The Confession

by Jessie Burton

  We stared at each other. ‘Listen,’ Deborah said. ‘Either you tell Connie, or I do. It’s your choice.’

  My panic began to rise. ‘Deborah, please,’ I said. ‘Please. There’s nothing going on. I’m Laura—’

  ‘For fuck’s sake! Connie!’ she called.

  I grabbed her arm and she looked at me with disgust. ‘I’m begging you,’ I said. ‘Not now. Please.’

  Deborah shook me off. ‘What’s your real name?’

  It was on the tip of my tongue, but it would not come, not under this roof – not to Deborah, who did not really want to hear it, who only wanted to be vindicated in her suspicions, to prove herself yet again as Connie’s knight in shining armour. ‘I love Connie,’ I said. ‘I would never hurt her.’

  ‘Well it’s a bit late for that, isn’t it, Laura?’

  ‘I can explain. It’s not what it seems—’

  The kitchen door was wrenched open. ‘What the hell’s going on? Deb?’ said Connie, a look of bewilderment on her face. ‘What are you doing here and why are you yelling?’

  ‘Con, sit down,’ said Deborah. ‘You’re going to need to be sitting down.’

  ‘No, no,’ I said, turning to Connie. ‘Please, let me explain. I never meant it to be like this.’

  Connie looked fearful. ‘Explain what?’ she said.

  ‘She’s an impostor,’ Deborah said.

  ‘I’m not an impostor,’ I said, becoming angry. This woman did not have the right to take my story away from me.

  ‘Con,’ said Deborah. ‘For the last time, please, sit down.’

  This time, Connie did as she was told, and I went to sit next to her. ‘Don’t you dare,’ said Deborah. ‘Stay exactly where you are.’

  ‘Deborah, what the hell is this? You’re both terrifying me,’ said Connie.

  ‘She isn’t Laura Brown,’ said Deborah, pointing at me. ‘She made it up. Laura Brown doesn’t exist.’

  ‘Deborah, let me explain—’ I said.

  ‘What do you mean, she isn’t Laura Brown?’ said Connie.

  Deborah began to pace the kitchen. ‘I’m going to tell this,’ she said, putting up her hands to show she would brook no opposition. ‘I was having a conversation with our recruitment agency,’ she said, glaring at me. ‘And I told them how happy you were with your Laura Brown, this miracle girl they’d found for you.’

  I thought I was going to be sick.

  ‘And here’s the thing,’ said Deborah, with the air of someone who has the last ace up her sleeve. Connie was already looking at her agent with apprehension; and it was true that Deborah in her righteous anger was quite magnetic. ‘They didn’t know who I was talking about.’

  ‘What?’ said Connie.

  ‘They’d never heard of her.’

  Connie looked at me. ‘But – Rebecca organized the interview.’

  ‘Oh, yes, she did all right. But when I asked Rebecca who it was at the recruitment agency she spoke with about Laura Brown, she couldn’t actually say.’ Deborah turned to me. ‘It turns out that my stupid assistant – who shortly will no longer be my assistant – had one conversation on the phone with a woman whose name she didn’t even ask for. Apparently, this woman said she was working from home that day and was using her personal email. The only emails Rebecca could find from this woman were from a Gmail account, in the name McIntyre.’ I closed my eyes, but still Deborah drove relentlessly on. ‘McIntyre,’ she repeated. ‘Ever heard of them, Con?’

  When I opened my eyes, Connie was looking up at me, the confusion and worry written over her features. I wanted to reach for her, but I couldn’t move. I wanted to say something, but I couldn’t speak.

  ‘So I looked this McIntyre agency up,’ Deborah went on. ‘And it doesn’t exist, anywhere. I have to admit, Laura, I was getting a bit baffled. And a little bit pissed off. So I want to know is this: who the hell are you, where did you come from and what the hell are you doing in my client’s house?’

  *

  For a few moments I simply stood there, staring at the two women – Deborah, incandescent with rage at her lack of control over this situation, and Connie, bemused at hers. And yet – even though Deborah felt she had caught me out, even though I knew there was no escape from this, even though Laura Brown and the protections and freedoms she’d provided me were slipping through my fingers just as I’d half-feared, half-expected they might – none of what I’d been doing seemed ludicrous to me. I still felt justified. I still felt that Laura Brown was as real to me as Rose Simmons.

  Laura Brown was rooted to this situation. She was standing here, now, before these women, hoping against hope that they would understand and forgive her. But I knew there was only one throw of the dice left. Rose was going to have to speak too.

  ‘Before I say anything, Con,’ I said. ‘I want you to know that I never meant to hurt you.’

  Connie frowned. ‘Have you hurt me? How have you hurt me? Laura, I don’t understand.’

  ‘She’s not called Laura!’ said Deborah.

  ‘Will you just shut up?’ I said. Deborah looked as if I’d slapped her. Her nostrils flared, her lips pinched thin and sour.

  I turned back to Connie. ‘I’m not called Laura,’ I said gently. ‘I mean, I am, here in this house. And Laura is a part of who I am, I suppose. She’s come to be.’

  ‘Oh for fuck’s sake, get on with it, before I call the police,’ said Deborah. ‘I knew you were weird. I knew it. What woman your age wanders into a house like this, with no family, no career—’

  ‘Deborah,’ said Connie, with a warning note in her voice. ‘Enough. I want to hear her.’

  ‘Can I sit down?’ I said.

  ‘No,’ said Deborah.

  ‘Yes,’ said Connie.

  Deborah huffed. Gratefully, I sat opposite Connie, as I had done almost every day since I first came into her house and offered to make her a cup of tea.

  I took a deep breath.

  ‘Deborah’s right,’ I said. ‘I should have my shit together. But I don’t. Not even a bit. I know I don’t. And the thing is, Con, I think in my life there’s been a reason for that. But since being here with you, I have started to feel like I might know what I’m doing. Like I might know who I am.’

  ‘What are you saying, Laura?’

  ‘You see, my mum—’

  I couldn’t carry on. I stopped, breathing deeply. ‘It’s OK,’ said Connie, and to both my guilt and relief, she reached across the table and put her gnarled hand over mine.

  ‘Constance,’ said Deborah. ‘She’s tricked you—’

  ‘I only ever wanted to talk to you,’ I said to Connie. ‘Just to ask—’ I stopped again. ‘But I couldn’t. I didn’t know how to. My dad said—’

  ‘Ask what?’ said Connie.

  ‘About my mum.’ I was struggling. ‘My dad. He had your books.’

  ‘What have I got to do with your mum and dad?’ said Connie, mystified.

  ‘Look at me, Con. Look at me hard.’

  Connie did as I asked. I stared deep into her eyes, willing her to understand. ‘Can’t you see?’ I said.

  ‘What are you talking about, darling?’ she said. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I was born in July 1983,’ I said. ‘In New York.’

  At the mention of New York, and the date, I was sure I saw something shift in Connie’s face, and I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t bear to look. I did not know what I would do if she told me I was wrong. I stared down into the nicks and whorls and crumbs on the kitchen table, and clenched my fists in my lap. ‘My dad’s name is Matt Simmons,’ I said. ‘And my mother’s name was Elise Morceau.’

  *

  In the moment of silence that followed in that kitchen, I can’t truly express how I felt. I’d waited all my life to say my mother’s name out loud, and for it to actually mean something to someone other than my father, so that in turn it could mean something to me. And when I looked up, I saw it, in Connie’s face – the way a human being will recognize another person
even when they’re not in the room, even though they might be on the other side of the world, even though they might be dead. When a person looks at you the way Connie looked at me that afternoon, it’s as if you’re seeing all their selves, all the ones they keep not just from you, but from themselves – the deep-set, long-buried, unending misunderstandings and experiences of love and joy and hate and sadness that make a life. It was as if I, too, was being seen for the first time. It was like I was seeing my mother.

  ‘Oh, my god,’ said Deborah. ‘Oh, my god.’

  Connie closed her eyes. She placed both her shaking hands on the kitchen table, almost as if she was conducting a seance. Without warning, she let out a juddering sob. ‘You’re Rose,’ she said, and it wasn’t a question.

  ‘I am,’ I said. ‘I’m Rose.’

  She kept her eyes closed. ‘You’re Elise’s daughter.’

  ‘I am.’

  There was silence in the kitchen again.

  ‘You came to find me,’ she said eventually.

  ‘I did. Is it true, then, Con? You really knew her?’

  She opened her eyes and looked at me, her gaze roving over my face. ‘You lied,’ she said.

  ‘I know, but—’

  ‘I let you in here,’ she said.

  ‘And I’m so grateful. I was feeling so lost—’

  ‘You probably are her daughter then.’

  ‘Con?’

  ‘I want you to leave,’ she said.

  ‘But I thought—’

  ‘You thought I was such a fool?’

  ‘No. Never.’

  ‘So easy to lie to?’

  ‘I hated lying to you. But I didn’t have a choice, and I’m not lying now. Connie, I’m begging you. Don’t kick me out.’

  ‘You heard her,’ said Deborah. ‘She doesn’t want you here.’

  ‘I don’t believe that,’ I said. I reached across the table and held both of Connie’s hands. She didn’t pull away, but they were limp, as if drained of their last dregs of power. ‘Con – you care about me,’ I said. ‘You – wanted me to live here with a child.’

  She winced. ‘I am a fool.’

  ‘You’re not. And I care about you. So much. You know I do. Don’t do this, please. I was an idiot, we can sort it out—’

  Connie slid away from my grasp and pushed back her chair. She walked slowly out of the kitchen, as if she was wading underwater along the narrow corridor towards the front door. I felt pinioned to my chair by shame.

  I followed her, but my presence seemed to jolt, even repel her. She staggered slightly, her hands on the walls. ‘My dad says you were the last person to see her before she disappeared,’ I called. ‘Please, Con – what happened?’

  ‘Enough!’ shouted Deborah, coming up behind me. ‘I’m not having this. My client does not have to put up with this in her own home. Get out.’

  At the front door, Connie stopped and turned to me. ‘I offered you shelter,’ she said.

  ‘I know. And I’m so grateful. But – haven’t you liked me being here—?’

  ‘No, no, this can’t happen again,’ she said, and it sounded less like an order and more like a plea. Her voice was more vulnerable than I’d ever heard it.

  ‘What is it that you don’t want to happen again?’ I said gently, even though by now I knew my time was up, that this might be the last time I would ever see her. Connie was struggling with her fingers on the lock, but I did not help her. ‘You don’t understand, Con. How I feel. How I’ve felt. The years I’ve spent wondering. And then, finally, to find you – a person who knew her.’

  ‘Just stop talking,’ said Connie.

  ‘What happened between you and my mum? What happened in New York?’

  Deborah thrust my bag and coat into my arms. ‘Go.’

  ‘Connie, I know you don’t want this,’ I said. ‘Let me stay.’

  Connie had managed to get the front door open. She pulled it and turned to me, her eyes wide. ‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘You need to go.’

  I stepped onto the porch, and before I’d even turned round, the door closed in my face.

  But Connie was still standing on the other side. She wasn’t moving. One of her hands was on the glass as if to steady herself, mottled and morphed through the Victorian panes. ‘Connie?’ I said. ‘What happened to Elise Morceau?’

  The hand withdrew. The air of the outside cooled my cheeks and made me aware of how heavily I was breathing. Both women receded down the corridor, their figures becoming abstract and willowy, until I could see them no longer.

  1983

  38

  Sometimes, in the crumbling apartment Matt and Elise had rented in New York – Brooklyn, to be exact – Ridgewood to be exacter, on Covert Street at the corner of Wyckoff Avenue – their telephone would ring. It would go on ringing, and neither of them would answer. They never answered the phone. They told each other it couldn’t be for them because no one knew where they were. Elise rang no one, Matt sometimes rang his parents; these were long calls, arduous. She could hear him explaining, patient at first, repetitive, reasonable. He was getting a divorce. It was the right thing. Shara understood. He never mentioned to his parents that Elise was pregnant. He never mentioned the fact that it was Shara who forced the divorce. Sometimes he laid the receiver in the cradle quietly, as if Elise might think the call had not actually happened. Other times he slammed it.

  They’d left Mexico soon after Connie turned up. Matt looked shell-shocked when Elise told him they’d been found, as if he finally realized he’d burned his bridges. Elise felt the wrench of leaving that place. She was not ready, and had wanted to stay longer amidst the semi-wild jungle foliage, the brightly painted bodegas and the sound of the sea. They’d still been there for the Day of the Dead, and Elise felt her breathing thicken when she saw the families on horse-drawn carts, loaded with a feast and flowers to break bread in the cemetery with all their relatives that had passed. It made Elise think of how Shara had talked about her dead mother with such ease, how fluent Shara seemed in the language of transition and loss, and how inept Elise herself felt with those things. And yet according to Con, Shara was not coping at all well with this latest loss.

  Elise didn’t want to be bad. She didn’t want to be the cause of so much pain.

  ‘Don’t you want to be by the ocean?’ she said to Matt. ‘Let’s just stay.’

  ‘We need to be in a city,’ he said. ‘In your condition. Where we speak the language. We need money. How about London? You were born there, weren’t you? I’ve got a few friends who might let us stay till we find our feet.’

  Elise stared down at her real feet, currently entombed in the sand. ‘I don’t want to go back to London.’

  ‘Why not?’ Matt said. He was less pliable these days. ‘Don’t you have family—’

  ‘I don’t want to go back there,’ she said, and refused to say any more.

  They agreed, for now, on New York.

  Another plane, another cheap hotel. Through a contact in LA, Matt found work as a relief writer on a TV network in Manhattan, and they found the place to rent in Brooklyn. Elise wondered where all this would end. She had some meagre savings, but she wanted to work too. For the first three months of the pregnancy she felt terrible, enduring a constant, granular sea-sickness that competed with a primordial exhaustion she almost laughed at. She could wake up on the weekend and go back to sleep for five more hours, and then wake up still tired. All she could think about, staggering from bed to toilet bowl and back again, occasionally veering left into the galley kitchen for a glass of water and some more paper towels to wipe the spray of vomit from the bathroom tiles, was: Why is this not more publicly known? Why is there not more scientific research into this?

  It seemed insane to her – that women and girls were just expected to take this in their stride and carry on working, eating, sleeping, living. It was a wake-up call to Elise about how the world really worked. Everybody wanted a fecund woman, but Heaven forfend actually helping her out w
ith the day-to-day hell of it. She thought of the women who’d been alive before her – no painkillers, no hygienic gloves, no soft pillows, no lulling television. Those women, Elise concluded, must have been quite strange people, because if they went through what she was going through, and society wasn’t helping them, then who would not have turned strange?

  They were trying to save money, but they had so little of it to live on. The lifestyles they’d once enjoyed had been funded by Shara and Connie. Matt, it turned out, was not good with their resources, spending too much on food, taking them out to the movies, to restaurants, buying experiences they could not justify, but which lifted them briefly out of their sluggish guilt. Elise was still determined to work, and as she emerged from the first trimester, she found shifts as a waitress, in a diner opposite Goldman Sachs near the tip of the island. It was very different from Seedling – loud and noisy, a theatre of burgers and subs. The regulars quickly came to know Elise by name. They were all ages, from the fresh young twenty-year-olds from Jersey and Queens, to the grizzled sixty-somethings who’d seen it all before. Many of the men there had portable telephones. They would bring them into the diner like conquistadores with their latest haul of gold. They wanted Elise be impressed, and she was, but with the technology, not the man on the end of it.

  Conversations between Elise and these men would start up, orders would be memorized, and she soon became a favourite, earning the biggest tips. She did not know whether they liked her because of her efficiency and responsiveness, because of her British accent, or because of the life inside her, her stomach swelling with the weeks. Wall Street was not a feminine place, and perhaps Elise was a reminder of Nature, its strange curves and unexpected shapes, its persistence, its own rules. Maybe she gave the men a sense of meaning? Harry, the owner, told Elise she was worth her weight in gold, but the raise he gave her was negligible. Elise had regained that status of object which had faded with Connie, but she didn’t know any more if she liked it. She wanted to keep her meaning for herself.

  *

  She didn’t tell Matt much about the day to day of the diner, needing something separate from him, in order to want to go to the apartment at the end of the day. She needed distance in order to see the scale of her life. On her day off she left the crack addicts on the corner of Covert Street and walked through Irving Square Park. She rode along the Hudson on a bicycle she’d bought for next to nothing, the weak March sun on her face, going faster as she grew more confident, the buildings whooshing past like Monopoly houses, the pedals liquid under her feet. Despite the cool temperature, after her ride she might go back to the local park and sit on a bench, eating a hot dog from a corner cart. One day, she saw a plaque on a bench dedicated to a woman called Betty, who’d loved the park and the people in it. Elise ran the tip of her finger over the cold and clouded metal and thought of Betty, long dead, born in the age of jazz, fifteen years old when the Depression hit. Not Betty Sheinkovitz, for sure. Betty Sheinkovitz was alive and well in Los Angeles.