The Stranger In My Home: I thought she was my daughter. I was wrong.

by Parks, Adele

  Jeff commented, ‘Can you imagine the award ceremony for that prize?’

  ‘Hardly the Oscars,’ I murmured.

  I have to admit, it was a well-thought-through website, designed to lull you into a sense of security, with lovely melodic piano music on the videos, which were narrated by accessible types in white coats. The site advertised the services of an accredited testing laboratory boasting lots of certificates. There were pictures of gurgling, chubby babies and beautiful parents snuggling into their (or someone else’s) offspring. The text was littered with reassuring words like ‘confidence’, ‘alpha’, ‘certainty’, ‘reassurance’.

  Yet the site was utterly at odds with how I felt about everything, and it made me furious.

  Fury had been simmering, ever present, since Tom Truby burst into our life. I have no sense of what is happening to us. I’d been relegated back into being a stupid person with a messy life. It isn’t fair. I’ve worked so hard to be the opposite. From the moment I knew I was pregnant with Jeff’s baby all I ever wanted was to be a devoted, perfect mum. I have been entirely absorbed by it, I’ve abandoned myself to it. I’ve given up so much, and happily.

  I won’t give her up.

  Despite the company’s best efforts and their assurances that the emphasis is on the emotional well-being of the clients, everything about the process seemed grubby and sad. The paternity-test kit could be sent direct to our home or to an address of our choice, in discreet packaging. The confidential results would be available the next working day. The results are one hundred per cent accurate. There could be no arguing with them.

  We so ferociously wanted to believe that Katherine was our child biologically; we hoped the whole thing would go away. We believed we could test her, get the result and forget the entire, terrible incident. Just go back to being as we were. I see now that we were burying our heads in the sand. The eyes. The eyelashes. Her long, lean body, so unlike my short, wide one. Katherine got really excited about the idea of going on TV, and so we had to tell her that wasn’t going to happen.

  Oh, and that she wasn’t our daughter.

  7

  Some parents hate the school parents’ night; they approach it with trepidation. They feel terrified and patronised; spun back to their own lamentable childhoods, full of disappointment and frustration. Everything they have achieved as adults dissolves, everything they’ve failed to achieve is magnified when they face a teacher who is going to tell them that their child lacks focus, is disruptive in class and is unlikely to realise their full potential because they are currently distracted by their latest crush.

  Not us.

  Katherine is amazing. She has always been the sort of girl the teachers describe as ‘a pleasure to teach’. She’s a bright all-rounder, besides playing lacrosse at county level; she gets decent grades across the board – and when I say ‘decent’, I mean in the top ten per cent. Yet she’s not nauseating. Not everything comes easily to her, there are subjects she really has to work at, but the fact is she does. She works extremely hard, with very little prompting from us. Her teachers declare that she can be relied upon to ‘have a go’; they universally agree she’s enthusiastic, sensible, respected, popular. They don’t seem to have noticed the Dolly Bridge situation or, if they have, they don’t think it’s all that important.

  And the thing is, Katherine is lovely. She’s not vain or sneering, she’s genuinely kind and modest. She has good manners which come from empathy and respect rather than smarm or cynicism. She’s human, so I’ve occasionally seen her struggle with jealousy, but that’s the point: she struggles with it. She doesn’t give in to it, she acknowledges it and then puts it away, even goes so far as to congratulate the girl who scored the winning goal for the opposing team and grudgingly admire the girl who gained a higher mark in the school test. Look, I’m not saying she’s perfect but she’s as damn close as anyone I’ve ever known. I’m certain that, if the world were populated with Katherines, it would be a wonderful place.

  She takes it badly.

  ‘You are fucking kidding, right?’ I’ve never heard her swear before. ‘You have got to be absolutely fucking kidding,’ she says again.

  I let it go. She has just been told her parents are not her parents. Sometimes there just aren’t reasonable words.

  ‘No, darling, I’m sorry, we’re not. Why would we kid about such a thing?’ murmurs Jeff.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘A man came round. Your biological father. He told us.’

  I hadn’t wanted to tell Katherine this, but even Jeff, who makes up stories for a living, couldn’t think of a convincing enough tale to explain away the situation. My idea of telling her she’s adopted is not realistic, I see that now. How would we have suddenly discovered that she needs a DNA test in order to see whether she may develop a genetic cancer? And, while that might avoid the whole ‘other family’ issue for the moment, somewhere along the line she would certainly want to know more about her origins. One lie would inevitably lead to another. We agreed it would be an impossible way to live.

  ‘Just some nutter. Why are you listening to him?’ Her voice is high-pitched and squeaky, her usual crisp, plummy tones lost to panic.

  ‘That’s what we hoped, but we’ve had a DNA test done. Firstly, one that – sadly – proved that you’re not ours, biologically, and then another which categorically proved you’re his, biologically.’ I notice that Jeff is very careful to repeat the word ‘biologically’; that sentence would be unbearable otherwise. Tom Truby sensitively offered up his and Olivia’s DNA so that we could be absolutely sure. There’s no room for doubt.

  ‘Why did you tell me? You bloody, bloody idiots! Why did I have to know?’ Terror and insecurity sluice across her face, her eyes look bleak and betrayed. She seems to be taking to this swearing thing. I get it. I don’t mind that she thinks we’re idiots. I think we are, too. For days now I’ve been going over and over this. How could I have let it happen? How did I not know? And now, now that it has happened, how should we handle it? How can I protect her? We seem so inadequate. ‘Couldn’t you have just shut the hell up? Why did you tell me?’ she pleads, turning to me.

  ‘Because there’s something else.’ I want to stay silent. To never, ever have to say these words, but I can’t leave it all up to Jeff. It isn’t fair. ‘There might be – just might be – a complication.’

  ‘A complication? What could be more fucking complicated than this?’

  ‘There might be an illness.’ I hold her with my eyes.

  ‘A genetic illness?’

  ‘Yes.’ She is open-mouthed, literally gasping air as though she can’t breathe. Jeff reaches out to put his hand on her arm but she roughly shakes him off and he retracts, scorched. You see, she’s so like me. How can she not be mine?

  ‘What sort of illness? What is it?’ she demands.

  Slowly, because no parent should ever have to utter these words. It’s just not fair. ‘A mutated gene that might lead to cancer.’

  Again Jeff moves towards her, again she pushes him away, but I see something flicker in her face that suggests she doesn’t want us to be so easily set aside. I stand up and put my arms around her, encircling her in a big bear-hug. She forcefully squirms and struggles, like she used to when she was about two and didn’t want to go into her pushchair. Then, she’d make her body rigid and uncooperative. Now, I clasp her tightly and feel her fight beneath my arms. ‘No, no. No!’ she says over and over again, as I have in the past week. We don’t want this change, we don’t want this disruption to our lovely lives. After some moments she accepts that I’m not going to let go of her and she collapses into my embrace. Sobbing.

  There wasn’t a good way to tell her.

  There isn’t anything good about any of it.

  She cries for ages. Huge, dramatic sobs eventually give way to small gasps and then, finally, fat, silent tears. Teenagers are intense at the best of times. Katherine has been known to cry if the neighbour’s cat brings a dea
d mouse into the house, but her reaction doesn’t strike me as over the top or hammed up. She is untethered. At first, she doesn’t ask any questions. She curls up on the sofa, her head on my lap, presumably thinking it through as best she can. I stroke her hair, her back, her shoulders. I repeat again and again, It’s OK, it’s going to be OK, but not aloud, just in my head, because I can’t promise her anything and I don’t want to tell her lies. I don’t know if it is going to be OK, I am simply praying, as mothers do.

  Snotty and red-eyed, she is eventually persuaded to eat. Jeff has warmed a carton of soup, he’s sliced big chunks of bread and gone to the effort of putting oil and balsamic vinegar in little bowls, setting out napkins and placemats. I wonder what he’s thinking but somehow Katherine gets it: he’s trying to cheer her up, trying to act as normal as possible. It is the little things that keep us going, and he is trying to do that. At the table she asks us the questions that had to come, question after question, because each answer we give just means more to explain. What sort of cancer? What does the test for BRCA1 or BRCA2 mutation entail? If she has the mutated gene, what are the chances of her getting ovarian or breast cancer? Are there any preventative measures? What will we do next?

  We answer her as best we can, while trying not to scare her. I’ve done a lot of research into the BRCA1 and 2 genes in the past week; I don’t have much good news. Since her biological mother had the harmful gene mutation, Katherine has a fifty per cent chance of inheriting it. With it, she has a fifty-five to sixty-five per cent chance of developing breast cancer and a thirty-nine per cent chance of developing ovarian cancer. Mutations in BRCA1 and BRCA2 have been associated with increased risks of Fallopian-tube cancer, peritoneal cancer and pancreatic cancer. Breast cancers associated with these mutations tend to develop at younger ages than sporadic breast cancers. I see Katherine wearing a hospital gown and having chemotherapy. I see her hair, currently artlessly swept up and casually pinned, falling out in clumps on her pillow, her eyebrows disappearing. I see her body wasting away. Her own cells attacking her. A vile civil war inside my beautiful girl’s beautiful body. No.

  I focus on telling her the easy bit, the fact that the tests which check for all possible mutations in both genes is relatively simple and will only require a blood sample. The sample is sent to a laboratory for analysis. It usually takes about a month to get the results.

  ‘Not that we should rush into you taking this test,’ I caution. ‘Counselling is recommended before any genetic test for an inherited cancer syndrome is undertaken.’

  ‘We’d better get that counsellor on speed dial,’ she mutters.

  The elephant in the room.

  There is a pause, a space while we all remind ourselves that, as well as the risk of the mutated gene, we have another immediate, immense problem. Not the cancer – the Trubys.

  I ignore its great, grey leathery hide. ‘We need to give a lot of thought as to how you’ll feel about taking the test. The impact of the results…’ I say softly. Katherine keeps her eyes on her soup. ‘Your dad and I are here for you.’ As I utter the words, I hate myself; they are so inadequate, so over-used. She won’t look at me but I don’t doubt she’s thinking the same. I press on. ‘But a health-care professional who is experienced in cancer genetics is the best person to guide us all, I think.’

  Truthfully, I don’t know where to start. Katherine pulls her huge eyes away from the soup and stares at me. Can she see my thoughts? Does she know I’m torn? I like the idea of there being a counsellor, someone to hold her hand, to guide us. Yet at the same time I am horribly uncomfortable about involving the authorities. We’ve never had the need for social workers, counsellors, lawyers; now I imagine we’ll need one of each. Besides, the sites I’ve read say that there are no preventative measures anyway, all that is on offer is enhanced screening, which might lead to earlier detection. The better screening would begin only when Katherine turns twenty-five. Prophylactic surgery, which is doctor-speak for risk-reducing surgery, is not something I can even contemplate right now, let alone mention. I know I have a lot more research to do on chemoprevention, the use of drugs or vitamins to try to reduce the risk of cancer. It’s all very complex.

  Were we right to land all this on her?

  Jeff said we didn’t really have any choice. Tom Truby has telephoned three times since he visited. I’m not even sure how he got our number; we are ex-directory. When I mentioned this to Jeff he shrugged and said it was easy enough to look up that sort of thing online. It doesn’t look as though he is going away. This isn’t a secret we can keep. ‘Only alligators get to care for their young by holding them in their mouths, Alison. Katherine isn’t an alligator,’ said Jeff.

  ‘No, she’s my little girl.’

  ‘She isn’t a little girl any more.’

  I know. She is in the middle of her GCSE courses and she is as tall as I am but, as I look at her blotchy face, red and raw with tears, she seems very young. Just a breath away from the seven year old who fell out of her friend’s treehouse and broke her arm. I remember that incident as though it happened yesterday. Her shock, her pain. I remember her turning her great, wet eyes to me. ‘Help me, Mummy. Fix me,’ she’d said, her arm hanging limp and unnatural at her side. I bundled her into my car, not even waiting for an ambulance. I don’t know to this day if that was the right choice, but I simply had to do something. I sped through the streets. She was seen by a doctor within forty-five minutes of falling. I’d been able to help.

  Not like this, after all, then.

  ‘It’s all so huge,’ says Katherine.

  ‘I know, it’s very confusing,’ I admit. I grimace at my woeful understatement. Even the most reliable scientific sites are peppered with words such as ‘might’, ‘could’, ‘possible’ and ‘probable’. Nothing is certain. We are standing on a thin sheet of ice and it’s cracking beneath us.

  ‘I know one thing for sure.’ She juts out her chin, a gesture I’m achingly familiar with. One that signifies defiance and determination but also masks vulnerability.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I don’t want to meet them.’

  ‘Right.’ I daren’t breathe, daren’t move. I remain purposely expressionless, like the subject of a Victorian photograph.

  ‘You’re my mum and dad. I don’t need anyone else.’

  I can’t pretend this doesn’t please me. The relief is enormous. Selfish, maybe, but colossal, without a doubt.

  ‘The Three Musketeers,’ Jeff murmurs. It is a name we gave ourselves years ago. Dauntless, brave, self-contained.

  ‘Exactly,’ declares Katherine. ‘They can’t make me see them, can they?’

  ‘No one will make you do anything you don’t want to do.’ I rush to reassure her.

  That night, in bed, Jeff and I lie in the dark, facing the ceiling. Not touching. This disaster lies between us, taking up real space. Katherine is, hopefully, asleep; she is exhausted from the crying and all the discussion. Her room is next to ours; I keep an ear out for signs of restlessness or nightmares, as I have for fifteen years. I think back through the things that have kept me awake in the past. When we first brought her home from hospital, like most new mums I agonised over every decision. Should she sleep in our room or her own room and was it safe to bring her into our bed for her night-time feeds? My mother wasn’t one to offer direction, so I turned to manuals; they were full of conflicting, confusing advice. Some preached the importance of keeping your child close; others insisted on the importance of nurturing independence from the outset. I was torn. Some said to swaddle your baby for security; others suggested this was barbaric and would certainly lead to heat rash. There were paragraphs in those books which made me feel physically ill, the ones that mentioned cot death and accidental smothering; I often held a mirror to Katherine’s mouth so I could see her breath on it. I moved her into her own room when she was three months old but I remember often falling to sleep on the floor in her nursery because, once I had made the decision to nurture he
r independence, I discovered I wasn’t quite ready for it. I asked my mother if it had been the same for her with the boys; I couldn’t bring myself to ask whether it had been the same with me because I’d only be burnt by the answer. She simply laughed. Not a cosy, comforting, conspiratorial laugh but a mocking one that said, You’re so soft, you are.

  Don’t get me wrong, I love being a parent – nothing has ever given me greater pleasure – but right from the start I’ve also been plagued by worry. No one warns you just how much there is to be concerned about. Did I wean her too early? Did I choose the right pram? Have I done anything right? And it didn’t ever get easier. I thought it would, but my experience was simply that the moment I stopped worrying about one developmental stage another would leap up and hit me in the face.

  I’ve lost sleep over imminent tests, friendship groups, party arrangements, fixture picks and, many a time, simply because I was waiting for her to fall asleep so that the tooth fairy could visit. I’ve lost night after night staring at the ceiling, sick with fear as I imagined the million ways I might lose her. What if she wandered on to a street without looking both ways and into a speeding car? Stop. Or she could be snatched by a paedophile, a murderer, locked somewhere unspeakable. You read about it. My God, how do they print it? Stop. When she was younger and children would, from time to time, go missing, I would howl. How did the parents bear it? Did they pray they’d find the little body of their child rather than have a lifetime imagining a dank basement with a stained mattress, the chains? Or did they learn to live in an infernal eternal cocktail of hope and despair? Stop.

  Later I worried about more banal things: a failed exam, a missed trophy, a devastatingly good-looking boy tearing out her heart. As she gets older, no doubt my thoughts will turn to other threats: an unattended drink leading to a gang of middle-aged men in a hotel, or a friend request online that ends with her body in a skip in a lonely street. I don’t want to think about these things, but I do. I’ve been so careful. I chopped her food into tiny pieces so she wouldn’t choke, I’ve had her inoculated against everything going, I taught her to stop, look and listen, bought helmets and knee pads, served wholegrain and never processed food, warned her about stranger danger, and I always drive her if she needs to be anywhere.