He seemed to be asking me a question, and I stared at him for a moment then shrugged.
‘I don’t know … I wasn’t there, obviously. Yes, it’s a pelican. The one with the blue velvet shade?’
He nodded and made another note in his book with a stubby pencil, and I cringed.
Why did I say that? What does it matter if it’s a pelican or a frigging elephant? Someone grabbed my lamp and slammed it into my mother’s head; that’s all that matters.
‘Mrs Holland? How are you doing?’
I jump. Two people have come into the room without me even noticing – one of them a doctor I vaguely remember from last night. She’s petite with a brunette pixie cut.
‘Oh … hi,’ I say. ‘I’m fine. What’s the latest? How is she?’
I gesture at the bed, and she looks at the nurse who’s standing beside her.
‘Celia’s just going to do some bloods,’ she says, and the nurse nods at me.
‘Won’t take long,’ she says.
The doctor is sitting down now, pulling another chair a little closer to mine.
‘Your mother … well, she’s not very well,’ she says gently, and my stomach contracts.
‘But … I thought … the head injury, the surgery … I thought it went well?’ I say, but she’s shaking her head and my heart rate starts to speed up.
‘It’s not that. It did, and we do expect her to make a good recovery. It’s just …’
She’s frowning, looking down at the clipboard she’s holding.
‘Well, when we asked you last night if she had any underlying health conditions, you didn’t mention her cancer.’
‘What? Her … what?’
She sighs.
‘I was afraid of that. You didn’t know, then? We’re having some trouble tracking down her medical records; I’m not sure why. I’m waiting for an update. And obviously we’ve only scanned her head at the moment, but we think she’s probably been receiving treatment for renal cancer. Kidney cancer.’
My mind is racing and I’m finding it hard to catch my breath. The room suddenly feels hot, stuffy, and airless.
What’s she talking about? Has she got Mum mixed up with someone else? My mother doesn’t have cancer …
‘I … I don’t know what you mean,’ I splutter. ‘She hasn’t … She can’t …’
‘You brought her handbag in with you,’ she says. Her voice is gentle. ‘There was a leaflet in it about what to expect from your kidney cancer treatment. And she’s got radiotherapy tattoos. They’re tiny little pinpoint marks the radiotherapist makes on the skin so he can line up the machine properly. You wouldn’t have seen them, in the position they’re in, under her clothes. She’s probably had treatment quite recently …’
‘But … I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t she tell me? Why?’ I almost scream the words at her but she doesn’t flinch; she just sits there, looking at me with sympathy in her eyes, and now I’m remembering how pale and tired Mum’s looked at times recently, and how she went off to Cornwall to ‘see a sick friend’. Now I’m wondering about that, wondering if that was true, wondering if what she was really doing was something entirely different. I look frantically from the doctor to Mum and back again, and then I start to cry.
‘I didn’t know. How didn’t I know?’ I sob.
‘Some people just want to deal with things like this themselves. They don’t want to burden their loved ones,’ she says, and presses a tissue into my hand. ‘We’re going to do some tests, just to check, and when her notes get here … Did she use any other name, do you know? Alice Armstrong isn’t coming up, and as you weren’t able to give us her exact address …’
I shake my head.
‘Well, she never married again. Her maiden name was Lacey; you could try that I suppose, but I don’t think she’s used it in decades. And I’m so sorry about her address. I know that seems really weird but as I said last night, we’ve been apart a long time until recently, so I’ve never had her home address and I didn’t think to ask. It didn’t matter because she’s moved in with me for a while and … I’m sorry. I’ll call my half-sister and get it for you.’
‘That would be useful, thank you.’
It had been a question I’d been asked last night. The nurse taking details from me had looked a little bemused when I couldn’t give her my own mother’s home address. I’d rung Liv but she hadn’t picked up, and I hadn’t wanted her to hear such horrible news from a voice message. I needed to call her again, and soon. I was sure she’d be on the next train to Cheltenham and I needed her.
Does she know? I think. Does she know, or did Mum keep it from her too?
‘How serious is it? Kidney cancer?’ I ask abruptly. The doctor’s standing up, ready to leave.
‘Until we do more tests and get her notes, it’s hard to say what stage she’s at,’ she says. She looks at the nurse who’s tucking Mum’s arm back under the white sheet and smoothing it with her hands.
‘But, well, radiotherapy in kidney cancer is generally used when the disease isn’t suitable for or hasn’t responded to other treatments, or has spread to other areas – the bones or brain maybe. She may not have started it yet, possibly? The tattoos look new, so she may be just about to begin treatment; they usually do those in advance. I’m sorry, Mrs Holland. This must have been a dreadful shock, and as I said, this is just speculation at the moment, but, well …’
She shrugs. I nod and thank her, and now I’m thinking about Mum’s ‘special announcement’ again and I realise that this must have been it. This is what she was going to tell us all; this is why she wanted to get everyone I love and care about back together.
She knew I’d be devastated, I think. She knew I’d need their support. She was thinking of me, and look at her now. And if she’s already sick, if she really does have cancer, then this is even worse. So very, very much worse than I thought it was …
I’m crying again now, rocking backwards and forwards in my chair. I cry for a long time and then somehow I fall asleep, and when I wake, head drooping, neck cramping, the doctor and nurse are back in the room. I realise they’re saying my name and that’s what’s woken me up.
‘Oh … I’m sorry. I need to call Liv and get that address. I fell asleep; I’ll do it now,’ I mumble, and try to get to my feet, but the doctor’s holding up a hand.
‘Don’t worry. Take a minute. You must be exhausted,’ she says. I sit back down gratefully, rubbing my eyes and trying to clear my head. Then I look at Mum, still lying silently in her bed. The nurse is gently wiping her face with a blue cloth, pulling down her gown to run it over her neck and chest. I watch for a moment, and then I lean forward, staring. Something’s not right.
‘Her tattoo,’ I say. I stand up, moving closer to the bed and leaning over my mother. ‘Her tattoo. Where’s her tattoo?’
The nurse looks up at me, frowning, and I point, my hand shaking now.
‘Her collarbone. She has a tattoo. Three little stars … Where the hell is it? What’s going on?’
The skin on her collarbone is bare, exposed, the green hospital gown pulled away from her body. There is no sign of a tattoo. I look at Mum’s face and back to the nurse, and then whirl around to face the doctor.
‘Where is it?’ I shout.
I’m going mad, aren’t I? This is a dream. It must be …
‘Oh, that.’ The nurse is talking now and I spin back in her direction. She’s looking confused, peering down at Mum’s chest.
‘She did have a tattoo when she came in – one of those temporary ones? I had one for a fancy-dress party once; they’re pretty good. They last a couple of weeks nowadays. It came off when we were washing the blood off, but she’ll easily be able to pop another one on when she’s better.’
She’s smiling reassuringly at me.
‘No!’ I feel frantic now. ‘It was real. She had a real tattoo, there on her collarbone. She’s had it for years, for decades, since I was a little girl. It’s real. Where is it?’
‘And this is definitely your mother, right?’ says the doctor, and now there’s an edge to her voice, along with a hint of suspicion.
‘Of course it is!’ I say. I know I sound rude and exasperated, but I don’t care.
Does she think I’m making it up, that I’m pretending this poor woman is my mother?
‘Of course it’s my bloody mother. I just don’t understand …’
The doctor looks down at her notes, and then back at me. The nurse has moved to stand beside her now, and she’s looking uneasy, her eyes flitting between me and her colleague.
‘Look, this is really none of my business,’ says the doctor, ‘but if your mother has a tattoo and this lady doesn’t, well, that’s very strange. I’m not accusing you of anything here, Mrs Holland, but it’s starting to sound as if you’re not entirely sure about this lady’s identity, and with the difficulty we’re having in tracking down her medical records, well … we need to be a hundred per cent sure of who she is, especially considering her serious health issues.’
‘What?’
I think I might actually start screaming in a minute. What the hell is going on here?
‘Look,’ I say, and it takes everything I’ve got to say the words calmly because my throat is tight with anger and frustration. ‘I don’t understand the tattoo thing any more than you do but I can assure you that I am one hundred per cent sure that that is my mother. OK?’
The doctor’s eyes bore into mine for a long moment, then she looks away, glancing at her notes again. And then, quite unexpectedly, she gasps, her eyes fixed on the page in front of her.
‘Oh!’ she says.
‘What? What is it?’
She looks up, a strange expression on her face.
‘Last night, when you came in, we took some of your details, do you remember? You were in deep shock, and we were a little concerned that you might need treating too, so we took a basic medical history?’
I nod, a vague memory of someone asking me questions resurfacing.
‘Yes, I remember. And?’
She looks at me quizzically, then looks back down at her chart.
‘Your blood type is O, is that correct?’ she says.
‘O, yes. Why?
‘And you say this is your mother, your biological mother? You weren’t adopted or anything?’
‘No, of course I wasn’t adopted.’
‘Right.’
A pause.
‘Your mother is blood type AB,’ she says.
I shrug.
‘OK. And?’
The two women exchange glances.
‘Well,’ says the doctor, then pauses again.
‘So, this is the thing. A mother with blood type AB cannot produce a child with blood type O, no matter what the father’s blood type. She can only produce a child with blood type A, B or AB.’
‘What?’
I’m starting to shiver. Why is the room suddenly so cold? I look at the bed again, at my mother, and at the empty place on her collarbone where her tattoo should be. Then I look back at the doctor.
‘What?’ I whisper.
‘Mrs Holland …’
She looks back down at her chart again and sighs, and then her eyes meet mine.
‘I’m so sorry, but if you’re absolutely sure about your blood type, it’s just not possible. This woman is not your mother.’
Chapter 36
My legs crumple. As I fall, the doctor and nurse each grab one of my arms, and then somehow I’m sitting in a chair, my head between my knees.
‘Breathe. Deep slow breaths. You’re OK,’ the doctor is saying, and I try to obey but my heart is thumping and my body is bathed in sweat.
What did she say? Did she really say Mum wasn’t my mother, that she couldn’t be my mother? She’s got it wrong; the blood types must be wrong. I’ve made a mistake, or she has. This can’t be right …
I gasp and sit up, swaying as a wave of dizziness hits me, then look across to the bed where Mum is still lying motionless, her gown back in place now, concealing the place where her tattoo should be.
‘You’re wrong,’ I croak. ‘You’ve got this wrong. That’s Alice Armstrong, my mother. Please, help me sort this out.’
The doctor’s kneeling in front of me now, her brow creased, the look in her eyes sympathetic.
‘I don’t think we’ve made a mistake, unless you’re wrong about your blood type? But I’m so sorry; this was not the way you should have found out about this.’
There’s sweat running down my forehead and into my eyes, stinging them, and I blink.
‘I’m totally sure. I’ve always known my blood type. I can’t even remember why really. I know it as well as my shoe size. But this doesn’t make any sense. I don’t understand.’
I’m struggling to get the words out; my voice is a hoarse whisper. She nods and puts a hand on my knee briefly, then stands up.
‘It’s confusing enough for me. I can’t imagine what’s going on in your head. Look, I’m so sorry, I’m going to have to get on with my rounds, but I’ll try and pop back later. Didn’t you mention a half-sister? Could she shed any light on this, do you think?’
‘Yes!’ I sit bolt upright.
Liv, of course. I need to call her anyway and now, well, now I have so many questions. Could I be adopted and Dad’s never told me? Would Liv know that, if so? And where is Mum’s tattoo? Did she have it removed at some point maybe, after she left us, and decided to use a fake one when she came back? Why bother though? But what other explanation can there be?
My mind is racing; my thoughts are tumbling over each other.
I need to speak to Dad. But hang on, I’m not adopted; I can’t be. I remember photos – loads of them – before he burned them all. Pictures of Mum pregnant, a neat bump under a long floral dress. Pregnant with me. A photo of her and Dad sitting in a hospital ward with me in her arms and both of them beaming.
‘You’re just an hour old in this photo,’ I remember her saying to me, a dreamy look on her face. ‘Just one hour. Can you imagine being that young, that new?’
She gave birth to me. She did. But the blood type thing, it makes no sense …
‘I’ll call Liv now,’ I say, and the doctor smiles and nods, lifting a hand as she heads for the door. When she’s gone I grab my phone and dial Liv’s number. Voicemail, again. Where is she?
‘Liv, it’s Beth. I’m so sorry to leave a message, but I can’t seem to get hold of you and, well, don’t panic but something awful has happened. I need to speak to you, urgently. Please call me as soon as you get this message. Thanks, Liv. Call me, OK? It’s really important.’
I end the call and sit there, staring at Mum – or at what I can see of her. The sheets are tucked tightly around her and her face is almost completely obscured by the oxygen mask.
I need to speak to someone else who knows her, I think. Someone who can confirm her identity, who can help me prove that she is Alice Armstrong, my mother. That the doctor is wrong. But who? I don’t know anyone else who knows Mum, not nowadays.
And then I have a brainwave.
The gallery. The gallery she works in. They’ll have all her details, won’t they?
I think of the personnel files I have in my office at the surgery. Name, address, date of birth, education, qualifications, National Insurance number, bank account details … it’s all there for every member of staff.
They won’t be able to tell me anything confidential, but maybe if I explain, if I tell them she’s badly injured and that we need to track down her medical records … But what’s the gallery called, and where is it? She told me, I know she did. West something. West … West Bercor. Yes, that’s it!
I grab my phone again and put ‘art gallery, West Bercor’ into the search engine. There’s only one, Callingford Studios. I find the contact page and dial the number with a new sense of purpose.
Right, let’s get this sorted once and fo
r all, eh Mum?
I give the silent figure in the bed a determined nod.
‘Hello, Callingford Studios, Eleanor speaking.’
It’s a refined voice – definitely not a Cornish native. A former Londoner maybe. I clear my throat.
‘Hi, Eleanor. Erm, this is a slightly unusual request, but my mother, Alice, works for you, and I need to …’
‘Alison, you mean? She’s away on a sabbatical at the moment, I’m afraid,’ she says abruptly. ‘But hang on, is that Liv?’
I pause, puzzled.
Alison? But she knows Liv …
‘Liv’s my sister. Well, half-sister. I’m Beth. I’m older than Liv …’
I pause again, suddenly realising that Mum may not have told Eleanor, whoever she is, anything about me.
Maybe they’re not close; maybe she kept me a secret. But what else can I do? Mum will forgive me, I’m sure she will …
But Eleanor’s speaking again, her voice sharp this time.
‘Alison doesn’t have two daughters, just Liv. Who is this? Beth, did you say?’
‘Yes. My mum … well, I’m a bit confused. Her name’s actually Alice, not Alison. Maybe she uses Alison for work for some reason? She’s Alice Armstrong. But yes, she’s Liv’s mum too. She moved away you see, when I was very young, and she’s only just found me …’
‘Alice Armstrong? I’m sorry, but I don’t understand. I don’t know anyone called Armstrong,’ snaps Eleanor.
‘But … you know Liv? I’m sorry, I’m not sure what’s going on here,’ I say.
I hear a sigh.
‘Well, I’m not sure either. Yes, I know Liv. I’ve known her since she was a schoolgirl, and her mother’s worked here for years, but her name is definitely Alison, not Alice. And Alison doesn’t have any other children. Well, she did – a poor soul called Lucy, but that was many years ago, and—’
‘What? What did you say?’
I freeze.
Did she say … Did she say … Lucy?
There’s a cold sensation suddenly creeping up my body, as if someone’s injected icy water into my veins.
‘I said Lucy. Alison’s late daughter. Look, I think we’ve got our wires crossed here somehow. Who are you again, and who did you say you’re looking for? I don’t know any Alice Armstrong. It’s Alison Allen who works here.’
The Happy Family Page 25