by Nicole Trope
‘Stupid,’ I say, shutting down the computer. I have no idea what I thought I’d find. I leave my mother sleeping, leaving the things I wanted to say unsaid.
Twenty-Nine
Molly
* * *
Molly sits in front of her computer trying to summon up the courage to do what she’s going to do. She looks through Meredith’s blog again. The woman says her sister died but what if that’s not the truth? She has read hundreds of blogs as she researches her short stories and she has never felt a connection like this with any of them. She has read Meredith’s story at least twenty times, and each time she feels her skin grow cold and the smell of the mouldy cupboard assaults her. There is something here. She is sure of it. What if she is Meredith’s sister? What if Meredith has no idea her sister is alive? What if? What if?
She has decided to give this another try – to see if she can get Meredith to talk to her, really talk to her. She has laboured over her message for hours and now she knows she needs to just send it, just send it and hope. She reads through it one more time.
* * *
Dear Meredith,
I know you don’t want to speak to me about your experiences or discuss your little sister but I wanted to ask you to reconsider. You see, I recently found out I was adopted, and when I read your blog, I felt like I remembered some of the things you were discussing. I feel like I remember, and I think that maybe, maybe I’m your sister. I know how crazy that sounds, especially in light of what you’ve told me about her.
Please forgive me for contacting you again if this isn’t the case. I just really want to find my biological family. I’m pregnant with my first child and I feel like I need to know what kind of genetic history I come from. I hope you will consider replying to me, and I would also love to be able to meet you someday. You can get me at [email protected].
Many thanks,
Molly Khan
* * *
Molly’s finger hovers over her keyboard. She is harassing a woman who specifically asked her not to contact her, but she has literally nothing else to go on. She hits the button and the message is sent.
Needing to get out of the house, she decides to go for a slow walk. She cannot sit in the apartment for a moment longer. She has had no more bleeding and Dr Bernstein has assured her that it’s fine for her to walk around now even though they haven’t had the scan yet.
‘If the bleeding has stopped there is no reason to stay in bed but don’t overdo it,’ he instructed, just like his nurse instructed, just like everyone keeps saying.
Outside, the winter sun is weak and offers no warmth at all. Molly is grateful for her beanie and gloves. She finds herself increasing her pace in time to her music and then having to force herself to slow down.
She tries to imagine what it will be like to be walking through the streets of her neighbourhood a year from now with a baby in a pram, stopping to point out the cute boat-shaped post box or picking a daisy for little hands to feel and a little nose to smell. She feels a rush of joy that is quickly tempered by the onslaught of fear. It must be so easy for women who fall pregnant when they want to and then go on to have a healthy baby without any drama. It must be so easy for them to imagine their future, to plan a nursery, to pick out names and to wander into children’s clothing stores, deciding what kind of onesies to dress their babies in. She will never have this ease, this peaceful journey to parenthood, but if it’s the price she has to pay for a child, she is willing. She will accept the months of terror because for the first time in years it seems as though there may be a reward at the end.
‘Don’t go getting ahead of yourself, Molly,’ she mutters aloud.
She stops in front of a small house with a for sale sign attached to the surrounding sandstone wall. It has a bright green patch of lawn and a decorative brick pathway leading to a wood panel front door. An old-fashioned bell on the wall next to the door begs to be tapped.
The sign advertises three bedrooms and two bathrooms with a big overgrown back garden. It appears that money was spent to smarten up the front of the house but not the back. Molly imagines herself pulling out the rampant weeds and cutting back abundant shrubbery to clear a space for a table and chairs.
Peter has been saying for a while that they should try and upgrade but Molly has feared the emptiness of a house without children. Now, she thinks, now it may be a possibility. A house with a back garden for a little girl or boy. But she shakes her head and continues walking, resting her hand on her stomach, imagining the little being inside her surrounded by a white light of protection. The scan is in two days. In two days, they will know more, and for the first time ever they will be past the three-month mark. She will be just over twelve weeks when she has the scan. Yet the minutes and hours tick by so slowly that Molly sometimes feels time is moving backwards.
She wonders about the mother who simply abandoned her on a road in the middle of nowhere. Did she touch her stomach like this when Molly was inside her? Did she long for a child, or was her pregnancy a mistake? Did she ever love the child inside her at all?
Sometimes this feels like too much. She’s nothing but a jumble of questions and fears.
Once she’s home she opens her computer to check if Meredith has replied but there is nothing.
Her heart sinks. Meredith probably won’t reply. Molly can imagine the woman’s horror at getting another message from her, at having someone on the internet declare that she believes herself to be her sister. Meredith must think she’s insane. She rubs her eyes, trying to hold back tears. This feels impossible.
There is nothing else she can do, nowhere else she can go from here.
Thirty
Now
Margaret
* * *
Margaret watches the bird methodically strip the branches of the tree where he sits, occasionally pausing to work at something in his beak. She wonders what the bird is called, is sure it’s something she used to know. She looks down at her hands but they can’t be her hands. They’re the hands of an old woman and Margaret is still young. She’s waiting for Adam to come home. He said they could go out for Italian tonight. Margaret is looking forward to an evening out with her husband, and her mouth waters at the thought of freshly baked, buttery garlic bread. She turns around and looks at the door her husband will soon walk through. Her house is smaller than she remembers… or is it?
Adam will be here soon. Mr Henkel will need dinner as well so maybe he should come with them. ‘Call me Max,’ Mr Henkel says but Margaret can only call him Mr Henkel.
There is something she is forgetting, something she needs to remember, but she’s not sure what. She’ll have to ask Alice. Who is Alice? Margaret watches the white bird. The yellow thing on top of its head makes her want to laugh. What is the yellow thing called? Where is Adam and what must she remember?
The door to her house opens and Anika comes in. Margaret smiles. She remembers Anika with her soft skin and jasmine scent. Anika is gentle and kind.
‘Morning, Margaret, are you ready for breakfast? Would you like to eat in your room or in the dining room?’
‘Oh, I’m just waiting for Adam. He says we’re going out to dinner.’
‘How lovely, but maybe have some breakfast first, just in case he’s late. Would you like me to help you to the dining room?’
Margaret looks at the door and feels her hands begin to shake. She can’t go out there. She has no idea what’s out there or who’s out there. ‘No, no,’ she says. ‘I can’t leave.’
‘That’s fine, don’t upset yourself, I’ll just nip out and get a tray for you. You stay here and rest.’
Margaret nods her head although she doesn’t really feel tired. She used to feel tired all the time, she used to want to sleep and sleep, day after day. She can’t remember when that was.
But Adam is coming home and they will go for Italian. Margaret goes back to watching the bird. She wonders if Lilly would like to see the bird. She would ask her but she has no idea who Li
lly is.
Thirty-One
Alice
* * *
I pack the last of the shopping bags away, ready for next time, and open the fridge to get some cheese out to have on toast for lunch.
As I place the bread in the sandwich press, the door knocker sounds. I feel a jolt of fear. Everything feels like a threat now. The person sending me the emails knows where I live. He or she could be at my door right now.
I wait for the knocker to sound again but there is only silence. After a moment I summon up the courage to go to the door and nearly cry with relief when I see it’s just a parcel on the front step left by a delivery man.
It’s a rectangular box, addressed to me. I ordered some signs for the bake sale at school – they were designed by the children and I know that before this all began, I was excited to see how they turned out. I turn the package over in my hands but the name of the company I used isn’t on it.
It takes only a moment to open but there are no signs inside.
Instead there is a filthy pink blanket. I yelp and drop it onto the kitchen floor, and then I stand looking at it, my heart racing. I lean down and pick it up, recognising this blanket. I know this blanket. I know that it used to be edged in satin but that when that started coming off, no one fixed it. I know that it used to be in my cot and then on my bed. I know that it used to be mine and that I loved its soft texture and so I gave it to her because I loved her more than anything.
The only other thing in the box is a printed note.
I wonder if you think about her every day, Alice.
I wonder if you regret what you did then.
I wonder if you’re afraid of what’s going to happen now.
I’m locked up in here and you’re out there and really it should be the other way around.
My scream of anguish fills the house. Is this Vernon? He’s locked up in prison but my mother must feel she’s locked up as well. If it’s Vernon, he can’t get to me, can’t hurt me, but how did he find my address? Who told him where I live?
When is this going to end? How is it going to end?
Frantically I open my computer to see if there is another email. There isn’t but then when I check my blog there is another message from Molly Khan.
She is hunting me, haunting me, harassing me. Who is she? Is Molly Khan my mother? Is my mother masquerading as someone on the internet to torment me?
It’s too much. She won’t let go. She won’t let me be.
I scroll back through all my posts, my hands vibrating with fear. I look at all the messages that have come to me over the years. I should never have written anything down, never have released my story into the world.
Slowly and deliberately, with great care, I delete my blog and everything to do with it.
Only when there is no evidence that it ever existed do my hands stop shaking.
Thirty-Two
Molly
* * *
She checks her email every few hours, hoping that Meredith may have decided to respond, but eventually, after the continued silence, she understands that she has to give up. She goes back to take another look at the blog, hoping that there will be a new post that may give her a clue as to what Meredith is thinking, but when she clicks on the link, the blog is gone. She retypes its name, searches different words, goes back to the first place she found it but she finds nothing. Meredith has completely disappeared. She is gone.
Molly feels the warmth of fury spread through her. Meredith is hiding from her. Why is she doing that unless she knows something more? Did she lie about her little sister being dead?
Is Meredith related to her? Is this all her imagination? The questions come thick and fast, her hands trembling.
She searches for another few minutes but it’s as though the blog never existed, and for a bizarre moment she thinks she may have imagined the whole thing. But she dismisses the thought quickly. Peter has read the blog and so has her mother. She is not going crazy.
Molly would like to close her computer and leave Meredith and her past life where it belongs, but something gnaws at her. Some truth is trying to crawl its way out of her brain and she knows, even as she goes to the kitchen to prepare her hungry body something to eat, that this will not be the end of her search.
Thirty-Three
Now
Margaret
* * *
‘How are you feeling this afternoon, Margaret?’ asks Anika cheerfully.
Margaret knows this is Anika because she sees her every day. Anika is… Anika is kind. She helps her get washed and dressed and brings her food but Margaret has no idea why she does this. Anika is kind. She smiles at Anika. ‘I’m… I’m…’ but then the words disappear and she cannot say it. The words are stuck inside. Inside Margaret says, I don’t think I slept very well. I’ve been watching the garden but there’s no one working in it today. I keep thinking about Lilly and Alice but I don’t know who Lilly and Alice are. But outside Margaret cannot make the words release themselves.
‘I’ll bring in your tray for lunch, unless you want a nap before you eat?’
Margaret realises she is very tired. ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘a nap.’ The word feels strange in her mouth. Anika helps her onto the bed and tucks a blanket around her legs before leaving. Margaret has just begun to drift off to sleep when a man comes in.
She’s sure he shouldn’t be here. She would like to ask her mother why this is but she can’t seem to find her. She must have just been here because Margaret just heard her say, ‘Keep that door locked while I’m at work.’ It was just moments ago.
But then she recognises him and smiles. ‘Hello,’ she says. She likes to see him.
‘Missed me, have you, Maggie?’ he asks.
Margaret nods because she has missed this man. She loved this man… she thinks.
She tries to sit up but suddenly there is something heavy on her chest, pushing down, holding her to the bed. She looks at the man. He is smiling and she opens her mouth to tell him about how heavy it is on her chest. But the words won’t come out and he keeps smiling and smiling as she opens and closes her mouth, struggling to get the words out.
She tries to take a deep breath but her lungs won’t inflate. She cannot get any air into her body. ‘Oh,’ she pants and then she feels her bladder go, the bed suddenly wet, her legs sticky. The pain in her chest is enormous. There is a rock on top of her, a mountain sitting on her chest, and she cannot move or breathe for the pain. Her heart begins to speed up. It goes faster and then faster and then faster again and then it just… stops.
Margaret looks around her as the world is blanketed in silence. She sees Adam standing next to her.
‘Hey, Maggie, I’ve been waiting for you,’ he says.
‘Oh, Adam.’ The words come rushing out of her mouth. ‘I’ve missed you so much. Where’ve you been all this time?’
‘I’ve been here, Maggie. Right here, my love, right here waiting for you.’
Thirty-Four
Alice
* * *
I don’t tell Jack about the blanket or the frog. I don’t mention the emails again. I decide that I will confront my mother first. I don’t want him to question me about this. I don’t want to hear that my mother isn’t capable of harassing me. Because I think she is. I think she’s more lucid than she lets on. It must be her sending the emails and probably the messages on the blog as well. No one else would have had the blanket and the frog. She must have hidden them from me and now that she is nearing the end of her life, she is tormenting me this one last time. Perhaps she blames me for everything. I know she blames me for Lilly but perhaps she is angry about my very existence.
I am putting on a load of washing before I leave when Anika phones me. I’m immediately anxious when I see that the call is coming from the Green Gate Home. I have never received a call from them. They usually email me with any changes to my mother’s medication and my bill for each month.
‘Hello?’ I answer.
‘Alic
e, it’s Anika from the Green Gate.’
I can’t manage more than, ‘Yes.’ My mouth feels dry and sticky.
‘Alice, I’m so very sorry to tell you that your mother has passed away.’ I hear her voice catch as though she is trying to prevent herself from crying. She liked and maybe even loved my mother. Over the last few years, she has been by my mother’s side far more than her own daughter.
My mouth opens and closes as my brain tries to catch up with what I’ve just heard until eventually I’m able to ask, ‘When?’
‘I think it was sometime in the last hour. She told me that she wanted to nap before lunch and so I left her to sleep, but when I brought her a tray, I couldn’t wake her. I’m so terribly sorry.’
‘But… but what happened?’
‘I think she passed away in her sleep. Her health was, as you know, very poor. I wanted to tell you myself. A doctor will be here shortly to sign the death certificate and try to determine what happened, but I’m fairly certain it would have been her heart.’