by M. A. Hunter
I return the frame to the table, remembering the only image of Daisy I saw on the living-room wall in the other house. Surely, Morag would have a similar frame for displaying ultrasound pictures – I don’t think I’ve ever met a mother who doesn’t own one – and would proudly display it? Even if she was a mature first mother, that’s only more reason to celebrate the miracle of Daisy’s life.
Certain I can’t be the only one to find it odd, I roll into the kitchen, where I find Charlie peeling potatoes while a pan of water simmers on the hob beside him.
‘It shouldn’t be too long,’ he says, hearing my tyres squeaking on the linoleum. ‘Half an hour or so. Your pills are on the side there with some water. I was going to bring them through once the potatoes were on the boil.’
Ignoring the pills, I drain the glass, but it does little to sate my thirst.
‘Did you notice the photographs in Morag’s lounge?’ I ask, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
He looks around, confused lines furrowing his brow. ‘Not particularly.’
He’s never been blessed with the greatest observational skills. He’s an intelligent man, of that I have no doubt, but he often misses the minutiae.
‘There were loads of images of Morag and Angus in different tourist hotspots, but just the one image of them with Daisy, and it could only have been a year old at most.’
‘And?’
‘Well, don’t you think that’s a bit strange? Think about the number of pictures of Grace we have on the walls. Pictures of her alone, pictures with you, pictures with me, and then pictures of the three of us. It’s rare we have any photographs without her in.’
He slices and drops potatoes into the pan. ‘What’s your point?’
‘I just think it’s strange that they wouldn’t have any images of Daisy as a baby. Did Morag mention anything to you when the two of you were talking?’
He gives me another puzzled look. ‘We didn’t really talk; I was with Angus most of the time. We largely discussed work and football. He’s an Aberdeen fan, but said he’s thinking of trying to get tickets to watch Watford’s next match. Asked if I wanted to tag along, and I said why not. You wouldn’t mind, would you? It would probably be a Saturday match, but I’d give you notice so we can make sure that you and Grace are all right on your own.’
He’s failing to see what seems so obvious to me now.
She’s not my mum.
It’s time to spell it out for him, once and for all. Taking a deep breath, I blurt it out: ‘I don’t think Morag and Angus are Daisy’s real parents.’
He starts chopping the onion without looking up.
‘Did you hear what I said?’ I ask, conscious that the extractor fan is whirring in the background.
He lowers the knife, and turns so he is facing me, his back to the counter and onion. His eyes are watering slightly, but I think that is the effect of the onion. ‘Is this about your mum and dad?’
The question throws me, and my mouth opens to speak, but I don’t know what to say.
He crouches down before me. ‘I know that you said things were never the same between you and your parents once they told you that you were adopted, but I think you’re taking a massive leap to assume that Morag and Angus adopted Daisy.’
He has totally missed the point, and I hadn’t even considered the prospect that they might have adopted her.
‘I get that they’re older for first-time parents,’ Charlie continues, and I recognise that pitying look again. ‘Being new to the area, they’re maybe not as relaxed about things as other London-bred parents we know, but they’ve offered me no reason to assume that they aren’t Daisy’s actual parents.’
I wheel myself backwards, annoyed at where his thought processes have gone. ‘This is nothing to do with my situation,’ I snap.
He pushes closer. ‘Are you sure? You have to admit, when your dad died last year it was a shock to all of us, and you wouldn’t be the first to have unresolved issues about your birth parents. Maybe all this – the park, the photographs – maybe it’s just your mind’s way of dealing with your own issues.’
‘This has nothing to do with my adoption,’ I growl, louder than I’d anticipated, wheeling myself away so he doesn’t see my own eyes moistening.
I wish now that Charlie had just left me sleeping earlier. As the gentle rumble of his snoring beats a rhythm in time to the rise and fall of the duvet, I feel nothing but envy. What I would give to be sleeping now.
The blue digits of the bedside clock burn a hole in the darkness surrounding us, and I know it isn’t Charlie’s snoring, nor the fact that dawn is around the corner, that has me lying here wide awake yet physically exhausted. I tend to spend at least a couple of hours awake in the darkness when I should be lost to dreams and rest. Had Charlie left me sleeping earlier, I might have crammed in a few extra hours before the insomnia came calling for me. How I wish I could just stop taking all the prescribed pills for a few weeks, just until I can get things clear in my mind, but without them I will be bedridden, and subsequently impacted by bedsores.
You’ve got to make the best of a bad situation, is what my dad would tell me if he was here now. I do miss his cheerful optimism. No matter how great the adversity, he always managed to find time to smile and offer me words of encouragement. I’m grateful that he never got to see my suffering, but how I wish I could hug him one more time and thank him for everything he did for me.
My fifteenth birthday was the day my parents chose to tell me I was adopted. That sounds cruel, I know, but there was nothing unloving about their intentions. As an only child, I was used to them treating me with the respect they expected me to extend to them. And so, when I was through opening my presents and we’d celebrated a delicious hot breakfast, they turned to me, and holding hands, delivered the news that would permanently alter my understanding of the world.
What I’d never admitted to them – what I’ve never told anybody – is that I’d always suspected something wasn’t quite right. I didn’t really resemble either of them, plus there were clues they’d subconsciously dropped throughout my childhood, referring to me as their ‘gift from the angels’.
My birth mother, they told me, was fifteen herself when she fell pregnant, still a child herself. My biological father was not named on the birth certificate, and whether my birth mother knew who he was, she never divulged. She was a clever girl by all accounts, destined for university and an important career, and raising a child at such a young age was never on the cards.
Her parents, my maternal grandparents, were supportive of her decision to give me up for adoption, but on the understanding that they would cut all ties. Having lost Luke, I can understand how painful it would be to see constant reminders of what could have been. Even now as I lie beneath the bedding, I can still feel the echo of him moving around inside me, and it brings back all those painful memories of what I did.
Charlie snorts loudly, and rolls away from me, as I dab my eyes on the sheet. It had been heartbreaking telling Grace that she wouldn’t get to meet her baby brother. Throughout the pregnancy she’d been so excited, and I wonder now whether he heard her voice when she would talk to him through my belly. She’d tell him the stories she’d made up, and how she would share her toys and books with him. It feels now like he was the missing piece of our jigsaw, a piece we will never be able to slot into place, and so the puzzle will remain incomplete.
Is that how my birth mother felt when all the papers were signed and she returned home alone? Was there ever a moment when she woke in the middle of the night and dared to dream what her life would have been like had she made different decisions? I wonder too whether she ever looked me up or tried to make contact. I once asked to see a picture of my birth mother, but my parents said they only met her the one time when the paperwork was signed.
Charlie stirs next to me again, and I remember his suggestion that Morag and Angus might have adopted Daisy. Is that what she’d meant when she’d approached me
in the park?
I close my eyes and replay the scene in my head. The way she gripped the arms of the wheelchair, her knuckles white with the strain, her eyes shining with tears, her trembling lips as she whispered those four little words.
I shake my head in disbelief. Why was she so scared? I remember feeling lost and confused in the days that followed my fifteenth birthday, but there was never any fear; my parents had shown me too much love for me to question their feelings towards me.
Daisy’s panic had only worsened when Morag had come over and introduced herself, and then she’d been so quiet throughout our time at the coffee stand, and even at the barbecue earlier she hadn’t spoken a word to me.
I sit up in frustration. Why am I letting this bother me so much? I know nothing about Daisy or Morag and Angus, so why am I so hung up on four little words that could have been uttered as a cruel trick as much as a cry for help? Why is my subconscious mind so determined not to let me forget about them and focus on my own life?
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, holding it in my chest until it burns, and then slowly exhaling through my mouth. Then another deep breath, holding it a second longer, before releasing. I feel my shoulders relax a fraction.
She’s not my mum.
My eyes shoot open, and the tension immediately returns to my neck and shoulders. It’s no good, I have to know the truth. I have to know why Daisy approached me, and why she looked so terrified. I need to know why Morag doesn’t have any pictures of Daisy as a baby, and why they really moved to London. I don’t know where to begin, but I’m so much more familiar with the internet than I was twenty years ago.
Reaching down to the side of the bed, my fingers scramble around until they grip the laptop. Hoisting it onto my legs, I lift the lid and search for their names, adding keywords of adoption, Aberdeen, Wolverhampton, and nursing. It’s everything I know about their family, and I have hours until Charlie will be awake. I hit the search button and begin to read.
Chapter Thirteen
Before – Morag
Waking early, I creep out of the bedroom, leaving Angus still fast asleep. Despite the early hour, sunlight is already peeking through the gap in the curtains, but not enough to disturb him. After forty-plus years of marriage I’ve learned Angus’ sleeping pattern well enough. He’s been known to sleep through overhead storms before.
I collect the small bundle of clothes I secreted in the bathroom last night before we headed into bed. The last thing I want is for my sneaking about, from drawers to wardrobe, to disturb Angus or Daisy. Passing her bedroom, I open the door a crack and peer in, but she’s still sound asleep too, hugging the little furry giraffe she’d held the first time I saw her. She’s never slept without it; despite all the moves we’ve had to make.
I carry the bundle of clothes down to the lounge and dress quickly, only giving my reflection half a glance in the window of one of the cabinets. If all goes to plan, I won’t see another living soul while I’m out and about, so nobody will be appalled by my lack of make-up.
The front door creaks as I heave it open, and it sounds so loud, when I’m sure it probably isn’t nearly as piercing as I imagine. I remain framed in the doorway, straining to hear any movement from upstairs. If the door has woken either Daisy or Angus, one of them is bound to stir in bed, and I would be able to hear that. Only silence greets me, and I’m relieved that I can continue with my plan. Closing and locking the door, I skip down the driveway, pulling the hood of my top over my head.
Checking the time, I see it is only just after six, and on this early Sunday morning, there is no sign of movement from any of the neighbouring properties. To my relief. Turning right at the foot of the drive, I hurry along the pavement, keen to reach my destination as quickly as possible, without drawing unnecessary attention to myself. It’s kind of a half-jog, half-skip. Dressed in a hooded tracksuit, if I am spotted by any half-asleep neighbour opening their curtains, I’ll probably just appear to be one of those crazy people who choose to run every day for pleasure. I know they’d argue it’s a healthy activity, but I was brought up to run only when necessary, as in when someone is chasing you. In my book, running for pleasure is as foreign as choosing to throw yourself off a bridge with a bungee rope. Safe to say you wouldn’t catch me ever doing either.
But there is a lightness to my steps today. I’m excited by what awaits, even though I know it’s a huge risk. I don’t see that there is another choice. I will take the necessary precautions, as I do each year, and if I stick with the routine, there is no reason to fear.
Spotting the tall red box at the end of the third road I reach, my pace quickens. I no longer care who sees me darting for the phone box, the excitement is too overwhelming to move any slower. Bursting in through the door, it takes a few moments to settle my laboured breathing and panting. One of the reasons we ended up choosing the current property was its proximity to a public phone box. In the digital age such outlets are few and far between these days, so this one was quite a find.
Removing the two pound coins from the zipped pocket of the tracksuit, I pull out my mobile phone, and open the stopwatch app, ready to press the start button the moment the line connects. In some ways it would be safer to make the call from home, where there is no danger of my face being seen, nor the conversation being overheard, but I’m not savvy enough to know how to hide the GPS coordinates of my mobile phone. The last thing I want is to put my family in unnecessary danger, but I have to make this call. I made a promise a long time ago, and I intend to keep to it.
Lifting the receiver, I dial 141 to disguise my location, before entering the rest of the number I memorised. As I hold the coins close to the slot, the phone rings twice before I hear her voice. Dropping the coins into the slot, I start the timer.
‘Gwen, it’s me,’ I say, covering the receiver slightly with the cuff of my top.
‘Mor—’ she starts to say before I quickly cut her off.
‘Don’t say my name, Gwen. You know who this is, but don’t say just in case anyone else is listening.’
‘Oh, you and your paranoia,’ she burrs. ‘You don’t really think anyone’s put a tap on my line, do you? What nonsense!’
It’s so great to hear my sister’s voice after all this time, and I make no effort to wipe away the tears pooling by my eyelids. ‘I just wanted to wish you a happy birthday.’
‘I did wonder whether I might hear from you today,’ she says, and I’m pretty sure I can hear the sob building in her throat.
‘I didn’t wake you, I hope?’
‘No, you know what I’m like: awake at first light no matter the day or time of year. How are you, big sister?’
My face scrunches at the reference to our relationship. She might as well have used my name. I’ve tried explaining why we have to take these precautions, but she thinks I’m just being dramatic. That’s because I’ve done my best to shield her from the consequences of my actions.
‘I’m fine,’ I say quickly to cover her slip. ‘We’re all fine. How are you doing? How is Rufus?’
‘I left him in bed snoring as per the usual. You know what he’s like. Not dissimilar to your—’ She seems to catch herself before saying Angus’s name out loud. ‘Well, you know.’
‘Have you got anything nice planned for today?’ I ask, just eager to keep her talking for as long as possible. I can’t believe we’ve already been talking for thirty seconds. Only ninety seconds left until I’ll have to force myself to hang up for another year.
‘Rufus has promised to take me to The Black Ox for a fish and chip supper later, but otherwise I plan to be out on the loch like most days. It really is so pretty this time of the year. I wish you could come up and see it. I bet it hasn’t changed since we were babies.’
How I wish I could, I want to say, but then we’d have to get into the usual conversation about all the reasons I can’t come home yet.
‘I’m surprised The Black Ox is still going,’ I admit, ‘but that sounds like a love
ly day.’
There’s a pause on the line that I feel compelled to fill as the seconds tick past, and I’m about to speak when I hear Gwen clear her throat. ‘There’s something I should tell you… not that there’s anything you can do about it.’ Another pause, and a feeling of dread begins to pass over my shoulders. ‘I had some tests at the hospital, and… it’s not good news. The oncologist reckons the cancer is back, and this time it’s more aggressive than before.’
The tears escape my face, but no longer in joy. ‘Oh God, Gwen, no.’
‘Now, now, I don’t want you upsetting yourself. After the chemotherapy last time, we always knew there was a risk it could return some day. I’ve had five wonderful years of love and friendship here in Skene, and I realise how fortunate I am.’
I don’t want to ask the next question, but I only have seconds left before I’m going to have to hang up. ‘How long have they said?’
‘Maybe six months to a year with treatment, but I’m not sure I’ll take them up on that offer. You remember how sick it made me last time.’
Oh my God, it’s possible this will be the last time I get to talk to my baby sister, and I want to scream and thrash, and tell her to hell with the risk, I’m coming home to spend the next six to twelve months with her, but I can’t.
‘Oh, Gwen, I’m so sorry,’ is the best I can manage. ‘I love you, and I will try and call again as soon as I can.’
I don’t hear her response as I depress the lever and the call ends. I stop the timer on two minutes and five seconds, and I am tempted to dial again, but I know the danger I’ll be putting myself in if I do. Pocketing the mobile, I emerge from the phone box feeling half as tall as when I entered. I’d been looking forward to this call for weeks, and now I wish I hadn’t made it. I know that’s selfish to think, but I’d rather not have known my wee sister is battling death again. The worst part is, I know deep down things are probably a lot worse than she’s made out, as she always did try to make things easier for me to hear. The last time she was diagnosed with cancer, she didn’t tell me until the treatment was nearly complete. Even though she was visiting the hospital where I was working, I had no clue she was there, nor why. It was only when I happened to bump into her one day when I was running late for work that she came clean. If she’s saying the doctors has given her six to twelve months, the truth is probably three to six months.
