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

by Parks, Adele

  He said she was his best friend. She never said, but he was her everything.

  Jeff was a miracle.

  13

  Caitlin and George Ford are attentive hosts and, other than shunning the invention of central heating until November, they try to make us very comfortable and welcome. I feel guilty that their efforts are wasted on me. When we arrive we’re offered an aperitif. Jeff quickly accepts a gin and tonic and asks Caitlin to make it a stiff double; I guess that means I’m driving, so I request an orange juice. Caitlin has invited two other couples. We all have girls attending Wittington High in various year groups. We’re in an exclusive, quite-pleased-with-ourselves club; our girls are the sort to go to a certain type of school, we are the sort who can afford it. The smugness chokes me and I want to yell at the mothers that securing a place in a school highly rated in the league tables guarantees nothing. It takes everything I have not to.

  The problem with living in a confessional society where oversharing is the norm and eating an orange-flavoured KitKat is counted as news that demands a photo, a tweet and several posts on Facebook and Instagram is that if you decide to keep your problems to yourself then people naturally assume you have none, that you must have an absolutely perfect life, the result being, when you are feeling at your most wretched, people assume everything is simply tickety-boo. Does anyone ever consider the possibility you’re just keeping a dignified silence any more?

  Jeff is a wonderful guest; he throws himself into an amusing story involving Andrew Marr. There’s a curious energy about Jeff of late. He’s animated, almost frantic. His mood is a direct contrast to my stale defeatism. I know it’s because he’s writing again. He hasn’t mentioned anything specific, but his general air of exuberance, despite our horrific situation, can only be a result of that. I have not asked because, truly, I’m in no mood to indulge him. I’ll be regaled with anecdotes about lunches with his editor, his thoughts on plot and character and his trials while researching. I have enough on my plate dealing with my unimaginable real life.

  I am a hopeless guest and simply can’t get into the swing of the conversations. Tonight, I find the small talk irritating, the theoretical debate pointless, and the jokey fun seems puerile. Caitlin has clearly gone to some lengths to produce tasty hors d’oeuvres and I recognise the main course of smoked haddock and sweet-potato gratin from the frozen range at COOK – normally a favourite – but I find I have no appetite. When Katherine was a baby she used to love sweet potato. I hadn’t really cooked with it much before she was weaning, until Annabel Karmel’s Complete Baby and Toddler Meal Planner suggested I should.

  I bought the book because it promised that it would offer me guidance in giving Katherine the best nutritional start in life. As a new mum, I martyred myself to giving her ‘the best start in life’. Among other things, those words are responsible for my enduring breastfeeding throughout two bouts of mastitis (I viewed her insistent, tugging, agonising gulps as a privilege), buying a particular soft-play baby gym (which cost twice as much as any of the others did) and a hideously expensive DVD programme about a green, fuzzy, unidentifiable animal that was supposed to help her learn a foreign language (it didn’t, but she did enjoy playing with the accompanying toy). I slavishly followed recipes for organic chicken casserole, butternut-squash purée and cottage pie, before blending the meals to mush and freezing them in ice-cube-sized portions to be defrosted and served at a moment’s notice. I can picture it still, her tiny, sweet, rosebud mouth opening wide to accept the dainty pink plastic spoon laden with goodness.

  I wonder what she’s eating now. A McDonald’s burger, probably. The thought causes me to push my gratin to one side; my insides are a tight knot. Jeff isn’t eating much either, although he’s drinking enough to sink a ship.

  The ice-hockey game was due to begin at 7.30 p.m., although they met at the rink at six. She wouldn’t let me drive her there. Jeff dropped her off. The rink is only ten minutes from here, coincidentally enough. It’s strange that she’s so close, and yet not. I imagine her in a boisterous, excitable crowd, watching the fast-paced game. I’m here amidst placid company and measured conversation, and she feels so distant. I just want to hold her tight. Tom mentioned that there is some sort of light show before the start of the game; he said there was a raffle, a great atmosphere, they even sing the national anthem. ‘She’ll love it,’ he assured me. There it was again, a man assuring me how my daughter would feel or act. Such enviable certainty. Katherine was ready by five, despite three outfit changes. Not knowing anything about the sport, I googled it, discovering that each game consists of three twenty-minute periods and that there is a fifteen-minute break between each. It should all be over by half past nine. I glance at my watch. It’s just after eight. Assuming everything is running to schedule, then the second part is just about to begin.

  ‘Your bathroom is that way, isn’t it?’ I ask Caitlin. I feel uncomfortable asking, even though I never say ‘toilet’ nowadays, I know that’s common, but I still feel a bit self-conscious calling it a ‘loo’; I mean, I’m not related to the Queen.

  ‘First door on the right, after the sitting room,’ she reminds me.

  I leave the dining room and walk to the front door, open it, then close it quietly behind me. The car is freezing. I whack up the heating and slowly pull out of the drive; I don’t want them to notice I’ve gone. I’m not sure what I’m planning. Maybe I could get to the rink, check on Katherine and then get back to the dinner party before anyone is aware that I’ve absconded. Maybe I won’t come back. I don’t care. I’m not thinking about that. I’m thinking that I shouldn’t be giving up Katherine so easily. I feel I’m handing her over without a fight and, while I don’t know who exactly I should be fighting, I do know she’s mine. She’s my baby, my baby who might have a mutated gene that will lead to cancer, and I can’t bear a moment away from her.

  It’s difficult to find a car-parking space at the rink. I’ve never seen the place this busy. This often happens to me: I find I am surprised by a rush of life that is occurring somewhere beyond my notice. Presumably, every Saturday there’s a game, the rink is this packed, heaving, throbbing, while I am at a sedate dinner party or perhaps at home curled up reading a book while Jeff writes one – or not. Katherine sometimes has a friend over for a sleepover on a Saturday night – not every week, because often we have to be up early on Sunday morning for lacrosse – but if there’s no game or training then she sits in her room with a friend, the two of them giggling, whispering and painting their nails. I order Thai takeaway for us all. Those Saturday evenings are some of the best nights of my life. Content, contained, calm. I never care that there’s life gushing elsewhere when we have those stay-in Saturdays; all the life I need is within my four walls.

  I circle the car park twice. I feel desperation mounting in my belly. I’m reminded of when Katherine first started school, I always arrived for pick-up at least ten minutes earlier than necessary. I don’t know how it happened. Her primary school was a five-minute drive or a ten-minute walk from our home, yet if I was in the car I’d always build in time, just in case. Maybe the traffic lights would be against me, or there could be a jam. I didn’t want her rushing out and scanning the mothers at the gate to find me lacking. I knew she’d be completely safe if ever I were to be late. The teachers held on tightly to the children until they were handed over to their parents. But why risk it? Why put her through that moment of tension and uncertainty? Why let her down? It was the same even if I collected her on foot. Pick-up was twenty past three, yet I was never able to leave the house later than three; I just couldn’t bring myself to sit there in the kitchen a moment longer. Outside the school gate, I would practically bounce on the balls of my feet in excitement at the prospect of seeing her. A day apart felt too long when she was so tiny. I’d want to hear her chatter or blow her nose, see her face light up when I pulled a Mini Babybel cheese from my pocket. I simply had to be near her to feel all was well in the world. Isn’t every mot
her like that? Quite simply, everything just seems better when we are together.

  I feel that same mix of excitement and tension bubbling up inside me now. I decide to park in a space that is clearly marked NO PARKING, ACCESS 24 HOURS; I’m prepared to take the hit on the fine or even deal with being towed. I have no choice. I have to be near her to breathe easily.

  Despite the fact that the car park is full, the reception area is deserted. A spotty, tired-looking young man sells me a ticket without meeting my eye.

  ‘It’s started, you know,’ he says, partially apologetic, partially censorious.

  ‘Yes, I realise.’

  ‘Same price.’

  ‘That’s fine.’

  He pauses, and looks concerned. ‘Standing room only,’ he says. I’m beginning to doubt he wants to make the sale. I just want him to hurry.

  ‘I don’t mind.’ Standing will be fine. I’ll be able to move around, maybe stay out of sight, maybe go and say hi. I’m not sure yet.

  ‘That will be eight pounds,’ he sighs. I scrabble around my evening bag and am relieved to find a folded ten-pound note tucked in the pocket. He hands over the ticket and I rush towards the ice rink. I used to bring Katherine here for skating lessons when she was maybe nine or ten years old. She had a lot of hobbies when she was tiny, a lot of lessons, which I always call opportunities. As I dash down the stairs I run through them in my head: ice skating, horse riding, ballet, tennis, fencing, swimming, drama, sailing, tap and, of course, lacrosse. I can see her now at each different stage, wearing each different uniform or kit, her face always the same: earnest and ever so slightly self-critical. It’s different now: we’ve had to consolidate and concentrate on her lacrosse. Focus is all.

  The moment I enter the arena I remember that I’m wearing a flimsy, sparkly top and a thin evening jacket, not at all appropriate for an ice rink. My teeth start to chatter and I’m shivering violently as I crane my neck and scan the crowds in an effort to find her. Despite the sizeable audience, it takes me just a few minutes until my eyes rest on her. She’s sitting in a section about twenty metres away. She’s with Amy, but there’s no sign of Tom or Olivia; their seats are empty. Her expression is not earnest or self-critical; it is one of giddy happiness. Her cheeks are flushed with the cold air and her eyes are glittering, bright with excitement. I feel relieved and yet, at the same time, rejected. Just a shard of that emotion. Like the moment she first refused to take my hand in public or when I bought her a top as a surprise and I wasn’t greeted with delighted thanks but instead the question, ‘Who are you thinking of? Is it for you?’ Children are unintentionally barbaric; if we do our jobs well, they must, inevitably, leave us behind. Jeff is always telling me I have to loosen my grip, I have to be ready to let her go. I know this, but I can’t accept it. It’s counterintuitive; all I want is to hold her tight.

  I watch as she swiftly moves her head, as her eyes flick across the ice, trailing Callum, no doubt. The players menacingly dart forward, halt, pass, tackle, with a lethal blend of skill and fearlessness. The gum shields and the padding transform the young men into ominous bionic gorillas. Katherine chats to Amy, who is holding an enormous tub of popcorn. Amy leans into her, one hand casually resting on her arm. She offers the carton and Katherine smiles and grabs an enormous handful which she pushes into her mouth; comfortable rather than polite. I bet onlookers are enchanted. Two sisters having such fun. What’s not to love? In terms of my spying episode, surely this is the very best result I could wish for.

  Yet.

  I feel surplus. I sigh deeply and consider my next move. Should I say hello or simply sneak away? I can’t decide. I’m physically and emotionally frozen. Then Katherine jumps up out of her seat. For a moment I think she’s spotted me and I now find I don’t want her to, but as I follow her outstretched arm I see she’s pointing to the players. Callum has the puck and in a flash he hits it into the net; the net minder looks dazed then frustrated as the judge puts on the red light, indicating that the goal is allowed. Katherine and Amy cheer and I punch the air, too. It’s automatic; everyone around me is roaring and jubilant. As people are jumping up and down, I momentarily lose sight of my daughter, and when the crowd settles I see Amy pull apart from her, after what was clearly a celebratory embrace. Not a jubilant high-five. Not a gutsy air punch, a warm hug. I know I have to leave before she spots me.

  As I turn, I feel the weight of a coat land on my shoulders. Instinctively, I pull it around me before I even consider where it’s come from. ‘Did you think we’d steal her?’ It takes a fraction of a second for me to understand. Tom has given me his coat, a thoughtful, intimate gesture I can’t process.

  ‘Don’t joke,’ I mutter.

  ‘No. Sorry.’ He looks embarrassed. The question has landed too close to the mark. We stare at one another, not knowing what to say next. I’m flooded with guilt. He gave me his coat. The simple kindness is overwhelming. I shouldn’t be here. I should have trusted them. Tom, Katherine – all of them. I can imagine what Katherine would say if she learnt I was here. Hashtag trust issues. But then, how could I not come? I stare at Tom and think there’s something about his expression that understands all of this without me having to say it. I doubt he’s going to rebuke me. I’m grateful to him for being so gracious but I’m also aware that his charm, insight and thoughtfulness will be a problem to me, as will Amy’s easy affection and Callum’s daring and prowess. If Katherine’s birth family had been messier, she might not be so interested in them.

  ‘I saw Callum score,’ I say.

  ‘It was brilliant, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. It really was.’

  ‘I almost missed it; I was making a phone call. There’s better reception here than in the stands.’

  ‘Katherine jumped up and down. Amy hugged her.’ He looks delighted, but I wonder whether I should have held back the information instead of blurting it out. On one level, I understand it belongs to him, too, but his knowing that the girls are building trust seems like a win for him, a loss for me. I keep telling myself we are on the same side. I don’t believe me. ‘Where’s Olivia?’

  ‘I couldn’t persuade her to come. That’s who I was calling, actually. Not that she picked up.’ We are facing each other but everyone else is focused on the game; we keep getting bumped and jostled. It’s awkward. Touching him, however accidently, is awkward.

  ‘Well, this isn’t easy for anyone.’

  ‘No, true, but her absence is nothing to do with Katherine. Well, it’s likely to be something to do with Katherine but, primarily, it’s because she has a boyfriend. Her first. Or, at least, her first serious one.’

  ‘Oh.’ I don’t know what to say.

  ‘I think she had a hot date lined up tonight.’ He raises his eyebrows in irony at the words ‘hot date’, as though the suggestion is a little ludicrous. ‘Not that she’s actually said as much. She opted to explain her refusal to come along by saying it was because Katherine was coming. Little minx. I wasn’t fooled for a moment. I know her too well.’

  ‘Gosh, how awful.’ The moment I make this comment I regret it. Tom bristles.

  ‘Teenagers do sometimes tell fibs.’ He pulls his face into an expression that is supposed to be a grin; however, I know this is not that. It’s a smidge patronising, pitying; he obviously thinks he’s breaking bad news. I do realise teenagers sometimes tell lies. Even Katherine wasn’t honest about wanting to meet the Trubys, or about her truancy, but I can’t imagine her lying about seeing a boy.

  ‘It’s not a big deal.’

  ‘No. I see.’ In fact, though, I don’t; it all sounds a bit underhand and complicated. Using our terrible situation for her own ends sounds pretty awful to me, but I don’t want to say so. I direct the conversation along a less incendiary path. ‘Is he nice?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The boyfriend.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. She hasn’t introduced us.’

  ‘Oh.’ I’m taken aback. Tom seems so thoughtful and together – I
pull his jacket closer around me – how can he condone his daughter sneaking about on a Saturday night with a boy he hasn’t even vetted?

  ‘Not formally. Well, not at all, actually,’ he adds. His face creases with concern, he looks defeated and I realise he’s asking himself the same question. Suddenly exhausted, too, I decide to help him out.

  ‘Well, even if you do meet him you are unlikely to approve.’

  ‘How so?’ He looks defensive but willing to fight his corner, like an urban fox caught rummaging through bins.

  I smile, trying to convey that I’m not getting on his case. ‘Well, which boy is good enough for your baby girl?’ I want to demonstrate good-natured empathy, the sort I might give to any parent at the school gate. Nothing too deep or meaningful. I don’t want to get involved. I don’t.

  ‘Absolutely.’ His relief is tangible. ‘I can’t stand the thought of him touching her. Wanting her. It all just seems so wrong. So fast. But there’s no denying it, she’s coming to that age when, you know, sex matters. For them, it’s everything. It’s vital. It’s there!’ I stare at him, nonplussed. Intellectually, I do know that this time existed, even for me – especially for me – but I can’t quite recall it, not precisely, and I can’t believe he’s mentioned it. Not at all.

  ‘Quite,’ I mutter. It’s odd to hear him talk of Olivia in this way. I don’t carry Katherine and sex in the same train of thought. Never, ever. She’s been to parties and danced with boys but anything more is unimaginable. She’s only fifteen.

  ‘I mean, Olivia is fifteen. It’s a tricky age, isn’t it? Not quite legal, but the hormones are raving.’

  ‘Not at all legal!’ I gasp, somewhat allowing my good-natured empathy to disintegrate. For me, laws are black and white. Tom shrugs. I suspect he’s been living with a lot of grey for a while.

  ‘I’ve seen him, from a distance. I don’t doubt she’ll tell me about him when she’s ready. I trust her.’