by Dani Atkins
She was my sister, the person I’d always believed knew me better than anyone else. The fact that she even had to ask that question surprised me.
‘Finding out where our baby is – Tim’s and mine. That’s my priority. That’s the only thing I care about.’
More silence, only this time it seemed almost disapproving.
‘Beth, I don’t want to sound like I don’t understand how painful this is for you, but what you’re looking for no longer exists. There isn’t a baby anymore. It’s a child. Someone else’s child.’
‘No, it’s—’ But she wouldn’t let me speak.
‘Mum said this all happened eight years ago?’
‘Yes,’ I confirmed miserably.
‘So this child is about a year older than Aaron is now,’ she declared. The thought jolted through me. Our children were cousins, close in age. But that wasn’t the point Karen was trying to make. ‘This child has known no parents other than the ones who’ve loved them their entire life.’ She was quiet for a moment, her voice shaking with emotion. ‘Just the thought of someone trying to take your child from you is the stuff of every mother’s nightmare.’
The fact that this was exactly what had happened to me didn’t even seem to have occurred to Karen. Unbelievably, her allegiance appeared to be with this other faceless mother. ‘If anyone tried to take Aaron or Josh from me, if they tried to tell me that they weren’t mine, I’d do anything, give up everything, to stop them. You have to know going into this what you’re going to be up against, Beth. It’s a fight I don’t think you’ll ever win. More than that, it’s a fight I don’t think you should win.’
11
Izzy
It’s funny how a sound you’d once have happily committed manslaughter to stop could now be so comforting. The low, rhythmic snort that used to set my teeth on edge was a lullaby in reverse, crooning me awake. That I slept at all was astonishing; that I did so cradled in my soon-to-be ex-husband’s arms practically defied belief.
Long probing fingers of early morning light searched for the gaps in the curtains, painting the lounge in the sepia between night and day. In even the worst of situations, there are a few blissful seconds of amnesia on waking, before reality comes crashing back again. My fleeting moment of peace was lost as I struggled to remember why I was lying across Pete’s chest, his hand resting comfortably in the curve of my waist.
And then it hit me. I stiffened suddenly, my body no longer rising and falling with the movement of Pete’s ribcage.
Noah.
The clinic.
The mistake.
The memories hit me like a series of punches, each one determined to send me to the mat. Carefully, I eased myself free of Pete’s hold. His breath ruffled my hair as I manoeuvred myself across his body. He murmured something in his sleep, which was thankfully too indistinct to make out. I was glad it wasn’t a woman’s name; I was glad it wasn’t mine.
Barefoot, I headed for the kitchen, closing the door behind me with a silent click. I leant back against it, waiting for my racing pulse and ragged breathing to return to normal. There are some situations that look better in the light of day. Middle-of-the-night disasters can suddenly seem fixable by dawn. But not this one. Despite the sunlight streaming in through the kitchen window, I shivered violently.
Two mugs of tea later, Noah and Pete were still fast asleep and the warmth of the kitchen was making me feel nauseous. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept in my clothes, and the thought of a refreshing shower led me tiptoeing like an intruder up the stairs to the bathroom.
It was a relief to step out of the crumpled garments, and as I waited for our temperamental shower to heat up, I stared at my naked reflection in the bathroom mirror. I was much skinnier than I used to be, and even I could see I looked worse for having lost the pounds. My body was like a roadmap, telling the story of where life had taken me. I was okay with my boobs not being as full or perky as they’d once been, because they’d been used the way nature had intended.
An old memory floated down through the years, of nursing Noah in a rocking chair in the middle of the night. A floorboard had creaked and I’d looked up to find Pete standing in the doorway watching us. He’d looked awed, like someone witnessing a miracle. If I lived to a hundred, that would still be one of my most cherished memories.
My hands slid past my ribcage, stopping as they reached the thin spider’s web of silvery stretch marks across my stomach, their filigree pattern glinting beneath the bright overhead spotlights. Those scars were mine by right, they were proof of the child I’d carried inside me, and for the first time ever I was actually pleased I’d not used the oils that could have prevented them. My cheeks flooded with warmth as the memory of Pete tenderly tracing each line with his lips came into my head and refused to leave.
I spent too long in the shower, finally emerging from the closet in a cloud of steam, like a scene from a film, with salmon-pink skin and fingers wrinkled like prunes. Noah’s open bedroom door and carelessly thrown-back duvet got me moving, though. I spent less than two minutes rummaging for clean jeans and a plain white T-shirt, before dragging a comb through my wet hair. Without bothering to check my reflection, I hurried on to the landing, anxious to avoid the questions that would be asked should Noah find his dad asleep in the lounge.
Halfway down the stairs, I realised I was already too late. A delicious smell of frying bacon was coming from the direction of the kitchen and my stomach, which had failed to grasp the gravity of our situation, growled like a traitor. A thousand weekend mornings flashed before my eyes as I walked into the room to see Pete at the hob, with the makings of a mountain of bacon sandwiches on the worktop beside him.
‘Ah, there you are,’ he announced unnecessarily, as if this was just any other Saturday morning. I felt wrong-footed, as though the last nine months might simply not have happened at all.
‘Hey, Mum, guess what? Dad didn’t go home last night, he slept here! And he’s made us breakfast.’ Noah reached hungrily for the topmost sandwich from the pile Pete had carried to the table.
‘I see that,’ I replied, turning to Pete and trying to rearrange my features to look like someone who hadn’t woken up in his arms a short while ago.
‘You don’t mind, do you?’ he asked, and for a moment I wasn’t sure if he was talking about raiding my fridge or sleeping beside me on the settee.
‘No, that’s fine,’ I replied. My answer covered both options.
‘Dad said the three of us could go for a walk this morning.’ I looked over the top of our son’s head to find Pete staring meaningfully back at me.
‘Only if your mum agrees,’ he reminded Noah, his eyes on my face. We still have things to discuss, they silently reminded me.
My nod was so fleeting a single blink could have missed it.
‘Yay!’ cried Noah, blissfully unaware that anything was wrong. And that was just how it was going to stay, I vowed. His delight was simple. He was going to spend the morning with the two people he loved most in the world, and he wasn’t the only one who needed that, I realised.
When Noah left the room, the air of false normality went right out of the door with him. I panicked for a moment, wanting to call him back, afraid of being alone with my own husband for reasons too complicated to identify.
‘Let me help you,’ offered Pete, making me jump, for I’d not heard his barefoot approach as he joined me at the sink.
‘No. I’ve got this.’ My voice sounded too bright and too brittle, as if the slightest thing might cause it to shatter. ‘You can use the bathroom if you like. Some of your old stuff is still at the back of the wardrobe.’ I flushed then, hiding behind the fall of my hair as I wondered if he’d ask me why I’d never bothered returning it. I was afraid to look into his face, scared he’d be able to tell just how many times I’d opened up the wardrobe doors, needing to see his things still there. It was a harmless addiction, or so I’d told myself.
‘We need to work out what to
do next, Iz,’ Pete said solemnly, his face naked without the jolly mask it had been wearing for Noah’s benefit.
‘I know,’ I said, focusing all my attention on the brilliant green jet of washing-up liquid arcing into the sink. Pete’s hand fell lightly onto my shoulder, and I gave an involuntarily shiver. I turned to look up at him, and perhaps he realised that I needed more time before revisiting the topic we’d soon be unable to avoid.
‘Later,’ I said, my words falling somewhere between a question and a plea.
His hand squeezed my shoulder gently before falling away. ‘Okay,’ he agreed.
*
‘Black with two sugars,’ said Pete, setting the cardboard drink carrier with the cups of steaming hot coffee down on the picnic table.
I murmured my thanks, my eyes fixed on Noah, who was standing by the edge of the lake with half a loaf of stale bread in his hands and an extraordinary number of ducks and geese circling with interest around his feet.
More than anything, I wanted to go and join him at the water’s edge, and pretend this was just another family outing to Hornfield Forest, which had been a favourite outdoor spot of ours for years. It was a perfect location to have chosen for today, and not just because the sun was shining down, and the gentle breeze rustling through the trees made the five-mile walk more comfortable. The forest held happy memories for us as a family.
By unspoken consent, we’d waited until we reached the lake with its small outdoor café before returning to the topic we’d left very much unresolved in the middle of the night.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ I said, automatically dropping my voice down low, even though there was no danger of Noah overhearing us from where he stood. ‘How do we even know that they made a mistake all those years ago? I mean, before anything else, shouldn’t we insist they produce proof that Noah isn’t biologically ours?’
‘You mean aside from the fact that he doesn’t look like either of us?’
I made a small dismissive sound. ‘Lots of kids look totally different from their parents, but it doesn’t mean they’re someone else’s.’
Pete sighed softly. ‘But it might explain those characteristics of his that have always puzzled us.’ My face clouded with confusion. ‘That he’s so gifted musically, and also incredibly bright,’ he expanded.
‘I’m going to try not to get offended that you don’t think either of those attributes could have come from our own gene pool.’
Pete’s smile was so fleeting I only caught the tail end of it before it disappeared. ‘I imagine the first thing they’ll want to do is a DNA test to prove things one way or the other.’
I could feel my teeth grinding together and forced my jaw to relax. The irony that the miracle of science that had given Noah to us could also end up being the tool used to take him away wasn’t lost on me. The lump in my throat dissolved into tears, and I had to look away for several moments before I had control of my voice again. Pete’s expression, when I explained those fears to him, went from incredulous to genuinely horrified.
‘No one has said anything about taking Noah away.’ There was a brusque quality to his voice, as though every one of his emotions was encased in sandpaper. The threat of his own tears made him angry, and he spilled a small puddle of coffee as he set his plastic cup back down on the table.
‘But they haven’t said they won’t try to do it, have they?’ Sometimes saying the thing you’re most afraid of out loud lessens its impact. And sometimes it doesn’t make any difference at all.
Pete shook his head, his eyes going to our son, who was still happily feeding the flock of birds, completely oblivious that his once certain future had now turned into a huge question mark.
‘No judge would ever rule that a child should be taken away from his parents.’ Pete’s voice had become a defiant growl.
‘Even if it turns out we’re not his parents?’ Our eyes met and held. ‘What if they say we have to swap back? What if the other couple want their embryo back?’
‘He’s not an embryo. He’s my son,’ Pete declared, not even bothering to wipe away the tears that were falling silently from his eyes. ‘We’ll go to the press or the TV if we have to. We’ll do whatever it takes to get public support.’
‘That might not count for much if the law says he can’t stay with us. And do we really want our lives turned into a tabloid sensation?’
‘We might not have a choice,’ said Pete darkly. I shuddered, despite the warmth of the day. We were both private people and the thought of having our family thrust into the limelight like that filled me with horror. What would it do to Noah? What would it do to us?
‘I’ve spent his entire life worrying that something terrible will happen to him. I’ve read every childhood illness book I could get my hands on. I could spot a meningitis rash from fifty paces. But this? This? How was I ever supposed to protect him from this? And yet we have to do something.’
‘So what’s your plan? What do you think we should do?’ There was a challenge in Pete’s voice, which almost made me hesitate. But the idea that had been circling my head all morning, like a plane waiting to land, had to be given its voice.
‘I think we should go away. Leave. Go abroad. Go somewhere they won’t be able to find us.’ It was a child’s solution. A scared child’s solution. But at least he didn’t laugh out loud at my suggestion.
‘How on earth could we do that, Izzy?’ Pete asked reasonably, reaching for my hand, but I snatched it away. I was in no mood to be sensible or practical. All I could feel was that time was quickly going to run out, and thrumming within me was a mother’s primal instinct to protect her young. And I was very much afraid I wasn’t going to be able to do that if we stayed here much longer.
‘Just think about what you’re saying for a moment, Iz. You’re talking about kidnapping our own child as though it’s a sensible option.’ My scowl was dark as he took aim and began shooting holes in my plan. ‘Where would we go? What would we do for money? And what about Noah’s school and all his friends? Not to mention the house, the mortgage, and both our jobs. Where in the world do you think we could run to, where they wouldn’t be able to find us and make us come back?’
‘We could get new passports, with different identities. We’d go somewhere without an extradition treaty.’
‘You’re talking about things that happen in the movies, not real life. I barely knew where I had to go to get a legitimate passport, much less a fake one. We’re not going on the run. This isn’t a Bourne film, Izzy, it’s real life.’
Nothing had ever felt less like reality than the situation we were currently facing. Beneath the table my hands were balled into fists of frustration, even while the sensible part of my brain was admitting that of the two of us, Pete was the only one talking sense.
‘We need to fight this, of course we do. And we will. But we can’t do it outside of the law. We have to prove that even if the clinic did make the world’s most colossal mistake, there has to be another solution. No one on God’s Earth is going to take our child away from us.’
‘So what do you suggest we do?’
‘We get legal advice. The very best that money can buy.’
My sigh was resigned, because deep down I knew he was right. But finding that kind of help on two salaries that teetered each month on the brink of being overdrawn sounded almost as unrealistic as going on the lam.
‘We’ll do this,’ assured Pete, with a confidence I wanted so very much to believe. I felt the squeeze of his fingers against mine and looked down in surprise. We were now holding hands across the tabletop, and I had absolutely no idea when or how that had happened.
12
Beth
‘Is there anything else you’d like to ask me at this point, Mrs Brandon?’
I looked across the leather-topped antique desk at the man who I’d come there to meet, and shook my head. There were probably a hundred questions I should be asking, but most of them were shouted down by just one: How on earth did this
happen? But for now, William Sylvester, the lawyer my father had found for me, didn’t have the answer to that one.
He got to his feet and extended his hand, indicating that this introductory meeting had come to a close. He was everything you’d expect a young, dynamic and successful lawyer to be. Dressed in a well-cut suit, which occasionally revealed glimpses of the Rolex on his wrist, he wore the trappings of success with a casual nonchalance.
I placed my hand in his, noticing obliquely that his manicure was far neater than mine. His handshake was firm and brief, and bizarrely for a moment it reminded me of Liam Thomas’s. That man had a curious habit of hijacking my train of thought at the most inopportune moments. And here, in the plush offices of a legal company I’d never have been able to afford without my parents’ help, he was the last person I should be thinking about.
‘If you’d like to wait in Reception,’ Mr Sylvester suggested, already guiding me gently towards the door, ‘I’ll have my PA return your documents when she’s finished making the necessary copies.’
I gave a small nod, still feeling overwhelmed in a way I hadn’t been expecting. Having spent most of the morning online, researching the man I was meeting that day, I’d hoped to feel better prepared for this preliminary appointment. But whatever comfort I’d found in his outstanding reputation had evaporated when I began researching cases similar to mine. That’s because it hadn’t taken long to discover that there weren’t any. Admittedly there’d been fertility clinic mistakes before – they’d happened in practically every country of the world. But those mistakes had been uncovered much earlier, directly after implantation, or if not then, at birth. The outcomes were mixed, but almost all seemed to result in protracted legal battles. But there wasn’t a single instance I could find where the error hadn’t come to light until eight years later.
