The Forgotten Sister

by Caroline Bond

  ‘Well, that’s possible, isn’t it? Just cos she had to give you up doesn’t mean she didn’t love you.’ Erin’s view of the world sometimes floored Cassie. She seemed so much older than thirteen. ‘Mum and Dad said that your birth mum couldn’t cope, not that she didn’t want you.’

  ‘But you weren’t there when they talked about why I was taken off her. It was far worse than they’d let on. It sounds like she was as good as an alcoholic. And there were drugs as well.’ Erin didn’t flinch. ‘Erin, she was in trouble with the police. The place was some sort of dosshouse.’

  ‘So? She could’ve still loved you.’ Erin was trying, as she always did, to make Cassie feel better.

  ‘So? So I’m confused. Why am I having these dreams where someone is taking care of me, if she really neglected me as much as they say she did?’

  ‘Dreams?’ Erin asked.

  ‘Dreams, memories…what difference does it make?’ Cassie pushed herself away from the sill and started pacing round Erin’s room. She knew full well what her sister was getting at, but they felt so real. She waited for her response, genuinely needing her advice, while Erin sat, like a slimline Buddha on her bed, composing her answer. Cassie could see her concentration in the way she was biting her bottom lip, chewing over the problem. Careful, that’s what her little sister was; a person full of care.

  ‘Why not just ask Mum and Dad?’ Erin said at last. She was still thirteen at heart.

  ‘Because I’m not sure they’re telling me the truth,’ Cassie replied.

  Chapter 16

  ‘SO, WAS she mentally ill or just an addict?’ Cassie lobbed this at her mother’s back the following morning, as Grace stood waiting for the toast to pop up.

  Grace spun round. ‘She wasn’t an addict!’

  ‘You made her sound like one.’ Cassie rested her elbows on the counter and waited for more.

  ‘I’m sorry if that’s what you heard, but that’s not what we said. What we said was that she was a troubled soul – someone who was struggling to cope. She fell in with a bad crowd, things escalated, got out of control. Whether she was ever diagnosed with an actual medical condition or an addiction problem, I’m not sure,’ Grace said.

  ‘How can you not know? Surely that’s the type of thing you’d want to know before you adopted a child? I can’t believe you adopted me, not knowing if my biological mum was clinically depressed, a psycho, a user or just phenomenally weak-willed and self-centred.’

  ‘Oh, Cassie.’ Grace took a step towards her daughter, but Cassie swayed away, warding her off. Grace persevered. ‘This is exactly why it does no earthly good dwelling on these things. There are questions we simply can’t answer – no one can. I’m sorry. I do know how hard this must be for you.’ Cassie stared at her mother. Grace tried again. ‘If it helps, I don’t think she can have had a diagnosed condition; they would have had to disclose it. Is that what’s worrying you? That you might have inherited some…’ Grace stuttered, searching for a less frightening word, ‘sort of problem from her?’

  Of course it was, but it wasn’t as simple as that. ‘Kind of.’

  ‘But, Cassie, there’s no sign of anything like that, is there? And there never has been. Up until a fortnight ago none of this mattered. It never has. And it still doesn’t now. It’s never made the slightest difference to you, or to me or your dad, or the rest of the family. It was a long time ago. It’s the past.’ Grace so desperately wanted this to be true, for all their sakes. ‘I’m concerned that if you keep thinking about this, stressing about it, it’s going to really upset you, make you worry about things that you don’t have to worry about.’

  Cassie seemed to give this some real thought. Grace studied her, watching the battle going on inside her daughter, praying – actually praying – for her to regain her footing.

  She didn’t. ‘I can’t let it go. It won’t let me let it go.’ Cassie pulled her nightshirt down over her knees, distorting the picture on the front. Mickey Mouse morphed into a ghoul. ‘I’ve been dreaming. About her. About my birth mum.’

  Grace’s heart pinched. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, just that. I’ve been having dreams about being little. Really vivid ones. I can see a house, and some of the rooms. And there’s someone with me in my dreams. I never see them, but I know they’re there – they’re always there.’

  Grace disguised her concern, poorly. Anxiety made her voice tight. ‘And what happens in these dreams?’

  ‘Different things.’

  Grace almost couldn’t bring herself to ask. ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘Nothing bad. Not really. In fact that’s what’s odd. In most of them I’m okay. In some of them I’m happy, playing or dancing, or doing normal stuff. Nothing weird. And even when I’m not, this person who’s with me looks after me. They protect me. She protects me.’

  ‘Oh, Cassie! You think it’s your mum?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Grace walked around the kitchen island and stood beside Cassie. ‘It’s not.’

  Cassie flared. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘It’s Jane. It must be Jane you’re remembering, your foster mum.’

  ‘Why must it be?’ Cassie’s voice rose.

  ‘Because Jane was lovely. I’m guessing all this talk about your adoption has stirred up some old memories – memories you didn’t realise you had. Jane was a truly kind, generous lady and she looked after you really well. For the short space of time she had you, she loved you.’

  ‘Oh.’ Cassie suddenly felt like crying. She let Grace put her arms round her and hug her. It was all so bloody confusing. Her mum smelt of deodorant and toast. Cassie closed her eyes and, in an instant, slipped straight into another embrace, less fragrant, more urgent, more bony. She opened her eyes, freaked out, her heart thumping in her ears. She was still in her kitchen, with her face pressed against her mum’s shoulder, and yet a second ago she had been somewhere else entirely. She was scared. It was as if this thing from the past was insisting it must not be forgotten. She wriggled free from Grace’s embrace, too overwhelmed to explain, and fled.

  Up in her room, Erin was sitting on the edge of her bed, in her uniform, all ready for school, needing her breakfast, forgotten. She could hear her sister and mum talking in the kitchen. She knew exactly what it was about. The drama about Cassie’s adoption, it wasn’t going away; in fact it seemed to be getting worse. Cassie’s voice rose, getting louder, higher and more distraught.

  Erin hated it when there was any upset, even when it was about petty stuff, and this wasn’t petty stuff. Any disagreement, no matter how small, made her tense. She would feel the ripples of hurt and resentment shivering through the house for days after any row. In the kitchen below, Cassie’s voice hitched up another notch. Erin heard her mother speaking slowly and carefully in response, the same low, placating murmur of compromise and understanding that she used whenever there was trouble. After five more minutes of Cassie’s indignation and Grace’s composed calm, it went quiet. That was somehow worse. Erin waited, hoping for a sign that things had returned to normal – the radio going on or the sound of the fridge being opened – but there was nothing. Another minute and Cassie’s footsteps sounded on the stairs. As she crossed the landing she glanced in at Erin. She looked upset. She shook her head as she passed, indicating that whatever had been said hadn’t helped.

  With the quiver of her sister’s distress still resonating inside her, Erin went downstairs. As she entered the kitchen, Grace looked up from her uneaten breakfast and smiled, brightly. ‘Do you want me to put a couple of slices in for you?’ Just a normal everyday morning then, that’s how they were going to play it.

  ‘Yeah. Thanks.’ Erin poured herself a juice and sat at the counter, in the seat that her sister had vacated.

  Grace picked up a dishcloth and wiped the surfaces. ‘All sorted for school?’

  ‘Yes,’ she mumbled. She relented when she saw the sag in her mum’s determinedly sunny smile. ‘I’ve got an extra art session tonight,
so I’ll be a bit late home.’

  ‘That’s fine.’ Grace busied herself taking Erin’s toast out of the toaster and passing her the spread and the Marmite. Neither of them turned round at the sound of Cassie crashing down the stairs, across the hall and out of the house on her way to college. There was no ‘goodbye’ for either of them. The reverberation of her departure took a few seconds to settle.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ Erin asked.

  ‘Yes. Of course,’ Grace lied. Erin looked at mother, questioning her with the slightest lift of her eyebrows. Grace smiled even more concertedly. ‘You mean Cassie and this business about her adoption?’ Of course Erin meant that; what else would she be talking about? ‘It’s fine. She’s just a bit unsettled at the moment. It really isn’t anything for you to worry about. Honestly it isn’t. You know how Cassie gets sometimes – all worked up over things. And before you start worrying about us, we’re fine with her asking, we really are. It’s natural.’ To Erin it felt like a prepared speech. Not a very good one. Grace glanced at her phone. ‘I’m sorry, love. I’d best get off. I’ll see you later. Have a good day.’ As she went out she kissed Erin’s cheek clumsily.

  Erin climbed off her stool and walked across the kitchen. She tilted her plate and watched her toast slide into the bin on top of her mother’s discarded breakfast. No one seemed in the mood for eating. The kitchen clock showed 8.10 a.m.

  The front door banged shut for the second time that morning.

  She stepped back, far enough away from the window not to be seen, but still close enough to see out. She watched her mum toss her briefcase and jacket into the front of the car, climb in and pull the seatbelt across herself. Grace sat for a couple of seconds, doing nothing, staring at the house as if it had the answer. Then her lips starting moving. For a second Erin thought her mum was praying. She did sometimes, when she thought no one was looking, little whispers under her breath of thankfulness at mealtimes and family get-togethers, or muttered invocations for patience when Cassie, or her dad, was being irritating. But through the open window Erin heard the dial tone reverberating on the hands-free. She took another step backwards, wanting to hear, but not be seen.

  Grace’s voice was distorted, but amplified. ‘Hi, sorry, I know you’re driving, but have you got a minute. It’s Cassie.’ She was calling Tom, not God.

  It was impossible to make out her dad’s response.

  Grace went on. ‘We’ve had another conversation. She’s getting herself very worked up.’ She paused, listening. ‘But what I’m saying is that this isn’t going to go away on its own. All the talking in the world isn’t going to satisfy her; if anything, I think it’s just making things worse. She can sense that we’re not being straight with her, I can hear it in her voice. We’re going to have to do more than talk.’

  Again her dad’s reaction was unintelligible.

  Her mum’s next comment was a hesitant one. ‘I was going to tell you before, but I didn’t get the chance… I’ve been in touch with the Adoption Service. I think the more we know, the better. They’ve not come back to me yet.’ There was a pause. ‘Tom?’

  Whatever her dad said, it was short and to the point.

  Grace sounded defeated when she replied, ‘Okay. We’ll talk about it later, when we’ve both got more time.’ She disconnected the call. She sat for a moment, as if gathering her strength. After a few moments of absolute stillness she started the car, reversed off the run-up and drove away, leaving Erin fearful of what came next.

  Chapter 17

  THE SQUARE in front of the college was busy with students and parents, but Leah still felt self-conscious. She slid her hands into the pockets of her hoodie, creating an ineffective but reassuring barrier in front of her thin body. She didn’t fit in. Her clothes, her hair, her face, that taint of otherness that she carried in her skin, all marked her out. She knew they could detect it, like dog shit on the soles of their shoes. A number of the smartly dressed mothers glanced at her, their eyes revealing their surprise that someone like her should be present at a college open day. Leah stared back into their judgement, flatly, defiantly, and most of them looked away, embarrassed to be caught out. They would assume that she was staff – a cleaner or a cook – let them, it was as good an alibi as any. She had her reasons for being there, more personal than theirs and darker, to be sure, but no less valid.

  She was family.

  Blood was blood.

  She had as much right as any of them.

  Leah moved through the crowd, heading towards the benches under the trees on the far side of the square. She chose the one with the two nervy-looking teenage girls sitting on it. They stopped chatting, got up and moved away the second she approached – just as she’d intended. She sat, alone and largely ignored, which was what she wanted, watching the swirl of activity with disgust. Most of the kids were loud, greeting their mates like long-lost relatives, shouting out, hugging, pretending to be super-interested in each other’s news. The girls shimmered and flicked their hair with a kind of weird excitement and the boys strolled and sauntered. They were arrogant shits, all of them. There were a few quieter kids, nerds with hunched shoulders and pained expressions, but they were of no interest to her. She knew exactly who she was looking for – a confident girl, with a halo of hair.

  It was probably a waste of time. She knew the odds of spotting Cassidie were close to zero. It would be down to luck, and Leah knew that she wasn’t lucky, but she’d wanted to come. It was another piece in the jigsaw of Cassidie’s new life.

  The square was quietening down as the students disappeared inside, ready to take the next steps on their smooth, straight paths to success. There was still no sign of Cassidie, but she was prepared to wait. She was good at waiting. She was getting plenty of practice. It made her smile, briefly and sourly, to think that she was only there courtesy of the interfering social worker. It was a safe bet this wasn’t quite what he’d had in mind when he’d contacted her.

  It had started with a voicemail, which, of course, she ignored. Nothing good ever came from a call from Social Services, especially one out of the blue. But they kept on at her: more messages, the same old shit, but this time with a persistent bastard running the show. She finally picked up, out of sheer irritation. That and the faint but familiar anxiety about their power to screw with her life.

  It had been a short conversation.

  The social worker had been thrown by her sudden, barked ‘What?’, but he regrouped and stumbled on, coming out with the same insincere spiel they all peddled. He asked her how she was getting on or, to use his word, ‘coping’ – she said fine. He wondered aloud how things were going ‘on the housing front’, trying to find out where she was living – she didn’t tell him. He fished for clues as to what she was doing with herself – again, none of his sodding business. She waited for him to ask about her health, meaning her compulsions and her anger issues, but he didn’t dare. Eventually he ran out of questions, only then did he divulge his real reason for hassling her.

  Cassidie.

  Cassidie had starting asking about her birth family.

  She could hear the bloke’s breathing in the dark space that her lack of response had created. She had no intention of helping him out. He could choke on his request, for all she cared. ‘We were wondering if you might be willing to help us update the information we have on file.’

  It was always ‘we’, never ‘I’. Never them, always someone else.

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s just – she wants to know more about her background and we—’

  Leah cut him off. ‘I said “No”! Not interested. Don’t contact me again.’

  She’d ended the call and stood with the phone in her hand, stalled by his request. A kid carved past her on a skateboard, missing her by a sliver. She watched him fly along the pavement, slam to a stop outside the shop and jump off.

  After all this time.

  She’d started walking again, eyes down, skirting round the abandoned sk
ateboard and the smears of dog shit that patterned the pavement, her pulse rapid and uncomfortable. She walked slowly at first, then more quickly, picking up speed.

  So Cassidie was finally asking about her past.

  About fucking time.

  *

  Back in the flat, she’d stared at her phone screen.

  The social worker hadn’t been lying. The Facebook page was proof of that. There it was, in black and white, and colour, a shout out for information that had been shared, and shared, and shared again. As Leah read the appeal, the words punched small, deep holes into her heart, but her expression didn’t change. She was good at maintaining a blank expression, it was her default setting: say nothing, reveal nothing, feel nothing. It was better that way. But these words weren’t nothing, they were the past coming back to attack her. As she’d read Cassidie’s oh-so-polite appeal for information, an old, but still-fertile rage had germinated inside her.

  So Cassidie was ready now, was she?

  After all this time, she’d finally started asking questions.

  It had taken her fucking long enough.

  There were photos alongside the words. Not many, but enough. Leah studied them. Cassidie all grown-up. Seventeen, but looking older. A young woman, not a child. Tall and strong. Smooth, flawless skin, a face dominated by clear eyes and an easy smile. Even then, based on only a handful of small images, Leah had been able to tell that Cassidie was a confident girl, one who walked with her head held high and looked people full in the face. A girl who was shame-free.

  Cassidie had made it to the other side.

  She’d turned into a healthy, happy, normal person.

  She’d turned into a complete stranger.

  Leah had dropped her phone onto the sofa and walked over to the window.

  The sun was out, the view clear and brutal. Below – the concrete pathways and the patches of brown grass that littered the estate; beyond – the grey flats, red-brick houses and a mess of roads; and in the far distance – the half-built glass-and-steel towers of central Manchester. She leant her head against the window and closed her eyes, imagining the drop on the other side. It gave her a welcome rush of adrenaline. She pressed, hard, bone against glass, both unyielding. The pain radiated across her forehead into her skull. It felt good. She pressed harder. It hurt more. She knew she should stop doing it. She made herself move back a fraction, losing contact with the glass. With her eyes shut, the dizziness was disorientating. The temptation was strong, but she resisted it. This is what happened when she started thinking. It did no good. She turned, picked up her phone, rammed it into her back pocket, grabbed her jacket and made it as far as the hall. Then she turned and ran the eight, short strides back to the window.