The Lost Twin

by Diana Finley

  But the happy time soon came to an end when Sister Bernadette, the head nun – a hard, unsympathetic woman – told me I would have to give one of you up. She said a rich couple had applied to adopt Donal. Sister Bernadette allowed me no choice in the matter. She insisted I wasn’t capable of caring for both of you boys. They would take Donal away in four weeks’ time, she said. I was desperate.

  The time came nearer, day by day, as I knew it had to. I was full of dread. It felt almost like waiting for my execution.

  I’d named both of you boys: Barry and Donal. The adoptive parents chose to adopt Donal because they felt sympathetic as he was weaker. Sister Bernadette warned me that they had decided to rename their adopted child, as was their right. It broke my heart that nothing would be left of me for Donal, of his rightful mother, not even his name. I was afraid he would grow up thinking his mother had abandoned him, didn’t want him, and didn’t love him – that I had rejected him. That idea was unbearable, Barry.

  For four precious weeks I spent every possible minute with you boys. Whenever I lifted little Donal and held him close, I tried to breathe him in, to hold his scent inside me. I studied every bit of his face and body; I tried to commit every detail to memory, to keep Donal in my heart for ever. I can still see him, as if it were yesterday.

  Of course I loved and cherished you, Barry, just the same. I was comforted by knowing that you, at least, would be with me as you grew, thank the Lord. It pleased me that you would always know how much I loved you, but it saddened me that Donal, your brother, would not.

  Sister Bernadette complained that I spent too much time and attention on Donal. She said it would make the separation all the more difficult for both of us, as if there was any way to make taking him from me easy. Sister Aileen was so much more kind and understanding. She often came and sat with us, taking you on her lap, Barry, to leave me free to hold Donal for a few minutes, to cuddle and kiss him those last precious days.

  I wanted to meet the adoptive parents – I did so want to know who was going to keep my Donal, and to be sure that they were kind, loving people – but it wasn’t allowed.

  When at last the dreaded time came, I stood on a chair watching at the high dormitory window, holding you, Barry – my darling, precious remaining child – hugging you to me. By stretching up on my toes, as far as possible, I could just see the ground far below, the tarmac drive curving round the front of the tall, grim faҫade of the building.

  All the girls in the dormitory were gathered around my chair, like an army of support. I could feel their sympathy, their pity. I knew they were on my side, but there was nothing they could do to help.

  Outside, I heard the sounds of the front door opening and muffled voices drifted upwards. My heart began thundering like a drum in my chest. A tall man in a dark overcoat emerged, followed by a woman in a camel coat and brown knee-high boots. She was carrying a white bundle. A black car was parked near the entrance. I knew nothing of cars, but it looked large, shiny and expensive to me.

  I opened my mouth and a terrible howl came out – out of me: a chilling sound, inhuman, like the cry of a desperate, wounded animal. I stood up higher on my toes and leaned the top half of my body further out of the window, while the other girls clung to my legs. The woman outside holding the baby – holding my Donal – stopped walking and glanced upwards for a moment. Then she walked quickly to the car.

  The man helped her into the back seat. Then he went around to the front and got in. Sister Bernadette gave them a wave and they drove off. They were gone, with my Donal.

  That’s how we lost him, Barry. All these years you should have had the companionship of your dear brother Donal. All these years the three of us should have been together, together as a family. I pray we will be reunited one day.

  Thank goodness I still had you with me, darling Barry. I don’t know what I would have done if they had taken you too. I think it would have been the death of me. I love you so much.

  Your mother, Marie

  I stare at the letter for a long time. Why now? Why hadn’t she told me before? It would have explained such a lot – that feeling of a gap, a vacancy, someone absorbing her thoughts and affection. Donal. He was like a shadow, haunting my life all the years gone by. Someone lurking in the background, hidden, unreachable, yet ever present.

  No way can I sleep after taking these revelations on board. So much for cutting down on the drugs. Now’s not the time for that. I rummage in my case and slide open the zipped pocket at the bottom. My heart’s pounding. Better lock my door. I don’t want Mum walking in. Just the sort of thing she might do.

  Shall I go for my usual line? No, not tonight. I need something stronger. There’s a syringe, ready prepared. That’s good. My hands are shaking. I roll up my sleeve. The needle slides in. I lean back into the pillows and sink into blissful oblivion.

  Chapter 19

  1996

  Marie

  Sometimes it feels as though my life is spiralling out of control. Barry is so angry and resentful, and that causes me terrible pain. I’ve stopped trying to explain any more to him about the choices I had to make. It just seems to provoke him further. I’m trying to ignore his anger and bad mood, and just continue to show him the love I feel for him. Despite all the worrying things I have discovered recently.

  There’s no doubt I’ve had concerns about Barry over the years, but it is this year that the worries have really come to a head. It’s not as though he’s a teenager any more; he’s a young man of twenty-six, settled into his job and his flat, doing so well in many ways.

  But now I’ve found evidence of something that perhaps I’d always dreaded most. It must have been a subconscious dread, because I have no memory of actually formulating the thought. Yet, when it happened, it’s as though everything fell into place. Not that that’s any kind of comfort. When I discover the secret, it’s the most terrible shock imaginable. At the same time, perhaps I had sensed something of the sort for some months, maybe even years. It seems to explain some puzzling things about Barry’s behaviour.

  He has given me a key to his flat, in case I’m passing and need to call in, although he’s given me instructions never to drop by unannounced unless absolutely necessary, some sort of emergency for example. He could be out, or engrossed in some essential work project, he says, and wouldn’t want to disappoint me.

  So until today, I’ve never actually been to his flat since the day he moved in and showed me and Erna Goldstein around it. Not that there’s any sort of emergency or great urgency today. It’s just that I’ve been to a market not far away and decided to take some nice fresh fruit and vegetables to Barry and his flatmate, Keith. It’s a weekday, so I don’t really expect them to be home.

  I’m sure they won’t mind. It’ll be a nice surprise for them. I’m convinced neither of them is very bothered about a healthy diet, and that worries me. Eating better would do them both some good. Barry’s very thin and pallid – and Keith’s not much better. How I’d love to feed them both up a bit on some good home cooking. In the meantime, some wholesome, natural foods are the best I can offer.

  One thing that has occasionally crossed my mind is whether perhaps Barry is gay. I don’t know what went on at university, but certainly I know he’s never brought a girl home. Is Keith maybe not just a flatmate, but a lover too? Not that I’m prejudiced against gay people; I wouldn’t love Barry any less. My main anxiety is just whether Barry might have contracted AIDS. Could that be why he looks so thin and unwell? That idea terrifies me.

  Also, it worries me that while I might accept Barry being homosexual, not everyone else is so broad-minded. I feel being gay would just make his life so much more complicated and difficult.

  Also, I have to admit that I ache and yearn for Barry to produce a grandchild for me – I can’t help it – and as I’ve never seen hide nor hair of a girl in his life, that’s starting to seem more and more unlikely.

  I open the door to their flat and call out ‘Yoohoo!’
but there’s no reply. All is quiet. I walk all around the flat, feeling a bit like an intruder.

  Now I don’t like to criticise, and perhaps young people these days have different standards, different values, but there’s no doubt about it: the place is a right pigsty! Those boys are supposed to be professionals. It’s basically a decent apartment, quite posh in fact, and heaven knows what rent they pay for it! It’s not just some grotty student dive. They really should respect it. They could even pay someone to do a bit of cleaning for them if they aren’t prepared to do it themselves, maybe even some cooking occasionally – they could certainly afford it.

  The first thing I notice is that Barry and Keith have separate bedrooms. While it doesn’t exactly prove anything, I’m pleased to see that, and feel a bit reassured. Maybe I was getting myself anxious and upset over nothing.

  I roll up my sleeves and decide to give the place a good clean and tidy-up as a nice surprise for the two young men. Would it be a pleasant surprise though? Surely they won’t feel offended, or that I’m poking my nose where it doesn’t belong? Lots of lads of their age don’t seem to think much about tidiness or keeping their environment spick and span, it just isn’t a priority for them. True enough, they both work hard at their jobs, put in long hours, and probably don’t have much time for housework. A bit of help surely can’t hurt, just this once.

  Well, I scoot through the kitchen as fast as I can. In fact, I’m enjoying myself, washing the dirty dishes, putting crockery neatly away in the cupboards, cleaning the cooker, the surfaces and scrubbing the floor. Then on to Barry’s bedroom. Well, there’s stuff all over the place: clothes, books, papers, dirty coffee cups and plates, scattered on the floor, and every other surface. Hadn’t I taught him to put his things in their rightful place? I soon realise I can’t make much cleaning progress, without first clearing some of the mess away. So naturally, the first job is to find places to put all his bits and pieces neatly away.

  I open one of the drawers in the chest … and my heart nearly stops. It’s a complete shock. I feel physically sick at what’s inside. Little plastic bags of white powders; some marked with an ‘H’, others with a ‘C’. At first I tell myself it must be some sort of medicine. Then – horror of horrors – right at the back of the drawer, there are three hypodermic needles, together with packets of tobacco and cigarette papers, some sort of burner, and a bundle of stained metal spoons, done up with a rubber band. I stare at each item in turn, trying to think of a logical explanation for them, my stomach convulsing. I’m afraid I might be sick. My hands are trembling. It’s hard to breathe.

  I’ve led a pretty sheltered life in some ways, it’s true, but I’m not totally daft, nor totally innocent. It doesn’t take much to realise this is a stash of drugs: Barry’s stash of drugs. Exactly what they are, I’m not sure. I guess it must be hard drugs of some sort. Could the ‘H’ stand for heroin? What else would it be? What would ‘C’ stand for, if not cocaine? An icy chill crawls down my spine. My legs feel like blancmange. I slam the drawer shut; I’ve seen enough. I sit on the bed for a moment, trying to stop trembling, to steady my breathing, to calm myself down.

  All of a sudden, a little flutter of hope flits through my throbbing brain; fragile, like a delicate butterfly. Maybe the stuff is Keith’s! That’s it. Of course! Why didn’t I think of that? It doesn’t even belong to Barry! Thank heavens for that thought …

  Yet … yet … this isn’t Keith’s room, I know that; it’s Barry’s room. It’s Barry’s drawer. These are all Barry’s belongings. I recognise them. I’m deceiving myself. The lovely, fragile butterfly crumbles and falls to the ground like dust. Of course everything in the drawer is Barry’s. The drugs are Barry’s. There’s no doubt about it. My son is a drug addict.

  Well, that explains a lot. No wonder Barry needs so much money, no wonder he’s so withdrawn and his moods are so unpredictable. No wonder he sometimes looks frail and ill …

  I try to replace all Barry’s things exactly where I found them, and shut all the drawers and cupboards. Like a thief, I retrace my steps and make sure his bedroom is exactly as it was before. Of course I can’t unwash the crockery, or dirty the floors I’d cleaned. I’ll have to admit to spending some time in the flat. I leave the fruit and vegetables as planned. Feeling nauseous and dizzy, I leave the apartment and hurry home.

  ***

  After my discovery, I have terrible difficulty getting off to sleep at night. Chilling fears for Barry’s future preoccupy me constantly. What kind of a world might he be involved in? A world of sickness and addiction, dealers, drugs gangs and violence? Oh my God, isn’t losing Donal bad enough? Please don’t let me lose both my boys …

  Even when I manage to sleep, frightening words like ‘overdose’ and ‘junkie’ and ‘AIDS’ infect my dreams, and linger in my mind when I wake, allowing me no peace or rest, night or day.

  Yet, in some ways, Barry seemed unchanged. He behaves just as he always does. He rang me to thank me for the bag of market foods, and for doing the washing up. He didn’t seem to notice anything else.

  He appears to be coping with work and with his life in general, just as usual. Perhaps I’ve made a huge mistake; maybe the little packets are something quite harmless. Some sort of powder to relieve flu symptoms or an upset stomach. Perhaps, after all it is Keith who is taking them, and maybe Barry is keeping them in his room to stop his friend from taking too much. That must be it – there’s bound to be a logical explanation. I’ve been torturing myself unnecessarily.

  But as time goes on, I worry more and more about Barry. Sometimes he looks so gaunt. There are shadows under his eyes. He doesn’t always look well. There’s a tremor about him. He becomes impatient when I suggest he should see a doctor for a check-up. He tells me there’s nothing wrong with him and I should stop fussing. I try my best not to get agitated about him, but I sense something is definitely not right.

  Barry rarely speaks of girls. His world at work seems to be mostly a man’s world. Of course he’s young yet, but I would so love him to have a special young woman in his life, but where on earth would he meet her? He hardly ever goes out or socialises. How lovely it would be if he were to meet a nice girl and they married and had children. Then I would be a grandmother, I think, even though I’m only forty-three! Yet, what a joy that would be for all of us.

  I decide not to bother Erna with my concerns. Her health hasn’t been so good lately. Despite that, she’s been eager to offer help to Barry with putting down a deposit on a flat of his own.

  ‘Why spend money on rent month after month, my dear?’ she says to Barry. ‘It’s just money down the drain. Whereas if you have a mortgage, it goes towards a home you will own yourself in time.’

  Bless Erna, she’s always so wise, and always so generous.

  London prices are achingly expensive and rising rapidly all the time. Barry finds a small but charming flat in Putney, in a pleasant leafy area near the river. He couldn’t have managed it without Erna’s help.

  Chapter 20

  1999

  Robbie

  Life hasn’t been great lately. There have been some significant changes at the Golden Days Care Home, and definitely none for the better. The home has been absorbed into a big trust incorporating six care homes, all of them are run by a new manager, Cameron Black. He’s been appointed to replace Lorna, for whom I had so much respect, and great liking. Cameron is a totally different type from Lorna. He’s not hands-on at all. In fact he’d never dream of getting his hands dirty.

  He dresses in a sharp, expensive-looking suit, and sits in his office most of the day. He has nothing to do with the residents; he wouldn’t know any of them by name, or their families. He doesn’t have much direct contact with the staff either. He prefers to communicate via emails or staff meetings. He calls one this morning, insisting on full attendance.

  ‘Over the last twenty years or so of Lorna’s management, a great many activities and outings have been developed and funded. While well meant, I d
o not regard most of these activities as part of the core responsibilities of this institution. I believe we need to get back to our core functions.’

  Cameron looks round the room with a severe expression.

  ‘I’m not saying all the money spent on activities like the drama club has been wasted. Just that when funding is limited, there are far more important areas in which we could invest …’

  I’m horrified; I’d set up the drama club with Lorna’s blessing. The residents love it – it gets some of those old people talking, people who’ve been silent for as long as anyone could remember. Also, the music sessions, the art groups, the trips to the sea or the park, and the regular family get-togethers, all of which are so valued by the residents and their relatives – it seems all these are too wasteful, and have now disappeared from the new care home brochure.

  ‘From now on, the emphasis has to be on economy,’ Cameron announces. ‘The Trust doesn’t believe in wasting investors’ money. Without this unnecessary and staff-intensive expenditure, we can manage with five fewer members of the team.’

  Cameron looks round at all of us for approval. Most people, in deep shock, and wondering if they may be one of the five, stare silently at their feet.

  ‘Additionally,’ he continues, ‘in future our meals contract will be with a centralised catering firm, who will deliver ready to heat and eat meals for all residents. This is a much more efficient way of providing nutrition and will replace the current extravagant use of on-site chefs, who have clearly been pandering unnecessarily to the whims and preferences of individual residents. Imagine the savings resulting from this change!’