The Second Child

by Caroline Bond

  19

  The Journey

  PHIL

  IT’S ONE of those days when the normality of life seems weird, given what’s about to happen. We have breakfast early; even James is up and awake. Tea, toast, Marmite. ‘The same old same as’, but not really, in fact, not at all. Sarah can’t sit down; she’s full of pent-up energy, shuttling up and downstairs, checking with me every two minutes that we’ve packed everything we need. We have. Our bags have been lined up in the hall since yesterday evening. When she disappears upstairs again to sort Lauren, I stand by the sink, a second mug of tea in my hand, listening to the traffic reports for any possible hold-ups; none are mentioned. It’s almost like the morning of a holiday, there’s the same nervous excitement, only this time magnified to a ridiculous level and underscored with huge anxiety. Today, in two hours and fourteen minutes, if the estimated journey time is correct, we will get to meet our daughter, and her family.

  As the travel news segues into the sport, the back door bangs open, without a knock, and Ali steps into the kitchen. ‘Hi.’ Ali’s participation in this is Sarah’s idea. She’s still worried about James. Sarah thinks that having Ali along for the ride will give him some back-up. I was reluctant, initially, but when they said that James couldn’t be present at the first meeting, even I had to agree it made sense. Ali dumps her bag on the table. ‘You okay?’ Gruff affection, but affection nonetheless.

  I nod and drain my tea. ‘Yep. Time to get this show on the road.’

  SARAH

  Though I know I shouldn’t hassle him, I can’t stop myself. ‘How much longer?’

  ‘About twenty minutes, maybe half an hour if the traffic stays like this.’ Phil switches lanes, thinking the outer queue is crawling along faster than the inner one. It’s not. We’re going to be late. How ludicrous is that? What sort of message will that send? What a terrible first impression. Late for the most important meeting of our lives.

  ‘I’ll ring them. Let them know we’re stuck in traffic.’ Phil nods and switches back into the inside lane, which promptly comes to a complete standstill. He rests his forehead on the steering wheel for a few seconds and takes deep breaths while I make the call. When I’m done, I swivel round in my seat, checking that they’re all okay in the back. They seem to be. All three of them are contently plugged into their earphones, inured to their surroundings. Ali is asleep and James is drumming along to the silent rhythms filling his head, but I know that his nonchalance is an act. This morning he came and sat on Lauren’s bed while I was getting her ready and asked me, again, to tell him how the day was going to pan out. I told him as much as I could – how everything was going to be done in stages, that he might not even get to meet her today – but it seemed that something specific was preying on his mind. Eventually, after much prompting, he finally said, ‘What do you think I should say to her? You know, when I do meet her.’ Because of course there’s no established etiquette for how you’re supposed to speak to your teenage sister the first time you meet her. Between us, we came up with two or three safe questions that he could ask, which seemed to reassure him a little. It broke my heart that he actually put them into his phone so that he wouldn’t forget them.

  The traffic starts moving again, a tedious, brake-light-illuminated crawl. Between James and Ali sits Lauren. She’s dozing, her head tipped to the side, mirroring Ali. Her eyelids droop and lift in slow motion as she alternates between sleep and consciousness. Her mouth is slack. She’s utterly relaxed. I try to calm my breathing as I contemplate what Anne will think when she sees her. I know, because I’m not blind, that at first she will only see Lauren’s disabilities.

  Suddenly, stupidly, I decide that no matter how late we are, I must get Lauren changed. Phil looks at me as if I’m mad, but I insist, so he starts looking for somewhere that we can pull in. The only place we find is a petrol station where the facilities are woeful, but I’m gripped by an illogical compulsion to put Lauren in ‘something nice’. This involves us dragging out all the bags, finding her suitcase, rooting through all her clothes and, finally, after much deliberation, deciding that her shorter blue trousers, her other pink sweatshirt and her trainers, not her boots, are what she should wear. The whole process is difficult, stress-inducing, time-consuming and utterly pointless, because when we finally set off again Lauren looks the same. But why wouldn’t she? A change of clothes was never going to make a difference.

  And now we are truly late.

  20

  A Slow Process

  ANNE

  THE SATNAV tells me there are two-point-three miles to our destination, four and half minutes remaining – not long enough. The volume of traffic squeezing through the tight grid of roads has slowed our progress. I don’t mind; every instinct coursing through my body is urging me to swing the car around in a reckless U-turn and drive back home. Rosie has barely spoken to me since we set off. Her headphones went in before the car had even bumped off the end of the drive. Under two miles now. We are honing in on the Council offices through a warren of tatty side streets, heading towards the mutually convenient venue that has been decided upon by our respective key workers. Our social worker, Jenny, is meeting us there. It’s madness, but it’s real and it’s happening, now. After weeks of bureaucracy and the barrage of emails and letters, it is really happening, today. A Tesco’s looms up ahead and, on impulse, I indicate and take the sliproad down onto the massive, grid-marked car park. That gets Rosie’s attention. ‘What’re ya doing?’ She rips one earbud out from beneath her cloak of hair. The car park isn’t busy. There are acres of empty, white-lined tarmac, but I drive up and down the rows, unable to decide which slot to choose. ‘We’re gonna be late.’ There it is, her pure, undiluted teenage indignation, unmoderated by any concept of how impossible this is for me as well as her. Callum’s presence in the back of the car does nothing to curtail her tone.

  My defence, as it has been for the past few weeks, for the past few years, is calmness. ‘I need a drink. I’m just going to call in and grab a bottle of water. Do you want anything?’

  ‘No.’ Snap, like a rubber band hitting tender flesh.

  ‘Callum, can I fetch you anything?’

  ‘Yes, a water would be good. Thank you.’ His studied politeness only serves to accentuate her lack of it.

  I slide the car into a space and escape towards the startling brightness of the store. Though I hear the thud of the passenger door as I get out, I don’t turn round.

  The snack-fridges are lined up near the entrance, stacked full of bottled water and juices. They’re also stuffed full with all manner of chocolate bars and cream cakes. I stand and consider the comfort of empty calories. Rosie stews behind me. She breaks first. ‘For God’s sake, Mum, hurry up. We’re gonna to be late.’

  I try and keep my voice level. ‘Are you sure you don’t want anything? You didn’t have any breakfast.’ This draws a petulant groan from her. I relent and head towards the tills, clutching two chilled bottles to my chest.

  There are queues, long queues considering it’s the middle of a Tuesday morning. Rosie is having none of it; she takes the water from me and heads into the self-check area, pausing only in her stabbing at the instructions on the screen when it asks for payment – my role, of course. She’s forced to wait while I put my purse back into my bag.

  ‘Why is he here?’ This is the real reason for her fury.

  ‘I want him here.’

  We start back towards the car. ‘It said… a relative or a close family friend.’ Rosie has insisted on reading every letter and every piece of tortuous correspondence. She has been asserting her rights very forcefully since that first impossible conversation. ‘Why couldn’t Steph come, instead?’

  ‘Steph can’t get time off work that easily and, besides, Callum is a friend.’ This is not strictly true, and we both know it. Rosie makes a dismissive sound and walks ahead of me, as eager to get going as I am to stay put. We can see Callum sitting in the back of the car as we cross the asphalt: s
uited, solid and briefed. The truth is that he’s here for me because there was no one else I could ask. ‘I want you to be polite to him, do you hear me, Rosie? It’s really important that you try to be polite to everyone today, however, difficult it is. It’s going to be hard for us all.’ My answer is the slam of the car door. The slender leash I have around her slips further.

  She wants to get there. She wants to meet them. She wants what’s coming next.

  When I first sat down to tell her there was, of course, a profound sense of shock, but straight away there was another emotion – it pulsed through her, stirring up dark sparks in her pale-grey eyes. It took me a moment to grasp what it was, then I realised: it was excitement, a bubbling, brewing desire to meet her other parents, her real family. The same energy has been coursing through her ever since; it’s a type of static that surrounds her, warding me off. And no matter how hard I try, I can’t break through it to reach her, and that frightens me.

  I click my seatbelt into place, check my mirrors unnecessarily and edge carefully out of the parking space. There is no more delaying. We complete the last one-point-nine miles in silence.

  Our destination is a truly nondescript low-rise block of offices, with totally inadequate parking. I’m forced to reverse back out of the car park and leave the car on a side street. The building is as depressing on the inside as it looks from the outside. A half-hearted attempt has been made at modernity, but it has done little to mask the desperate purpose of the place. The reception area is trimmed in spotlights and there are two sickly-looking weeping figs standing guard on either side of the lifts. Every time the main doors open, a drift of papery leaves eddy and stir in the grubby grooves of the carpet.

  Callum announces our arrival, his voice sounding wholly out of place. The receptionist has to check on her screen to verify that we are indeed supposed to be there, then check again as to where she’s supposed to send us. There must be some kind of note or flag on her calendar, indicating that we’re not the normal run-of-the-mill clients, because she suddenly flushes pink and flusters a call through to someone in a position of authority. We stand, awkwardly, an unlikely trinity, awaiting permission to enter.

  After a short while a door opens and a lanyard-garlanded man hurries forward. ‘So good to finally meet you’– hand outstretched – ‘Daniel Brownlee, we spoke on the phone. Jenny’s already upstairs.’ He’s anxious. ‘Please, come through. We’ll get you settled. The other’ – tiny hesitation – ‘party hasn’t arrived yet. They rang, a slight delay. But come through. A reasonable trip?’ And so he continues, a ramble of pleasantries as we are escorted into the lift, along a corridor and into a large side room, a room that seems strangely under-furnished. Perched on one of the seats is Ms Hill, our social worker. ‘Can I fetch anyone a drink?’ Mr Brownlee asks.

  ‘No, thank you,’ I reply.

  ‘I’d like a coffee,’ Rosie pipes up.

  ‘Please!’ I add, drawing a look.

  He looks relieved to have an excuse to leave. We take our seats, facing each other across the expanse of durable carpet, and we wait… for Rosie’s coffee and the arrival of my biological daughter, whichever comes first.

  ROSIE

  I hear the telltale click, click, click. That’s what draws my attention. Callum doesn’t notice. He’s too engrossed in studying his soft, manicured hands. Family friend! What crap. Mum’s hands dip into her handbag. I see her do a subtle, fake little cough, hiding whatever pill it is she’s just popped, then she takes a ladylike sip of her water. It triggers a memory.

  I must be about four years old. I’m playing on her big double bed with Dog, and she’s getting ready to go out to one of her posh dos, putting on her face, the face that looks different from the one she really has. She glances at me every now and again through the dressing-table mirror as she darkens her eyebrows and reddens her lips. I’m bored, and being bored makes me brave. While she’s dis-tracted by the application of her cheekbones, I roll over and slide open the drawer on her side of the bed. There are two identical sides to the bed, but I know which is her side because Daddy used to have the other one, but all his things have been cleared away. Inside the drawer is Mum’s stuff, and among her stuff are the brown bottles that I mustn’t touch. I sneak one of them out. It’s see-through, made of toffee-apple-coloured plastic, full of little white seeds that rattle like a rainmaker when I shake them. I like the sound, but I’m frightened that if I shake too loudly she’ll find me and take the bottle off me, so I prise free the tucked-in bedcovers and wriggle underneath where it’s hot and muffled. I can’t see the seeds any more, but when I tilt the bottle I can still hear them patter and slide around inside. The thing that spoils the bottle is the white lid with the ridges around the edge. It feels clunky and ugly. I try to get it off, but although it turns round and round, click, click, click, it won’t come off.

  ‘Rosie!’ The roof of my den is ripped off and a waft of her perfume hits me in the face. Flowery, sweet, overpowering. ‘Give that to me, this instant.’

  I do as I’m told.

  I wonder if it’s the same prescription today, after all these years, and I wonder if I shall do as I’m told.

  21

  The Meeting

  ANNE

  IT’S THE coffee and Mr Brownlee, whom we really must call Daniel, that arrive first. He’s jittery, excited to be so close to the grand denouement. ‘They’re on their way up.’ He can’t sit down; the anticipation is too much for him.

  Adrenaline floods, black and bitter, into my heart. I look across at Rosie. Her face is ashen. Suddenly she starts out of her chair, catapults across the room and crashes down onto the seat next to me. She sits right on the edge of the chair, jiggling her leg nervously. Her slim back and her soft pelt of hair are within touching distance. I clutch my handbag hard. I want to comfort my child, but can’t bear the thought that she might recoil from my touch. Callum leans towards me, and for a second I ache for him to put his arm round me and hug me, but he merely whispers, ‘Remember what we said.’

  There are voices in the hallway. Daniel continues to ramble on about how we must take this first meeting slowly, not expect too much. The voices outside stop and there’s a pause. The door swings open. Too far. It thuds into a chair and springs back half-shut.

  SARAH

  One moment the door is shut and the next it swings wide open. I have a momentary glimpse into the room. Anne Elkan: smart, straight-backed, stiff with tension; a man, expensively dressed; another man who is talking rapidly, some unknown woman and the girl: a cascade of dark hair and a pale, frightened face. Our daughter. Then the door swings back in our faces.

  ANNE

  The commotion of the door rebounding rattles the inertia inside me. We all stand up and brace ourselves, as if for an impact. Then it happens, they walk into the room and into our lives. I focus solely on Lauren. The photos and all the background information were a preparation, of sorts, but not enough. They push her into the room and manoeuvre her wheelchair into place. Of course, that’s why they’d cleared the furniture out. Brakes on. We all stand there for a second, frozen by uncertainty, on our opposite sides of the room. Daniel steps into the void and makes the introductions. We shake hands and introduce ourselves. Even that seems too intimate, too soon. Sarah’s hand is clammy, Phil’s dry. Rosie hangs back, staying close to the wall. Daniel looks to me, prompting me to say, ‘And this is Rosie.’ My words force her to step forward. She keeps her arms clamped by her sides. Phil quickly drops his outstretched hand. Rosie nods, but nothing more. Then it’s Sarah’s turn to ‘present’ her child. She crouches down beside Lauren’s wheelchair. ‘And this, obviously, is Lauren.’ She strokes the girl’s face to get her attention; the response is a sound and a brief smile. Everyone looks at me. I step forward and try to squat like Sarah beside the chair; it brings me level with Lauren, so close that I can hear her breathing and look into her eyes. Her hands lie on her lap. I go to touch them, a way of ‘saying’ hello, but she suddenly becomes
animated and pushes me away. It catches me off-guard and I stumble backwards briefly. Callum puts out a hand to steady me.

  Sarah looks stricken. ‘I’m so sorry. It’s just strangers. She didn’t mean anything by it. Did you, Lauren?’ Lauren doesn’t register this conversation, but looks past us both and signs something to her dad.

  I recover my balance. ‘No, of course. It’s fine, it’s completely understandable.’ But even as I say it, I can feel tears in my eyes. I’m embarrassed by my weakness, undone by the strength of my emotions, but ironically it proves to be the best thing in the circumstances. My distress releases the lock on the room and we all shift positions, taking up different roles in the new dynamic. Sarah steps forward to comfort me. She takes hold of my arm and pulls me over to sit down beside her, Phil moves over to replace Sarah in attending to Lauren. Callum is freed to talk to Daniel about getting some drinks brought up, stage-managing the situation with his customary composure, and the two social workers go into a huddle. It’s like we’re learning the choreography for a complicated new dance. Sarah talks unevenly to me about the stress of it all and how… we all need to take a breath. Only Rosie stays locked and alone, marooned at the edge of the room where I cannot reach her.

  Tea is brought: the English panacea. Daniel seems to realise he needs to navigate the whirlpool swirling around the room. ‘I propose we all take a seat and I’ll maybe kick things off with an introduction to the protocols. If that’s okay with everyone?’ We settle into a therapeutic circle of chairs and he starts to talk us through a recommended process for the situation, though even he has to admit to having never been involved in supporting families in our unique situation. Unwittingly, however, he’s fulfilling a vital role, he’s pro-viding cover for us all to scrutinise each other.