Not My Daughter (ARC)

by Kate Hewitt

  ‘Good thing I’m here.’ He tilts his head, giving me a rather charming smile. It affects me, because he is undeniably attractive, but I also feel uneasy. I don’t know this man, and yet… we are, in a very roundabout way, going to be having a baby together. I tell myself not to think that way. It’s just too weird.

  ‘I thought you lived in the Cotswolds?’

  Jack reaches for the folder of paperwork I’ve been given. ‘Let me take that for you.’ We walk outside; the day is grey and dismal even though it’s now late March. The trees are still leafless, and the crocuses poking up through the earth look chilled and miserable. ‘I live in Stroud for the moment,’ he says, answering my question, ‘but I was in Bristol picking up some aged lumber from a salvage yard.’ He smiles. ‘So that was good timing.’

  I nod and look away. I want to be in my flat, alone with my cat and a cup of tea.

  Jack leads me to a beat-up, mud-splattered Land Rover, the kind of vehicle I’d expect him to have. It’s high up, and he puts his hand under my elbow as he helps me into the passenger seat.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ he asks as we drive away from the clinic.

  ‘Okayish. A bit… I don’t know. Off.’ I look out the window, inexplicably feeling that threat of tears again, as if I could sob, which is absolutely the last thing I want to do right now. ‘This is all a bit weird.’

  ‘Yes, I know what you mean,’ Jack murmurs.

  ‘What about your… part? I suppose it’s already done?’

  ‘Yeah, a few weeks ago. Not a big deal for me.’ He shoots me a quick, slightly rakish smile. ‘Hardly a painful procedure, you know?’

  ‘Right.’ I look away, blushing. I shouldn’t have brought it up.

  ‘Milly gave me your address… Totterdown, right?’

  ‘Yes, Knowle Road, near the park.’

  We drive in silence for a few minutes while Jack follows the satnav on his phone and then pulls up in front of my home.

  ‘Thanks for the lift—’

  ‘You’re on the top floor, right? Let me make sure you get up all right.’

  I feel the need to protest, but I don’t, because the company does feel rather nice. I’m not sure I want to be alone yet, after all.

  ‘Do you want a cup of tea or something?’ I half-mumble once I’ve unlocked my front door and stepped inside.

  ‘I should make you one. Why don’t you put your feet up?’ He nods towards the sofa in the sitting room. ‘I think I can find my way to the kettle.’

  ‘Okay. Thanks.’ Even though Jack is a stranger, it feels nice to have someone taking care of me. I sit gingerly on the edge of the sofa, but then the plump cushions give way beneath me, enveloping me in their plush warmth, and Winnie jumps onto my lap. By the time Jack returns with a mug of tea, I am lying down, my head propped against the armrest, Winnie stretched out on top of me like a living electric blanket.

  ‘You look comfy.’ He puts the tea down on the coffee table and then, to my surprise, sits in the armchair opposite. I was expecting him to make his excuses and leave.

  ‘This is all a bit odd, isn’t it?’ he says after a moment, his smile sheepish.

  I reach for my tea, mainly to stall for time. Yes, it is odd, but I’m not sure I want to discuss it.

  ‘I mean, you, me… it’s our genes, together. Our—’

  ‘Yes.’ I cut him off before he can say it.

  ‘Sorry, am I sounding creepy?’ He rubs a hand over his face. ‘I don’t mean to. It’s just that I didn’t think too much about it, when Matt asked. I thought about it like donating blood, or giving a kidney.’ I recall Milly’s comparison to just that and smile faintly. ‘But now that I’m thinking about it properly, it feels a bit different, you know? A bit more…’

  ‘Yes, I know what you mean.’

  ‘Did you ever want kids yourself?’ He gives me another one of those smiles. ‘Sorry, is that too personal? I just wondered.’

  ‘No, it’s all right. I don’t think I’ll ever have my own children.’ I pause, choosing my words with care. ‘I’m happy as I am, really.’

  ‘No one special in your life?’

  The weird, unexpected intimacy of the situation makes the question feel natural rather than nosy. ‘No, I’m not… I haven’t been much interested in all that. Marriage, children.’ He looks sceptical, so I explain. ‘My parents fought all the time and then ended up divorcing acrimoniously when I was fifteen. It put me off matrimony for life, I think.’

  ‘That must have been difficult.’

  ‘It wasn’t easy.’ And then, inexplicably, I feel that well of emotion rise within me again, and before I can stop it, my eyes are full of tears.

  ‘Hey. Hey.’ Jack leans forward, putting one hand on my arm. My hands shake and hot tea slops onto my fingers. He takes the mug from me and puts it on the table. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise it was such a difficult subject for you.’

  ‘It’s not that,’ I say, sniffing. I am trying to hold back the tide of tears, but I can’t. ‘I’ve been jacked up on hormones for six weeks,’ I manage thickly. ‘It’s no wonder I’m a blubbering wreck.’ I wipe my eyes, because they have started to stream. ‘Sorry. I don’t mean to cry.’

  ‘Are you sure it’s just the hormones?’ Jack asks gently as I keep wiping my eyes and taking gulping breaths.

  I open my mouth to say, yes, of course it is, and then something else comes out. ‘Today was hard because it reminded me of when I was eighteen.’ I pause, wondering if I really want to say this to Jack of all people, and then I find myself blurting, ‘I had an abortion.’

  Something flashes across Jack’s face, and in a cringing rush, I realise that he was just being kind, that he didn’t actually want me to spill my guts.

  ‘Sorry,’ I mumble, reaching for my tea and trying to hide my face behind the mug. ‘I shouldn’t have told you that. I don’t know why I did. It’s just… today…’

  ‘Have you told anyone before?’

  I shake my head, my nose buried in my mug.

  We sit in silence for a moment; the wind rattles the windowpanes and I can hear both our breathing.

  ‘Perhaps you needed to tell someone,’ he says at last. ‘Since this brought it back up for you. Do you… do you want to talk about it?’

  Do I? I’ve bottled it up inside for so long, pushed it down, pretended it never happened. Milly has never known, never even guessed, and thankfully, kindly, she’s never asked. I suppose she always knew there was something – why else would I go off the rails so spectacularly at the end of sixth form? But she could tell I didn’t want to talk about it, and so she never pushed, which was a huge relief.

  Even so, it was always there – an invisible, oppressive weight, a pain behind my eyes, a burning in my chest. It has always been an active thing, not to think about it. It requires effort.

  ‘Perhaps I do,’ I say, and then we sit in silence some more. I pick at a loose thread on the sofa, pulling it taut before I let it go. ‘It was a hard time in my life,’ I say finally.

  ‘Because of your parents?’

  ‘Yes, and because I…’ I blow out a breath. Do I really want to go into this? Dredge it up, like the sludge from the bottom of my soul? ‘I was in a relationship that I shouldn’t have been,’ I say, which is one way of putting it. ‘And when… when I fell pregnant, he wasn’t… well, he didn’t want to know.’

  Jack grimaces. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘The truth is, I didn’t want to know. I put it off and off, thinking somehow it would just go away, and then when I finally decided I had to do something…’ My throat thickens once more and my eyes sting. ‘I was farther along than I realised. And that made it…’ But now I can’t go on. Because remembering hurts. Because no one wants to hear about the messiness of it, the guilt and regret, and certainly not the pain and the blood.

  ‘Anna, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have brought this up.’ He reaches over to place his hand on mine, the dry, warm weight of it reassuring.

  ‘You did
n’t,’ I manage. ‘I did.’

  ‘Still, I feel as if I was prying.’ He smiles apologetically, and with a jolt I realise he is backing off, because, like everyone else, he doesn’t want to know. And so I slip my hand from his and sit back against the sofa, giving him a repressive little smile as the tears thankfully dry up.

  ‘It’s okay, Jack. Today brought up some bad memories, that’s all, and the hormones I’ve been on made it worse. I’m fine, really. Sorry to have offloaded on you there for a moment.’ I take a sip of my now lukewarm tea.

  Jack looks at me for a moment. ‘Is that why you agreed?’

  ‘Agreed…?’

  ‘To donate.’

  I stare at him, shocked by the question, and because, no matter how I’ve tried to keep things separate in my mind, I acknowledge in this moment that they are related. All along there has been some part of me that felt as if the scales needed to be balanced. That one procedure makes up for another, in my own mind, if not in the cosmos.

  ‘Perhaps it had something to do with it,’ I say slowly, and it is a confession. ‘On a subconscious level.’ I wonder how Milly would feel about it, if she knew. Would she mind? Does it matter?

  ‘I’m glad you told me,’ Jack says, and I give him a small smile. I’m surprisingly glad too, even if I might cringe about it later. It felt a little bit how I imagine a bloodletting would feel, a release of pressure, or a held breath. ‘I should probably go…’ he begins, half-rising, and I nod.

  ‘Of course. Thank you for everything—’

  ‘You’re sure you’re all right?’

  ‘Yes. Fine.’ I smile brightly, too brightly. ‘Sorry about before. I don’t know what came over me.’

  ‘You don’t need to be sorry, Anna.’

  ‘It came out of nowhere. Honestly, I’m okay.’ My smile turns fixed and Jack stares at me. His eyes are brown like Matt’s, his hair just a little bit darker. He hasn’t shaved today.

  ‘Maybe… would you like to get a coffee sometime? Or a drink?’

  I stare back, unsure if he’s asking me out on a proper date, or just as some sort of friend. Perhaps not even that, but simply because we have this weird link.

  ‘Sure,’ I say after a moment, and Jack smiles and nods before leaving, the door clicking shut behind him.

  I stroke Winnie as I drink the rest of my tea; my abdomen still aches and even as I feel a strange sort of emptiness inside, a peace settles on me like a violet twilight, soft and dark and comforting.

  Seven

  Milly

  When I was about six, a woman at a party – I can’t remember where or what for – asked me why I didn’t look like my parents. She didn’t phrase it as bluntly as that, of course; she said something about genes and dark hair and changelings, laughing a little, and without a blink or a blush, I informed her that I was adopted.

  I remember the look that flashed across her face; in hindsight I realise she must have been horrified by her unwitting faux pas, but at the time all I knew was that the expression on her face wasn’t a good one, and I felt as if I’d done something wrong.

  Then the woman back-pedalled quickly, her voice rising loudly as she exclaimed how wonderful it was that I was adopted, and how my mummy and daddy were so lucky, and they must love me very much. But children are smarter than adults ever think; I knew she was overegging the conversational pudding, that her smile was too wide, her voice too cheery. I knew she wasn’t telling the truth.

  When I asked my mother about it later, she looked stricken for a second before gathering me into her arms and telling me that it was wonderful, and she and my father were lucky. It was all so perfectly perfect, our very own fairy tale, happy ending guaranteed. And even though her voice brimmed with sincerity, and her smile wasn’t too wide, I had the same impression from her as from that strange woman – she wasn’t quite telling the truth. I never pressed her on it, and I never doubted her love for me, but the impression remained.

  I have a lot of memories like that. They aren’t terrible, and I don’t regret anything, but they’re there, like stones in my mental shoe. And, for some reason, I think of that woman as Matt holds my hand and the doctor transfers a precious embryo into my uterus. We decided on only one because of the potential risks involved in carrying multiples, and we figured if it doesn’t happen this time, we’d just try again. But I am hoping – I am praying – it happens.

  As I lie still, my feet in stirrups, my eyes on the ceiling, I think of that woman and I promise myself that my child will not have moments like that. She will feel loved, accepted, part of me from the beginning. All the time. Always.

  * * *

  It’s finished in twenty minutes, and as I stand up, I have the urge to tiptoe, as if this newly planted embryo is in danger of sliding out. When I say as much, the doctor assures me this is a normal feeling, but not one based in reality. He advises me to take the rest of the day off, and keep activity to a minimum for the next two weeks, which begs the question – why? Perhaps it can fall out, after all.

  It’s not easy to take a day off work, especially on the heels of a fairly brutal Ofsted inspection. Monkton Primary is a small, cosy village school thirty minutes from Bristol, with only one class per year group, and a very stretched staff. I’ve been working there for twelve years, since I finished uni, and while I’ve been tempted to look for jobs closer to home, it’s hard to leave a place where you’re known.

  When the call from Ofsted came just as I was about to leave to pick up Anna, my heart sank right down to my toes. The last time Ofsted had come they’d given us the dreaded ‘Requires Improvement’ rating, so there was no question about staying late and pitching in to make sure it went well.

  But Anna… I hated the thought of letting her down at that crucial moment, even though I knew I didn’t have a choice. I texted her and left two voicemails, but I still felt wretchedly guilty for sending Jack in my place. As soon as I got home, I rang her landline, but she didn’t answer, which somehow made me feel worse.

  On Saturday I rang again, wondering as the phone rang and rang if I was badgering her. Perhaps she was tired from the procedure and wanted to lay low. Maybe she needed some space. Finally, on Sunday afternoon, she rang me back.

  ‘Hi, Milly. Sorry I didn’t return your call earlier.’ She sounded tired.

  ‘Anna, I’m so sorry I didn’t pick you up from the clinic. Jack told you about the Ofsted—’

  ‘Yes. Bad timing.’

  ‘Yes.’ Things felt stilted in a way I didn’t expect. ‘Can I come by? I’ll bring croissants.’ Almond, Anna’s favourite.

  ‘Okay,’ she said after a pause. ‘Sure.’

  I brought a bag of fresh croissants, and Anna’s favourite chai tea, but when I hugged her hello, something felt just the tiniest bit off. I told myself I was being paranoid, that Anna was just tired. That nothing was wrong, nothing had changed from the way we’d envisioned it all. Anna wasn’t having second thoughts or regrets, she couldn’t be.

  ‘How was it?’ I asked as Anna sat cross-legged on the sofa and sipped her tea. ‘Did it… did it hurt?’

  ‘Not really.’ Her gaze was lowered and she seemed slightly brittle, in the way she held herself, the set angle of her jaw. I was at a loss, my voice too cheerful, my manner forced. It was as if neither of us knew how to be anymore.

  ‘I’m so grateful—’

  ‘I know.’

  I sat back, feeling a bit scolded. ‘Anna, is everything okay?’ I finally ventured even though I hardly wanted to form the words. ‘Are you… are you having second thoughts about it all?’

  ‘It would be a little late for that.’

  I jerked back, but then Anna smiled a bit wearily.

  ‘That was meant to be a joke, Milly. I’m sorry. The whole thing just left me feeling a bit… raw, I suppose. I didn’t expect it. I’ll be fine in a few days.’

  I searched her guarded expression, trying to figure out how I should respond, but my mind felt blank. What on earth did raw mean? Should I
be worried?

  ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t there,’ I finally said. ‘I really wanted to be.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Was Jack…’ I didn’t know how to finish that question.

  ‘It was fine. Honestly, it’s all fine.’ She roused herself a little bit, eyebrows raised. ‘And tomorrow is your big day.’

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘Let’s focus on that.’ It felt like a reminder to herself as much as to me.

  Now, as Matt takes my arm and leads me like an invalid from the clinic, I try to blank all the worries from my mind – Anna’s unexpected aloofness, the wretched Ofsted inspection, which resulted in another ‘Requires Improvement’, or how long the next two weeks of unknowing are going to feel.

  ‘You okay?’ Matt asks as we drive back home.

  ‘Yes. Scared to death, and feeling as if the next twelve days are going to be the longest of my life… but yes, I’m okay.’

  Back home, Matt insists I go right to bed, as if I’ve had major surgery rather than a procedure akin to a cervical smear. And I obey, because I’m so frightened that I will do something that will knock my precious cargo right out of me. If I did, I know I would never be able to forgive myself. I would have failed at motherhood before I’d even started.

  I say as much to Matt when he brings me a cup of tea, and his eyes crinkle in concern as he sits on the edge of the bed.

  ‘Milly, you’re too hard on yourself. You always have been.’

  ‘Maybe, but how could I not feel that way?’

  ‘If it doesn’t happen, perhaps it’s not meant to.’

  I feel a bit stung by that pronouncement. ‘You don’t really believe that, do you?’

  He sighs. ‘I don’t know. Sometimes it just feels as if we’re forcing it, you know? All this intervention…’

  He’s having second thoughts now? ‘It’s not that much intervention, Matt,’ I say, trying to keep my tone reasonable. ‘And if I am pregnant, it will be worth it, don’t you think?’