The Day She Came Back

by Amanda Prowse

  ‘Yes.’ Victoria nodded. ‘Of course! If she was my mum, she would have proof, right? She would know stuff.’

  ‘Yep, she’d definitely know stuff,’ Daksha confirmed.

  The two friends watched the remaining swallows of the season, agile and elegant as they dipped low over the lake, no doubt to feast on the bugs and airborne grubs lurking over its green-tinged surface.

  ‘I think this lake must be like a bird service station, the equivalent of stocking up on snacks before they fly off up the motorway,’ Victoria said.

  ‘Definitely! They’ll pick up two different types of sweet, an out-of-date chicken salad sandwich and a compilation CD of crappy cover songs, which they’ll listen to all the way to Africa!’ Daksha chuckled.

  ‘Do you think we’ll ever get to Africa?’ Victoria turned to face her.

  ‘I hope so. I really hope so. Although the way you look today, I can’t see us making it to the clock tower on the high street.’

  ‘Why? How do I look?’ Victoria tucked the stray wisps of hair behind her ears, suddenly aware that this ‘look’, whatever it was, had greeted Flynn McNamara.

  ‘Like you want to sleep for a thousand years,’ Daksha whispered, before reaching out and joining her hand with her friend’s. Victoria took comfort from the contact, and there they sat, hands swinging between the chairs and watching the birds that twittered and chattered as they fed and drank.

  Victoria’s phone beeped with a text from Gerald and the two let their hands drop.

  Victoria, how lovely to hear from you. Made my day.

  Yes. I’ve put an extra jersey on.

  Thinking of tackling the crossword.

  Gerald X

  She smiled.

  ‘Now that’s a smile I have missed. Who was that from? Flynn?’ Daksha joked.

  ‘No, Gerald, actually. But I did see Flynn and he kind of asked me to go to the pub with him.’

  Daksha scrabbled forward with her palms in the air. ‘So hang on a minute, we sit here chit-chatting about the vicar and bird motorways, and all the time you have this juicy bit of gossip nestling in your pocket! What is wrong with you? This is huge! Flynn McNamara! The Flynn McNamara!’

  Victoria breathed slowly, trying and failing to feel her friend’s level of enthusiasm. ‘In answer to your question, the matter with me is that I just don’t care about anything, really. I am too sad.’ She made no attempt to swipe at her tears that fell. ‘I can’t imagine ever getting over this feeling, I just wish Prim was here to tell me what to do. And now this whole thing with this Sarah, it feels like too much.’

  Daksha covered her eyes. ‘God, I’m the worst friend in the world. Of course you are too sad. I got carried away.’

  ‘So what’s new?’ Victoria sniffed. ‘And, for your information, you are not the worst friend in the world, you are the very, very best. Thank you for being here with me.’

  It was Daksha’s turn to let her tears fall and, at the sound of the two girls crying, the birds fell silent and took flight, no doubt off to seek a happier place, or at least one where the listening to their covers CD wasn’t going to be interrupted. Victoria more than understood, envying them their wings and wishing she could do the same.

  ‘I think you’re right. I’m going to go and see her, Daks, but only to tell her that I want proof.’

  ‘You are?’

  ‘Yes. I mean, I kind of have to, don’t I? Just to confirm that she is either a total scam artist, a nutcase or to find out that my whole bloody life has been a lie . . .’ The words were easily spoken, but they sat in her mouth like glass. ‘Either way, I am not looking forward to it.’ She felt the jitter of nerves simply at the prospect of going to see the woman.

  ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

  ‘I think this is something I have to do alone, but I’d like you to be close by.’

  ‘I think you’re very brave.’

  She looked at her friend. ‘Brave or bonkers, Daks?’

  ‘Truthfully?’

  ‘Yep, truthfully.’

  ‘Bit of both.’

  It felt surreal that after one anxious, stuttered phone call she was walking into the foyer of the Holiday Inn Express on Epsom Downs. Having driven her there, Mrs Joshi was now parked and had told her to take as long as she needed, and to keep her phone within reach, as she could be inside within seconds. All Victoria had to do was call. Daksha was in the back seat, peering towards the building, having squeezed her shoulder in support for most of the journey.

  And it was a familiar journey, one she had made countless times, driving in Prim’s Volkswagen Beetle over the open road of the racecourse with a clear view of the grandstand and the track, but today it had felt anything other than familiar. It felt like a drive into the unknown and her stomach was in knots. She was glad of Mrs Joshi and Daksha sitting in readiness close by and knew that, if the need arose, her friend’s mother could give one hell of a pinch.

  Victoria walked towards the doors, which opened instantly, not allowing time for the nerves that bubbled in her gut to evolve into the nausea that threatened. She looked into the building and there was Sarah Hansen, standing on the striped carpet in the middle of the foyer. Waiting. She was make-up free, her short dark hair blow-dried and her hands clasped. She was neatly dressed in slim-fitting jeans with a navy belt, a pale-blue shirt, the collar of which was undone to reveal a slender silver chain, and white trainers on her feet. Her expression, Victoria noted, was anxious, as if she might have doubted Victoria’s arrival, or perhaps it was because she knew time was of the essence and was keen to get on with things; possibly both.

  The woman stepped forward and reached out her hands before clasping them again and knitting her fingers, clearly, like Victoria, unsure of the convention. Sarah smiled at her hesitantly and she saw it now. She saw it plainly. And her gut folded over.

  What the hell . . .

  In the light of this new day, with her head not full of a church service and the sermon of Jim Melrose ringing in her thoughts, and without the awful, awful tiredness pawing at her senses, she saw that the eyes of the woman in the photographs around the house and the eyes of the woman standing in front of her were, indeed, if not the same, then very similar. She felt herself sway.

  Mum! Mummy! My mum! This was immediately followed by the questions, pushed forward by anger. Why? How? How and why would you and Prim and Grandpa do this to me? They can’t have known, they missed you too! It can’t be real. It can’t be! Get a grip, Victoria, it can’t be real.

  ‘This is harder than I thought,’ Sarah whispered.

  Victoria nodded. It was.

  ‘I have thought about this moment so many times, and now it’s here I can’t quite believe it. I want to take you in my arms, but I know I can’t. I want to hold you because you have lost Prim and I want you to hold me because my mum has died, but I know that’s too much to ask. Too soon.’

  Victoria held her gaze and listened to the accent – British, but with a hint of Scandi around the vowels. ‘I . . . I don’t even know who you are.’

  ‘I am your mum,’ she mouthed. ‘And I feel adrift right now. This is surreal and wonderful and sad and a whole host of other emotions. I know I won’t ever forget this day, or yesterday, seeing you for the first time in all these years.’

  ‘How you feel is how I have always felt. Because my mum died. I felt it every day.’ Victoria too whispered, as if both were aware that the exchange was too important, too personal, to share. It was a strange thing; Victoria knew no different, had never had a mum, and yet had keenly felt the Sarah-shaped hole in her life . . .

  Sarah closed her eyes as if the very thought of this was more than she could stand. ‘I am so glad you came, Victory.’

  ‘Don’t call me that! How did you know that Prim had died?’ Her bottom lip quivered. She tried her best to keep her tone level, still undecided on how to act, hesitant, and all of her thoughts were bookended by understandable fury at the fact that if this were true, she had been ab
andoned by this woman.

  ‘Bernard. He was my friend – is my friend.’

  ‘I saw you with him at the church.’

  Sarah nodded. ‘It was the first time I’d seen him in a very long time. He has fed me bits of information for years, secretly of course. I don’t think I would have been able to get through without that.’

  This news another gut punch of betrayal that left her feeling sick – even Bernard was in on the secret! She felt her legs sway a little.

  ‘He was always very chatty and nice to me. And to think all the time he knew you were alive! Bernard-the-bloody-handyman knew, and I didn’t!’

  ‘I am so sorry. It’s an inadequate word, but it’s—’

  ‘It’s the worst kind of conspiracy, Sarah.’ Victoria cut her short, her voice trembling as her anger rose.

  ‘I can see how it would feel like that,’ Sarah answered drily. ‘I shouldn’t say it, but to hear you call me Sarah is odd, it hurts. When I chat to you in my daydreams, you always call me Mum.’

  ‘Well, this is not a daydream,’ Victoria reminded her through gritted teeth.

  ‘It is a dream for me, Victory-ia, sorry. I never imagined I would see the day . . .’

  Victoria’s mouth felt dry and her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She felt weak and light-headed, and a lot like she was dreaming. Maybe she was, but it was a nightmare.

  ‘I’m sorry!’ Sarah was flustered, flexing her fingers. ‘I’m not really sure what I am supposed to say or do. And I have spoken to you every day in my mind since the day you were born and I always use your name and it will take a bit of getting used to, calling you something different.’

  ‘Did—’ Victoria drew breath, steeling herself to ask the question. ‘Did Prim know you are alive?’

  ‘Yes.’

  And there it was, the killer word that was a dagger to her chest. Oh my God, no, no, no, no, no . . . ‘Can you . . . can you tell me who it was that decided to lie to me? How it happened? How you all agreed on something so . . .’ She took another deep breath. ‘So fucking awful!’

  Sarah looked at the floor, her eyes brimming. ‘There was no plan as such. No conspiracy, as you see it. I was broken. The one thing Mum and I agreed on was that we couldn’t allow you to get broken too.’

  ‘So you gave me away.’

  ‘I gave you to Prim.’

  ‘When is my birthday?’ she fired.

  ‘October the twelfth, and you will be nineteen this year,’ the woman answered quickly, and Victoria thought of all the birthdays where Prim had dressed her in a frothy frock and watched as she sent wishes up to heaven, chatting to the woman above the clouds who had missed out on eighteen birthday cakes, eighteen cards, eighteen rounds of exaggerated applause when she blew out the candles . . . She gave a dry laugh. Ridiculous, really; there she was, sending thoughts and prayers up to heaven when this woman was suggesting that, in reality, all she had to do was pop them in an envelope, lick a stamp and send them to Oslo. She thought she might throw up and placed her hand on her stomach.

  ‘Shall we sit down?’ Sarah pointed to a vacant table with two tub chairs either side and took a step towards it.

  ‘No.’ Victoria shook her head and stood resolutely with her arms folded, largely to stop them from trembling. ‘I’m not staying. I only came to get a look at you and to tell you that it all feels very convenient, you turning up when you did, but actually, you haven’t told me anything that anyone couldn’t find out with a bit of digging.’ Victoria did not believe this, her instinct told her differently, but she knew that if she didn’t stick to the planned speech in her head, there was no telling what she might say or do.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Do you? Have you the first idea what I am going through right now?’ She heard the anger on which her words coasted, the only emotion she felt able to express. Refraining, just, from breaking down and shrieking that this was her whole life they were talking about – the very fabric of who she was was now in question. The entire exchange was formal and awkward. The way the woman stared at her, as if drinking her in, monitoring her every move, was more than a little disconcerting. ‘I also came to tell you that I need to see some proof. Proof that you are who you say you are and, if you can provide that, then we might have something to talk about, but if you can’t, then I suggest you stay the hell away from me.’ She was shaking now.

  Sarah looked at the floor.

  ‘I have, erm . . . I have photographs and letters and—’

  ‘Fine. It should be easy then.’ Victoria cut her short. ‘But until I see something concrete . . .’ She breathed out through pursed lips. ‘You could be anyone.’ She cursed the crack to her voice and the gathering of her tears, indicating she didn’t believe this for a second.

  ‘Do I seem like anyone to you?’ Sarah asked.

  Victoria chose her words carefully, looking skyward and then back at the woman who looked at her with a pleading expression. ‘I am so freaked out right now. I don’t know what’s going on. I feel very confused.’

  ‘I can imagine, I really can.’ Again she reached out, but seemed to think better of it and folded her fingers away. Victoria felt a pull in her chest, almost willing the woman to place her hand on her. Sarah tried to gather herself.

  ‘I hated to put time pressure on you, but I have to be back in Oslo and I was so very desperate to see you.’ And just like that, her voice was reed thin, spoken from a throat raw with emotion. ‘Can I have your email address?’

  Victoria gave it to her, watching as Sarah tucked in her lips and tried to stem her tears. ‘I am so sorry. I can’t stop crying.’

  ‘Because Prim died or because you’ve seen me?’

  ‘Both,’ Sarah managed, her voice no more than a squeak. ‘Both.’

  ‘I have to go.’ Victoria turned on her heel, suddenly keen to put distance between herself and the woman, needing to be alone to try and order the complex range of thoughts and ideas that questioned the only truth she had ever known. She stopped and faced Sarah.

  ‘You know, I always thought that if it was ever possible to meet my mum, in heaven or whatever, I would run to her and fall into her arms and she would hold me tight and we’d never let each other go. And it would feel like coming home—’

  Sarah’s noisy sob interrupted her.

  ‘Me too . . .’ she muttered between stilted breaths.

  ‘But here we are.’ She let her palms fall open. ‘In the Holiday Inn Express on Epsom Downs, and I feel . . . blank. Confused. Angry. I feel nothing like I should! And so that makes me doubt what you’re saying. It’s like I’m in a waiting room to see a dentist or a doctor with that same churn of nerves, but magnified. You are a stranger, and the thought of falling into your arms or even calling you my mother is—’ She stopped and her face contorted, trying to think of how to phrase it. ‘Is the last thing I would be able to do.’

  Sarah nodded vigorously with her eyes tightly shut, as if this was all to be expected, but no less painful for it. It pulled at Victoria’s heartstrings.

  ‘I want to see some proof. I think that’s what I need.’ Victoria spoke as she swept from the foyer and didn’t look back.

  Mrs Joshi leaned over and opened the door, and Victoria jumped in and fastened the seat belt, in a hurry to be gone from the place.

  ‘You okay, sweetie?’ Mrs Joshi asked as she started the engine.

  Victoria could only nod, her speech impaired by a desire to vomit that was almost overwhelming. She felt Daksha’s hand on her shoulder and was thankful for it.

  ‘Here you go.’ Daksha handed her a cup of tea and Victoria took it without question. She lifted her knees on the mattress and sat back against the pillows. Daksha jumped into the other end of the bed, and this was how they chatted, top to toe in the way only good friends can.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  Victoria sighed. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel.’

  ‘But you’re glad you went? Happy you saw her?’r />
  ‘I don’t know about happy, but I think it’s the only way for me to figure out what’s going on. She said she had photographs and letters, the proof I asked for.’

  ‘Is she going to send them?’

  ‘I gave her my email; I don’t know.’ She took a sip of the restorative tea. ‘Thank you for coming with me today. I don’t think I would have been half so brave if you and your mum hadn’t been in the car park.’

  ‘Yes, you would. You can do anything, Vic.’

  ‘I wish I believed that.’

  ‘It’s true, you’re amazing.’

  ‘Thank you, Daks. I don’t remember much about it; it was over in a blink. I feel like I ran in and ran out. I was so scared.’

  ‘It was longer than a blink. I was watching you both.’

  ‘So what did you think?’ Victoria necked a mouthful of tea, keen to hear her friend’s appraisal.

  ‘From what I could see, she looked a lot like you. And yours is a face I stare at every single day and have done for the last five years. It’s a face I love, and I probably know it better than you because I look at it more.’ She swallowed. ‘And because her mouth went up at the edges like yours does when you are trying to convince someone of something. She had the same expression. She looked like your mum, I would say.’

  ‘God, Daks.’ Victoria’s chest felt tight and her breathing constricted. ‘I need not to get ahead; I need to wait and see proof. I can’t let myself think that she . . . that she is . . . because what does that mean for me? What does that mean for my whole life?’ I need proof . . . I need to wait for that . . . because it’s too huge to get wrong . . . too important to mess up . . . but I know . . . I know it in my heart . . . I do . . .

  But yes, even she could see it: Sarah Hansen looked a lot like her. With this thought came a tidal wave of emotion that threatened to knock her sideways. She held on to the mattress and closed her eyes, and even though she was stationary, she felt it entirely possible that she might fall over.

  ‘Half of me wants it to be true and the other half can’t bear to think about it. She’s a stranger, but she might be my mum . . .’ She shook her head. How, Prim? How?