a spot of shade under a sycamore tree. Seated on the lumpy roots and dry grass, ignoring the chatter of children and tourists, I settled the computer on my lap and typed a message.
Dear Julie:
So you haven’t written in 33 days, and neither have I, but who’s counting? We tried this “time apart” thing. Probably you thought I’d find another skirt to chase, after my usual pattern. Well, I haven’t. In fact, you’d laugh if you knew the closest thing I’ve had to a romantic experience lately.
You and other people keep telling me I could have anyone. If that’s so, then I’ll tell you who I want.
I want you. I choose you. I’ve thought about it, and tried to get over it, and it hasn’t made a bit of difference. It’s still you I love, and no one else.
You said you were ashamed of us. You hinted I must have been too, since I kept it secret. Fine, I admit I was ashamed. But I’m not anymore. Everyone who matters knows already, and I’ll tell anyone else you like. I’ll go through my mobile log and ring all my ex-girlfriends and tell each of them. I’ll spray-paint it all over Piccadilly station. I’ll get a tattoo. I’ll have it embroidered onto all my shirts. Just please take me back.
I love you, I’m not ashamed of you, we’ll never hurt each other the way our parents think we will, we’re not as weird as plenty of people in this world, and I am asking you – pleading, demanding, threatening, whatever it takes – to come back to me.
Say the word and I’ll be on a plane to Oregon.
Yours ever,
Daniel
Regent’s Park wasn’t set up for wireless Internet, so I couldn’t send the letter right away. I took the laptop to a nearby café that did offer wi-fi. While I sipped an iced coffee, I read the message one more time, and to the bottom of it I added every bit of contact information she could possibly need: our flat address, our phone number, the address of the place I worked, the address of the pub where Sinter worked. Then I typed in her email address at the top, and, with the numbness of insane courage chilling my bones, clicked “Send.” The progress bar whisked blue for a moment, then flashed off, leaving the words “Message sent” in its wake.
Fuck. I put down the iced coffee and got into the email help files to see if you could recall a message after sending it. I spent a quarter of an hour looking, but found nothing. Double-fuck.
Great. Well – nothing to do now but wait.
I waited for a week. I made small talk with Sinter and my coworkers. I checked my email at every opportunity, with a thrill of anticipation every time, but no messages from Julie turned up.
At the end of the week, on a cloudy, humid night while Sinter was at work, I carried the phone to the floor, sat on the carpet with my back to the sofa, and figured out how to dial America.
I pulled my knees up close to my chest while the line rang.
“Hello?” she said.
“Mum?” I sounded weaker than I liked.
She caught a breath. “Daniel, darling.”
“How are you?”
“We’re all right, dear. We miss you. What about you? How are you?”
I put my forehead on my knees. “Mum, I wanted to know…if Julie had wanted me after all, if she didn’t mind the way things were…would I have been able to bring her home to Christmas dinner?”
“Oh, darling.”
“Not as my cousin, I mean.”
“I know, dear.”
“Because I want both. I want Christmas dinner, with you and Dad, but I also…I also want her.”
“Dear, it’s all right.”
“I did it all wrong,” I said. “I’ve disappointed you, and lost her.”
“Don’t worry about us. We’re not angry anymore. Even Nanny understands.”
I lifted my face with a grimace. “You told Nanny? Crap, Mum.”
“I’m sorry. She happened to ring the night you left, and we were so upset…”
“Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”
“She doesn’t blame you, dear. If anyone, she blames us.”
“Maybe she ought to blame herself a little,” I said, apparently still not above snippiness.
“I’m rather certain she does. She’d like you to visit her, if you have time.”
“Perhaps.” I set my cheek on my knee again. “Look, I just wanted to know, would it have been all right, the two of us being together? Could you have accepted it?”
“Yes. I think I could.” She sniffled. “If it means you’d come home…”
“I would. I will.”
“Julie…she’s a lovely girl. That was never in question.”
“It would have been all right? If she were willing?”
“Yes. It would have. I promise.”
“Thanks, Mum.”
“Phone Nanny. Don’t forget.”
Chapter 23: Relatives Being Honest
THE NEXT day I phoned Nanny at her home in Chichester. As I punched in the numbers, my blood rose at the idea of a righteous argument. This is all your doing, I’d tell her. You and your horrible relationship with your children, and what it inspired them to do and how it made them turn out, that’s what’s caused my life such misery. I love you, Nanny, but you owe me a truly gigantic apology.
“Hello?” She sounded frail when she answered, like the eighty-five-year-old woman she was. That knocked my anger back a step.
“Nanny? It’s Daniel.” I settled for sounding aloof, for now. “I’m in London again. Mum suggested I call.”
“Yes, darling. We must talk. I heard what happened, and…well, I might be able to help. If nothing else, I owe you a tremendous apology.”
I was so startled to hear her jump three or four steps ahead of me, I could only stammer in answer. “Oh. Well, I – if you – obviously I don’t know the whole story, but –”
“Really you don’t know it. I’ll try to explain. But not over the phone, dear. I’m to come into London tomorrow morning to visit a friend. Could you meet my train and spare an hour with me first? We can have a cuppa somewhere.”
“Er…sure. I can take the day off, so, yeah. When’s your train?”
NANNY STEPPED off her train wearing a flowing pale-pink dress and matching high heels. A wide straw hat capped her white head, and a string of purple glass beads draped her neck. Rather than resembling a daft old lady you’d meet on the Tube, she looked like someone attending a royal wedding.
However, I held my compliments in reserve until I’d heard her grand explanation. I met her at the platform, and took her bag from her hand.
She kissed my cheek. “Hello, darling.” She frowned at me, stroking my face. “My, you do look grim. Come, let’s get that cuppa. Tell me all about it.”
I told her the clean version, of course, as we bought tea at a cafe near the station, and sat at an outdoor table with our cups. In this version, Julie and I fell in love, while keeping our first-cousin status a secret from one another, but I said nothing about physical intimacy. The way I told it, a grandmother could assume we’d never done more than hold hands, and only when I was helping her out of a car.
So I sputtered into my tea when Nanny asked, “Did you get her pregnant?”
“No!” I coughed. “No. Nothing like that.”
“That’s good. Your mum didn’t say, but given the hullabaloo, I rather wondered.”
“Guess the lying and sneaking around was enough to upset everyone.” I glowered past the restaurant’s iron fence, watching people stroll calmly down the pavement beneath the green trees. “God, why? Why is it such a problem? That’s what I don’t understand. And why did it have to be my problem, when it was everyone else’s fault to begin with? Everyone else was the one keeping secrets, let’s remember, not just me. Mum, and Dad, and Julie, and – even you.”
Having grown brave enough to pick a fight with Nanny, however, I lost the nerve to say anything else. I stared down at my tea, swishing the bits of leaves around.
“Yes, I more than most.” She sounded pensive, lost in time.
I stole a glance up and found her gazing down the street, squinting so that lines fanned out from the corners of her eyes.
I lowered my face again. “Why didn’t you try to find Evelyn? Learn what had happened to her?”
“I did try. She wished to remain hidden. And I can’t blame her, because things between us were never perfect. I…” Nanny drew a long breath, and her hands trembled as she picked up her teacup. “To lose a child is one of the hardest things in the world. To lose one you didn’t get on with, because she reminded you of your own mistakes…” Nanny met my gaze. Tears brimmed in her brown eyes. “Please know, Daniel, I’ve always wished more than anything that I could apologize to her. Make amends somehow.”
Though I felt sorry for her, I didn’t quite understand yet. I ran my fingers around the edge of my saucer. “You said, in your letter, you weren’t even interested in taking on another granddaughter. And surely if you wanted to make amends, acknowledging Evelyn’s daughter would be a good first step.”
“I protect myself with a tough shell, dear. I daresay you’ve noticed. I feared opening up that side of my life again – the side having to do with Evelyn – because it might hurt, and because the people involved might not like me. But if your Julie is as wonderful as you say, of course I’m happy to acknowledge her as my granddaughter.”
“Yeah. She is. So wonderful she places her own parents’ wishes over mine, and won’t speak to me now, because that’s how they want it.” I dropped back in my chair, letting myself slouch. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled. “I shouldn’t have dragged this all up. Hard as it is for me, I know it’s harder for you. Your child, and all.”
“Harder for me when it happened, perhaps, but yours is more recent, which means you hurt more now. This grand breakup, it’s all because you’re first cousins?”
“Mostly. Plus that nonsense about me treating girls like…dirt.” At the last moment I managed not to say “shit.” “Which is rot, since I’ve been better to her than I’ve been to anyone. And I only planned to improve from there.”
Nanny heaved another deep breath. She set her teacup down. “Would it make a difference, Daniel, if I told you you’re not strictly first cousins after all?”
My attention shot to her, fully and utterly. “What?”
“The mistakes I made, which Evelyn reminded me of – well, I’m referring to an affair I once had.” She laid her hand on her cheek, which had gone many shades pinker than her dress. “God, I’ve never told anyone in the family this. But now with Granddad gone, and you in this fix…”
“Wait, affair? Okay. Don’t worry. Go on.”
“He was a man I should never have got involved with, but it had been a dull year in the marriage, and meeting him was so exciting, and I…well, I quite lost my head.”
My mind raced forward, reasoning it out. “Evelyn wasn’t Granddad’s child. She was this other man’s.”
“That’s right. Lord. I don’t suppose I can ask you not to tell your mum?”
“Hang on. You’re telling me Julie and I are only – what, half first cousins?”
“I’m not sure what the term would be. But, yes, you only share one grandparent, not two, if that makes any difference.”
I sat up, my heart pounding. “Nanny. It makes a world of difference. Legally, it means I could marry Julie in her home state, which I couldn’t before. And the genetics…if there’s only half as many shared genes as I thought – Nanny, are you sure?”
“Quite sure. Every time I looked in Evelyn’s eyes I saw that man’s. She was nothing like Granddad.” Blinking and flustered, she looked down at her tea. “I suspect he guessed. That was why he wasn’t close to her either. Truly it was me he should have blamed, never her.”
I gave a short, amazed laugh. “Romantic turmoil does run in our family, doesn’t it?”
She uttered a chuckle too. “We’re like a bloody Thomas Hardy novel, darling.”
I walked her to the corner and hailed a cab for her to take to her friend’s house. “Nanny, I beg you,” I said before she got in. “Let me tell Julie. And, ideally, her parents, and Mum and Dad. This is important. This is your chance to make things right.”
She fussed with a pin holding her hair back. “It will be so humiliating, dear. Can’t it wait till I’m dead?”
I sank to my knees, there on the pavement, and clasped my hands before me. Our cabbie and several passers-by stared. Ignoring them, I entreated my grandmother, “Please, Nanny. It’s my life. It’s love. It’s the truth.”
Nanny flapped her hand at me. “Get up, get up, you fool. Oh, all right. Tell them. But do ask your mother to mull it over a few days before ringing me, won’t you? I don’t want to hear her very first hysterical reaction. I can quite live without that, thank you.”
I jumped up. “I promise.” I hugged her tight, and kissed her on the ear. “Thank
s, Nanny. Thank you so much.”
She patted my cheek, smiling. Holding my hand to steady herself, she got into the cab.
I prepared to shut the door, then paused. “Nanny?”
She lifted her head.
“Who was he? Some handsome, exciting foreigner?”
She chuckled. “No. An historian. A kind fellow with hazel eyes. I met him at the library.”
“I’ll want to know more sometime. So will Julie.”
Nanny nodded. “Sometime.” She waved, and I shut the cab door.
“JULIE,” I told her voicemail, “there’s something important you need to know. But first you need to speak to me again. I’m not bluffing, I swear. This is big. Call me back.”
Though I clutched the phone all day in hopes of hearing from her, she didn’t ring. My excitement dwindled and soon died. So we were half-cousins, or whatever you’d call it. Why should that change what my parents and her parents had said?
Worse yet, maybe she didn’t love me enough to consider me worth the trouble. Maybe we were simply through as far as she was concerned, no matter what percentage of our DNA matched up.
In the afternoon it started raining. The cool temperature, and the fresh rinse that cleaned the black dust off the streets, brought my heat-induced madness down to a general melancholy. I took a walk through Camden, letting my head get wet, then returned to the flat. I checked email as well as voicemail – again, nothing – and ate a sandwich, gazing at the punk-teen shoppers stamping through the rain below our window.
I wandered into the bathroom and gazed at myself in the mirror. Such a handsome boy should smile more. I tried a smile. It looked ghastly. I gave up, and lowered my eyes. My gaze fell on a black pencil that had rolled to the back of the counter: Sinter’s eyeliner. I picked it up, tested a mark on my fingertip, then drew a line along the edges of my eyes. My theater training had made it second nature by now. I tousled up my hair until it looked wild, and returned to the kitchen. I texted Sinter: “Went to Westminster Abbey. Back later,” put on my leather coat, and headed out. The pierced, tattooed, and painted children of Camden didn’t give me a second glance.