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

by Parks, Adele

  Then I remember that none of this is a surprise to Katherine: she has been here before. I must not cry. I must not. I have to keep my chin up. As I have always tried to do. But, really, life as we know it is over. And while, rationally, I understand that life goes on, that there may be a way around or through this, I can’t imagine it. Not right now.

  ‘The Three Musketeers, right?’ says Jeff. ‘All for one and—’ He waits for us to complete the sentence.

  ‘One for all,’ I mumble obediently. Katherine just stares ahead, apparently fascinated by the letterbox. She looks taut with expectation and stress. I can feel her heartbeat, her pulse, her sweat, her breath.

  Tom opens the door. He beams, but it’s a nervous, keen-to-impress smile. I recognise it. Katherine returns it. Tom shakes hands with Jeff, who effusively and repeatedly says it’s great to be here. I glare at him. I’m planning on being a bit cool with Tom, but my lifetime of trying to please and being polite combined with his obvious desperation that this visit be a success forces me to return his smile. Encouraged, he surprises me by pulling me into a hug. I accept it – how can I not? Jeff looks taken aback, too, but then he slaps Tom on the shoulder and manages a sort of manly semi-hug which means the three of us are awkwardly connected. It’s a bit much. Eventually, Tom breaks away and turns to Katherine. She shoots out her hand, making it clear she’s not on for a cuddle. He shakes it enthusiastically and, for a fleeting moment, they look into each other’s eyes. He must be instantly and deeply familiar to her: she’s looked at those eyes every time she’s looked into a mirror. She pulls back her hand and pushes it into her jeans pocket.

  ‘Olivia is in the sitting room,’ says Tom. My heart is in my mouth.

  We all tramp through and find her watching TV. She is surrounded by crisp packets and empty Coke cans. Instantly, I see myself in her and, while this should in theory make me bond with her, it doesn’t. For as long as I can remember, I haven’t thought I was all that. She is slouching rather than sitting and her feet are on the coffee table. Her hair is dyed a peroxide blond but her roots betray the fact that, naturally, she has the same colour auburn hair Katherine has; I can’t think why she’d want to change it. Or how she is allowed to. Doesn’t the school care? Doesn’t Tom? About that, or the piercings? Her nose and her belly-button are bejewelled. She’s wearing high-waisted jeans and a crop top. Both items are fashionable but unflattering, as she is a bit plumper than most girls like to be. She probably has a slow metabolism, which will be my fault. I have always marvelled that Katherine can put away anything she likes and is still a stick; that has never been my experience. It’s not a mystery now. I want to apologise to Olivia. For her metabolism, for her ordinariness. I stay quiet because I realise that if I say anything she might think I am apologising for something so much bigger, like leaving her in the hospital by mistake. Should I apologise for that, too? But how? I scramble around for something to say. Nothing. A blank. Small talk would be insulting. A big speech, impossible. I look for Jeff in her. There might be something about the shape of her chin, but no, not really, she’s all mine.

  ‘Olivia, we’re so excited to meet you.’ Jeff reaches forward, proffering his hand for her to shake. She leaves it hanging there. He retracts it and puts it on the small of my back, moving me an infinitesimal amount closer to her. ‘Aren’t we?’

  He’s talking to me. ‘Absolutely,’ I say obediently.

  Olivia turns to me; her wide, serious eyes comb me up and down; her expression remains unimpressed, unconvinced. She knows I’m not absolutely excited to meet her. She knows I’m terrified, unsure. I wonder what she’s feeling. She answers my question when she turns away. She’s nobody’s fool.

  The curtains are partially drawn but a slanting stream of early-evening autumnal light determinedly flows through, catching the dust before it hits the laminate floor. The room seems to be on pause, waiting. The air is depressed; I’m bleakly reminded that this is a house still in mourning. Tom doesn’t apologise for the disarray, the way I would. He just stares at Olivia, his concern clear. Determined, she keeps her eyes trained on the TV. She has a phone in her hand, too; I don’t doubt it is spitting banal messages and acronyms from people with poor spelling. Wtf? Lol! Yolo. Tom picks up the remote and the screeching soap opera is cut off mid-flow. Olivia turns to him, glares. No one knows what to say until Tom says, ‘Oh, I’ll call the other two down. Callum and Amy. You’ll love them.’

  Olivia lets out a deep sigh.

  10

  The restaurant isn’t what I imagined. But I don’t know why I’m focusing on the restaurant. Panic, I imagine. It’s easier to dissect the inadequacies of the venue than think about anything bigger. Everything bigger. When Tom said it was a family-run Italian I’d imagined an intimate setting, white linen tablecloths, fan-shaped napkins and a decent selection of antipasti. I thought we’d be cossetted, comforted; that we’d at least have the food to talk about. Instead, the building is cavernous, the tables are bare Formica and the acoustics are poor so our already stilted conversation is further slowed as people have to keep asking for things to be repeated. Jeff constantly states, ‘I must be going deaf,’ and then laughs riotously as though he’s made an uproariously funny joke.

  It’s an awkward moment when we have to decide who sits where. No one wants to make the call and therefore we all hold back, hovering like birds, both polite and nervous. The thing is, there are good manners and then there is the fat worm that the early bird catches; I’m aware of both. The table is long and skinny. Not helpful in terms of communicating. As there are seven of us, someone is going to be made to be the odd one out, left facing no one. Tom tries to take charge of the seating arrangements; he pops Amy on the end and suggests she is flanked by Callum and Olivia. No doubt this is simply how they are used to sitting, in a tight little cluster, but I throw him a flustered glance: where does that leave Katherine? Callum seems to understand; he suggests that Katherine sit in his seat, but Olivia shakes her head vehemently, indicating that she doesn’t want to have to face Katherine just yet. I’m slightly offended on my daughter’s behalf, because I know she’ll do her best to carry off the dinner with aplomb – but I also feel a real flicker of sympathy for Olivia. When I was fifteen I’d have gone to pieces faced with this mess. Jeff leaps in and takes Callum’s seat and Katherine settles next to him. Callum goes around the table and sits next to Olivia. That leaves the two end seats for Tom and me. There is a moment of hesitation, then I quickly grab the one next to Katherine. I need to be by her side, and I don’t even care that by taking this seat I’ve effectively drawn lines: we are positioned as opponents – the Trubys versus the Mitchells.

  I begin to understand what Tom meant when he described the restaurant as family-friendly; there’s an abundance of sticky high chairs and strollers awkwardly blocking the walkways and numerous kids charging around, screaming loudly, either with rapture or in a temper. The waiters stand about, pens and notebooks at the ready, faces fixed into fake expressions of forbearance. I never used to mind frenzied kids dashing about – I mean, that’s what kids are supposed to do. But today I feel a wave of nausea. I want to warn their mothers: Hold them close, keep them by your side, don’t take the wrong one home. I can’t focus on the menu, which isn’t particularly long or involved, but it seems overwhelming. I’ll have a Margherita pizza. Just for speed. The sooner we order, the sooner we’ll be fed and the sooner we’ll be out of here. Why are we here, anyway? What made me agree?

  How could I have refused?

  I try to raise my eyes to look at Olivia. I need to say something to her. I feel Jeff’s gaze bore into me. He’s expecting me to start a conversation, as usual. I’d hoped that, since the situation is anything other than usual, I’d be off the hook, but no. With effort, I ask, ‘So, do you have a sport, Olivia?’ Katherine stares at me open-mouthed, clearly despairing. I know she hates it when I ask her friends about their hobbies or school, but what else are we adults to talk to children about? We can’t really say, ‘Il
legally smoking, then, are you?’ or ‘Do you do drugs?’

  ‘No, not really.’ She doesn’t look up from the menu she’s holding. Her nails are painted with a blue, glittering varnish which could be quite pretty, but it’s chipped.

  ‘Are you doing the Duke of Edinburgh Award?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Doesn’t your school offer it?’

  ‘Yeah, they do. I’m just not doing it.’

  ‘Olivia is a wonderful artist,’ chips in Tom.

  ‘Are you really?’ asks Jeff with enthusiasm.

  She looks up at him. ‘I like art.’ She smiles and I have to admit, it’s a winning smile. I envy Jeff for catching it.

  ‘Is it your favourite subject?’ he asks.

  ‘That and English,’ replies Olivia. Jeff beams back at her. He looks triumphant, as though he’s won something, as though it’s a competition.

  ‘Dad’s a writer,’ says Katherine. She’s beaming, too.

  ‘Yeah, I know. I googled you all,’ replies Olivia. Her words are reluctant, as though she didn’t want to admit to showing an interest, and yet she didn’t have to tell us so maybe she wants us to know she cares. ‘You play lacrosse a lot, right?’ She glances at Katherine, who nods enthusiastically in reply. ‘Yeah, I got that. I didn’t think people really did that outside Enid Blyton books.’

  ‘Oh, they do,’ I say defensively.

  She doesn’t look my way but continues to stare at Katherine. ‘Yeah. There were, like, loads of competition times and league tables and pictures of you collecting trophies.’ She makes it sound boring. It’s not boring.

  ‘Katherine plays for the Regional Academy U17 team. Even though she’s only fifteen, she’s been put on the English Lacrosse Elite Performance Pathway. The 2020 Olympics is not a pipe dream.’ I mention this only to keep the conversation going, but I must be yelling, the acoustics are so dreadful, and the moment I open my mouth it seems that a volume dial has been turned down: the rest of the diners in the restaurant fall silent and my brag brays out aggressively. I think I hear Jeff groan. Katherine turns pink at her neck, which she always does when she’s embarrassed.

  ‘I read that,’ drawls Olivia. ‘On her Wikipedia site.’ She sniggers. Maybe I have been presumptuous, putting a Wiki site together, but by failing to prepare, you are preparing to fail. Finally, Olivia turns to me. ‘Couldn’t find a thing on you, though. What do you do?’ Now, she meets my eye and I see challenge. Disdain.

  ‘I keep house.’ Where did that pathetically antiquated term come from? Never in my life have I felt so inadequate, so desperate. I help Jeff finesse concepts, I handle all his admin. I also liaise with his accountant and the PAs of his agent, editor and publicist regarding any tax, VAT, availability or contractual issues. I fold my arms across my chest and fail to tell her this, or the fact that I’m pretty good at art myself. It was the subject I did best at. I got an A grade. Probably because it was the only one I completed before – well, when I could still concentrate. She sighs, and I know I’ve disappointed her. I look to Katherine for moral support. She can’t meet my eye; she’s turning an ever more vibrant shade of pink. I’ve disappointed her, too.

  Callum, who is clearly a diplomatic boy, helps me out; he asks if everyone has decided what they are going to eat. He recommends the linguini del mare, and Katherine immediately says she’ll try it (even though she doesn’t like mussels). The conversation slowly starts to pick up. Taking Callum’s cue, people discuss whether to order a shared plate or two of bruschetta and, if so, who wants garlic and who wants mozzarella? Perhaps we should take one of each? Both Jeff and Tom mention they’d like a glass of red and ask Callum if he wants to join them; if so, they’ll order a bottle. Tom is keen to underline the fact that Callum drinking a glass of wine with food is legal and responsible. I feel heavy, understanding that he, too, is concerned about being judged as a parent. Something he’s done easily and comfortably for a number of years is now under scrutiny. Callum says he’s going out later so doesn’t want a drink, which I think wise because, even if it is legal to drink alcohol with a meal at such a young age, I don’t think it should be encouraged. Oh, blast, I feel a wave of shame as I realise I am judging. I really don’t want to. Or, more accurately, I don’t want to be judged, so I feel I must do my level best not to get involved with Tom’s parenting. The men settle on a small carafe, just a glass and a half each. Olivia tells Amy that ‘melanzane’ is the Italian word for ‘aubergine’ and that, no, she probably won’t like it. I don’t think it’s good to discourage a child from trying new things, but I bite my tongue, or rather my tongue appears swollen and fat, incapable of movement.

  Throughout the meal it becomes apparent that it’s not just talking about the menu I’m finding difficult: I don’t know how to talk about the weather, or, when the conversation moves on, I can’t find a view about anything in the pop charts, I have no opinions on new apps and I couldn’t care less about the different regions where different-shaped pastas come from – I’m amazed anyone does. While remaining mute, I follow the conversation closely – I’m searching for a subtext, undercurrents. What isn’t being said? The thing about Olivia liking English, for example, is that something? Might she take after Jeff? Will Jeff be hoping for that? Is she? Tom and Amy both declare that they love olives, and Katherine does, too; neither Jeff nor I are keen – are taste buds inherited? But then Olivia says she likes them, as well, and Callum declares his disgust. I realise that it doesn’t matter, not in any real sense, who likes what, yet every subject makes me feel at once insecure and territorial. I’m standing on shifting sands. I notice that Katherine is extremely animated and excitable, almost hyper, although no one, other than me, is likely to notice as much. You’d have to know her inside out to spot the telltale signs: she’s gabbling, her eyes are wide, bright – almost manic – as they dash around the room, unable to settle. She’s clearly enraptured. I’m somewhat relieved to note that she doesn’t seem to engage with Tom much – although she is extremely polite when answering any of his questions: she meets his eye and responds with complete and thoughtful answers, as she’s been brought up to – but, mostly, her attention is focused on Olivia, Amy and Callum. Particularly Callum.

  Katherine laughs loudly at all his jokes, even the ones that really only deserve to raise a small grin; she’s hung off his every word and agreed with everything he’s said – even his views on warming up for a lacrosse game were met with extreme enthusiasm, although his limited knowledge of the sport meant that his tips were very obvious and underwhelming. He’s extremely handsome and two years her senior; a flash of panic strikes like lightning. What if she is attracted to him? You read of it. Don’t you? I’ve certainly read about it – admittedly, in those very gossipy weeklies I indulge in when I visit the hairdresser – siblings who don’t know they are siblings find each other, after years apart, and have an intense attraction for one another: obviously, they would. They are at once strange and familiar, exotic and comforting. The thought makes my stomach churn, it’s a layer of complication I simply can’t begin to process. Katherine’s an intelligent girl – she must know she can’t think that way. I shoot her a harried glance, but at that moment she turns to Amy and I see her lavish just as much attention on the little girl. Ah, I see. Siblings. That’s what she’s falling in love with. My innards tremble, not with panic, which was my reaction to the fear that she’d find Callum attractive, but with sadness. Wretchedness. She’s never once said she’d like a sibling. Now I wonder whether she has secretly longed for a brother or sister. If so, why has she never mentioned it, even in passing? What else isn’t she telling me? Tom was right: there is a striking physical resemblance between Katherine and his children, particularly Amy. The same skin tone, hair colour, eye shape. Both girls are wearing ponytails that erupt like fountains from the top of their heads. Amy is sweet and cheerful. A little bolder than I remember Katherine ever being, but she seems good company, all the same.

  Neither Jeff nor Tom is the sort of man w
ho could fall into stereotype and discuss the latest footy game, but it turns out they are both considering purchasing a new car and so they chat about mileage and diesel pollutants for a while. Jeff establishes that Tom does something in design, but the conversation doesn’t lead anywhere. Tom is clearly not a man obsessed with his work; I suppose he has enough on his plate. Their conversation isn’t what anyone would call ground-breaking or intimate but I envy them. Why can’t I think of anything to say? Something that would simply pass a few moments, allow the time to slide. I’ve trained myself to become a whizz at oiling the wheels of social chit-chat. Ordinarily.

  Jeff refills his and Tom’s glass and signals for a second carafe. Tom says he doesn’t want anything else to drink but Jeff pushes ahead: ‘Just a glass for me, then.’ The young, pretty waitress patiently hovers while he slowly examines the wine list for a decent wine that’s sold by the glass; he never settles for the house wine. She’s balancing a large tray that is piled with dirty plates, pizza crusts and balled-up paper napkins; she was on her way to the kitchen, having cleared another table. Jeff should have let her deliver the tray first.

  ‘That’s quite a skill!’ I say warmly. The waitress looks vacant, uncomprehending. I try to elucidate. ‘Balancing that enormous tray when it’s stacked so heavily.’

  ‘Oh, I’m used to it.’ She gives me a small smile. Jeff looks up from the wine list to listen to my chatter; I didn’t mean to interrupt him, I was just trying politely to fill the time he was taking picking a new wine. I jab my finger at the menu and continue to talk to the waitress.