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

by Parks, Adele

  ‘Katherine has lacrosse training on Wednesday.’

  ‘Then Thursday.’

  ‘She has a music lesson on Thursday. The cello, from four forty-five until five forty-five and then debating society from seven thirty until nine fifteen.’

  ‘Friday?’

  ‘She does a stint in the Oxfam shop after school. She volunteers there an hour a week. It’s for her Duke of Edinburgh Award.’ He bites his bottom lip and holds my gaze. Reluctantly, I say, ‘I suppose she could miss it, just this once.’

  ‘That would be wonderful.’ Then, I don’t know why, maybe in an attempt to flatter me or simply because it’s true, he comments. ‘She’s a very impressive girl, by the sound of it.’

  I can’t resist. ‘Yes, she is. She’s always very busy.’ Her timetable is finely tuned, delicately balanced. We want the world for her. She has no time for this confusion, for another family. I don’t say that. Instead I say something equally treacherous: ‘She has always been too wonderful to be mine.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ His forehead furrows. It’s a good look on him. His concern is sincere and disquieting.

  I’m not up to much. Never was. I didn’t deserve her. I should have known. I swallow the words, not allowing them to reach him because they are more honest than sensible. He will discover my faults soon enough; it’s dangerous to draw attention to them now, before I have to. ‘She’s just so wonderful, you see? It’s quite overwhelming. She has this goodness, almost a golden presence, so unlike other teenagers.’ The absolute stature and vigour and charisma and proficiency of her. It’s unimaginable. I smile, but I can feel the tears scratching inside my throat.

  ‘Olivia is awesome, too, you know.’ He sounds irritated, as though I’ve rejected his daughter. Have I? Or have I rejected mine? I nod, because it would be rude not to.

  I thought I’d been given a second chance, a reward even, when Katherine was born. But it was too much to hope for.

  I had to be punished.

  ‘Friday, then, after school? We could meet at mine, it might be less awkward than somewhere public. You know, in case anyone—’

  ‘Freaks out?’

  ‘I was going to say “feels uncomfortable”.’

  We’re all going to feel uncomfortable. I nod, giving in. I can see he’s trying to be thoughtful.

  He grins. ‘Then we can go for a pizza. There’s a decent little Italian restaurant, family run, just a five-minute walk from ours.’ He pauses. ‘Do you think that’s an appropriate time for us to talk to them both about skipping school?’

  I bristle. Does he think he has a say in Katherine’s discipline now? Is that it? ‘No, I don’t. I think we both ought to handle that separately.’

  ‘Oh, OK. Whatever you say. You’re probably right.’ He nods. ‘The restaurant is quite a simple place but I think you’ll like it. It is very family orientated. I wonder, can I ask you a favour?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is the first bit of good news my family have had since Annabel’s diagnosis. I really want it to be a happy occasion.’

  I stare at him, uncomprehending. How can he think this is good news? ‘Good news?’ I say.

  ‘Well, isn’t it? Finding an extended family.’ He beams. It’s straightforward, hopeful. I fight a surge of guilt and self-disgust. I haven’t thought of it that way. I can’t think of it that way. For the first time I consider that, for Tom, this is not about switching or trading children or even affections, or anything base at all. It seems that he sees this as an opportunity for his family to extend; perhaps he’s hoping we can fill the void. His optimism makes me want to do something to help him. Not hand over my daughter, but something. ‘The favour?’

  ‘I think it’s in everyone’s interests not to talk too much about the bad gene.’ He hesitates. ‘About Annabel’s cancer, because, after all, that—’ He breaks off and blushes.

  ‘Because Annabel’s fate might be Katherine’s.’ He nods and sighs sadly. ‘That’s not something I want to dwell on,’ I assure him.

  ‘Good.’ He looks relieved. ‘It’s probably best we don’t talk about Annabel at all. The children are still finding it very difficult.’

  ‘Of course, understandably.’

  ‘So we’ll avoid the subject.’

  ‘Yes, if that’s what you want.’

  Annabel. She was called Annabel. I play with the name, letting it inch through my mind. I think of pretty bluebells with bouncing heads trembling in a fresh spring breeze; I think of tinkling bells, perhaps on a horse-drawn sleigh. ‘Such a lovely name,’ I mumble.

  Tom nods, delight spreading across his face, loosening his shoulders and chest, somehow making him look even taller, broader. The memory of her, soothing or delighting. The thought of her being. ‘Yes, although I rarely called her that. She mostly only used Annabel at work. I called her Bel or Bella, whatever suited her in the moment. And her mother and schoolfriends called her Anna or even Annie.’ He grins at the goofiness of needing to tell me this. I understand. One name wasn’t enough for her, couldn’t contain her or get to the essence of her. She was so big. So special. Katherine’s mother.

  I loathe her.

  Shockingly, for a horrible moment I almost think I’m glad she’s dead. I know that terrible, dark thought is something I’ll never be able to confide in anyone. Not even Jeff. I’ve loathed the thought of Annabel since Tom first came into my life. I’m jealous of her. I’m jealous of a dead woman. How sick am I? The thing is, the way I see it, she’s dead, yet she’s brought nothing but trouble and pain to my door. By dying, she’s left me with this cruel tangle: a daughter who isn’t, strictly speaking, mine, a daughter with a gene that might ruin her life. And another girl, who is motherless, who I have given birth to.

  I loathe her. Annabel, Bella, Bel, Anna and Annie, God help me, because she’s stolen from me. She took the baby I bore and, worse, I think she has the power to steal from me again.

  Thirty Years Ago

  After her mother left her behind, Alison would have happily never set eyes on her again. Or maybe not happily, but she was reconciled to this being the case. She trained herself not to miss the mother she’d had, or the one she wanted. But then her father said she had to move out, said he couldn’t be expected to look after her any longer, not considering everything. Sixteen, he said, was almost an adult.

  Almost. Though not at all.

  Alison thought of her gran; maybe if she hadn’t had a stroke she’d have been a support, given her some idea what to do, how to hold it all together. But Gran had no idea about anything now, it was all she could do to support her neck; there could be no help from that direction. Alison was alone. The social workers discovered that her mother had settled just fifteen miles away from where Alison had always lived. That surprised her; she’d assumed her mother must have run far away. In many ways, it was worse that she hadn’t. Alison told herself she ought to be grateful that her mother was prepared to take her in. But she wasn’t. It was better than nothing, but it wasn’t quite something.

  Her mother had always had a relentless anger about her and it had long since crystallised into bitterness and cynicism. She didn’t seem to like anything much in the world, not her neighbours, her dinner, the weather and certainly not her daughter. Her boys – noisy, brash, spoilt – were the only things that were ever able to bring a smile to her lips. She thought life was no better than you could expect. She expected pond scum. This latest debacle – well, she could have predicted it, at least that’s what she said. Her daughter was a disgrace, a disappointment, a shame.

  ‘I hope you have enough sense to know that this boyfriend of yours won’t want anything to do with you.’

  ‘I don’t know that,’ Alison muttered. She thought he might, if she explained it properly, understand that it was a genuine mistake, not a trap. And maybe not even a disaster. It didn’t have to be that, did it?

  ‘Of course he won’t. Nor his mother. You silly little slut.’ Her own mother stared, cold, cruel. Al
ison felt isolated, defeated. Perhaps she was right. How could she expect any support from Steve and his mum? She was an idiot. ‘Don’t you dare say a word to him. Don’t go showing yourself up even more.’

  ‘But doesn’t he have a right to know?’

  ‘Just keep your mouth shut, OK?’ She barked out her instruction, a snarling dog. ‘You won’t be seeing him again. Understand? Not if you want to live under my roof.’

  ‘But he might help.’ Alison sounded feeble, unsure.

  ‘Help how? He’s done enough.’ Her mother’s look of disdain and disgust sliced through any lingering confidence Alison had in Steve. It was true he hadn’t been around much over the summer. He hadn’t been that sympathetic when she said she was feeling sick – and then he had had no idea why! They hadn’t had sex for ages. Alison didn’t feel like it any more; he said she was a spoilsport. ‘How far gone are you anyways?’

  ‘Four and a half months.’

  ‘Well, you can’t keep it.’

  ‘Can’t I?’

  ‘Of course not. Who is going to let you look after a baby? What makes you think you could look after a baby?’

  Nothing. She could barely look after herself. Her head hurt. She couldn’t think clearly. Her mother had done nothing but yell at her since she arrived.

  ‘You’ll have to give it away.’

  Her mother’s opinions were so forcefully put that Alison forgot she wasn’t really entitled to have any.

  Alison found it difficult to be around her for more than quarter of an hour without losing the will to live. Her mother should never be allowed in the room with whoever was in charge of the big red button that set off all the nuclear weapons. Planet Earth would be done for.

  Alison always dreamed that things would change. They never did. She lived in hope that the day would come when her mother put her arms around her and made her feel better.

  It never did.

  9

  On the way over I remind Jeff and Katherine that we really don’t need to stay long, indeed, we don’t actually have to eat with them; no one responds. I suggest we should have a signal: ‘If any one of us plays with their right earlobe it means that we need to leave pronto. Agreed?’ All I get is a self-conscious, confused shrug from Katherine. Jeff just takes hold of my hand and squeezes it the way he does when I’m getting a bit worked up on our way to a lacrosse game. Usually, at that point, he says, ‘It’s just a game. Katherine’s game.’ Today, I notice the lack of calming refrain.

  I wonder how red and watery my eyes are, exactly. The sleeves on my jumper bulge at the cuff as I’ve started to stuff used tissues up there. I feel the dampness rubbing against my wrist; real, like heartbreak, and I feel so overwhelmingly sad. The sadness sits, a stone in my heart. I find it impossible to behave in a normal manner. Everything that is said is loaded; everything that is left unsaid is a regret. Katherine is being understandably but unusually monosyllabic of late. She eats her meals with one elbow on the table and her face propped in her hand, listlessly shovelling food on to her fork. I can’t bring myself to remind her of her manners. When she sits with us to watch TV I catch her gazing out of the window. She’s absent. Sometimes I worry she’s already gone. I don’t give up. I keep trying to engage her. The other day I caught her in a rare chatty mood so I took advantage of it and asked how she was getting on with her counsellor.

  ‘OK. She wears a name tag pinned to her drooping chest, which I hate.’

  ‘You hate her drooping chest?’ My attempt at a joke goes ignored.

  ‘No, I hate the tag. Badges, name tags, lanyards, et cetera, are just ridiculous. I think people should make enough of an impression that you remember their name when they introduce themselves. It’s a bit sad to expect to be forgotten.’

  She was trying to avoid my question so I forced a laugh and replied, ‘Wait until you’re my age, then you’ll be glad of a prompt. I’m forever forgetting people’s names, and it’s mortifying. Better to wear a tag and save the offence.’

  ‘Well, there’s a blessing; maybe that’s not something I’m going to have to worry about.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I might not make it as far as my senior moments.’

  She was sort of joking. But sort of not.

  Jeff tries to take hold of Katherine’s hand as we walk up the path to the house, but she shakes him off. She throws him a look: What can you be thinking? She’s right, she can’t arrive holding Daddy’s hand like some little posh girl, which they’ve no doubt decided she is anyway. If Jeff ever knew about these sorts of social sensitivities, he’s forgotten. He looks hurt. Just for a nanosecond a shadow falls across his face and all the sunlight and mischievousness vanishes. He catches my eye and throws out a thin, unconvincing grin, so then the honesty dies, too. He’s been doing that a lot recently, the forced jovial face. I wish he wouldn’t. His insistence that everything is fine and that we will all ‘get through this’ is hopeless. It just makes him harder to reach. How can we talk about anything candidly if he’s pretending to be Pollyanna on happy pills? There’s no room for me to say that I doubt everything is going to be fine.

  I told Jeff about Tom’s visit and Katherine’s truancy whilst lying in bed. Our bed has become the scene of all our battles at the moment. We speak in hissed whispers. We used to swap sweet nothings, now it’s all bitter somethings. His response was to insist that we didn’t make a big thing about it; he maintained it would be a mistake to mention it at all. ‘What good will it do? At best, she’ll feel embarrassed and ashamed, which is stress she could do without. At worst, she’ll be angry and resentful. We don’t want to drive her away.’

  ‘No, of course not, but—’

  ‘A bit of acting up, considering everything that’s happened, is normal. You have to accept, Alison, that Katherine can’t be textbook ideal all the time.’ I glowered at him but he didn’t notice. His argument seemed infantile. A crowd-pleaser rather than the reaction of a responsible parent. ‘Her actions are a cry for help. It’s only natural she’s curious about the Trubys. Aren’t you even a little bit curious about Olivia?’

  ‘No. Absolutely not.’

  ‘Alison?’

  ‘I’m not.’ Truthfully, I am, but I can’t allow her in. There’s no room.

  ‘You have to drop it, Alison. I know you think she’s betrayed us by secretly visiting the Trubys.’

  ‘No, I don’t.’ But I do. A bit. I feel wounded.

  ‘Don’t make her feel like she has to choose between us and them. Wanting to know more about the Trubys doesn’t mean she wants less to do with us.’

  Doesn’t it?

  ‘Alison, I know it wasn’t your intention but you’ve made it impossible for her to tell us she changed her mind about visiting them – the way you’re trying to pretend none of this is happening, the way you’re insisting on acting as though Olivia doesn’t exist.’

  ‘Me? This is all my fault, is it?’

  ‘Katherine knew you wouldn’t understand her need. That’s why she had to resort to sneaking out of school.’

  ‘Do you think we should inform the school? It’s not what I want, but I’ll do it if it keeps her safe.’

  ‘By “safe”, I think you mean “controlled”.’ Jeff has never minced his words with me. It’s a trait I’ve always admired; I can trust him to be honest and frank. At that moment, I mentally flicked him the finger but managed not to do so for real, a huge demonstration of self-control. ‘I know you believe in “Do the crime, pay the time” and that all misdemeanours, intentional or otherwise, are and should be punished, but I don’t think heaping any more trouble on Katherine right now is at all helpful.’

  ‘I don’t want her punished; I want her safe. It’s not safe traipsing halfway across the county on public transport.’

  ‘Look, this is difficult, but we’re going to be fine. We ought to have facilitated a getting-to-know-you session with the Trubys straight away. Then she wouldn’t have taken things into her own hands.’


  ‘I don’t want her to get to know them.’

  ‘It’s not about what you want, Alison. I’m sorry, but it’s not. Let’s just all try to stay calm and pleasant, shall we? I don’t think we should mention the truancy. I think we should tell Katherine that meeting up is what we want too.’

  ‘No, Jeff.’

  ‘Tom agrees – well, he suggested it, actually, and it’s the adult thing to do.’

  ‘When did you talk to Tom?’

  ‘He called the other day. You were out. It’s not a crime for me to talk to him, Alison.’

  I wanted to yell at him to stop being so ridiculously reasonable about everything, but I was pretty sure he’d have told me it was a better response than hysterically crying all the time. He turned his back to me and we both did a poor impression of pretending to fall asleep.

  I’m worn down with trauma and can’t think straight. Jeff seemed so confident that I did as he and Tom suggested so, instead of tackling the issue of Katherine’s secret visits head on, I’ve pretended we think it’s a good idea for her to meet the Trubys. If Katherine is surprised at my U-turn, she hasn’t said so.

  The Trubys’ house is modest. I see Katherine swiftly glance around and I will her not to say anything. She wouldn’t be intentionally rude, but it’s safe to say she is an especially privileged kid and she exists in a rarefied bubble; nearly everyone she knows lives in enormous houses that have two, sometimes three, brand-new cars parked on their sweeping driveways; some of them have swimming pools. I really don’t like her passing comment on people who are poorer than we are, because I know. I know how it is to come from not much. To be part of not much.

  The Trubys’ house is semi-detached. The front garden is minute, the size of a car; indeed, some people in the street have parked their cars in their gardens. There’s a porch, it needs repainting; the flat, grubby roof is covered with sheets of asphalt; weeds are robustly colonising the cracks in the path. It’s quite a busy street, I imagine they can hear the noise of traffic whizzing by at all hours. It’s nothing like our quiet, calm road. Our neighbours repaint their woodwork every other year, keeping Farrow & Ball in business. Hedges are clipped, grass is cut, cars are washed with Trooping the Colour precision, pride and regularity. Everything is neat and restrained. The Trubys’ house – their entire neighbourhood – is more feral.