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

by Parks, Adele

  ‘You sound like Olivia.’

  I don’t know what to say to that; the comment seems potent, full. I try to joke it off. ‘Don’t let her hear you say that, she’d be horrified. I can’t imagine she wants to see herself in me at all.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t she?’ he says kindly.

  ‘Look at me.’ I hold my arms wide and stand still for a moment, so he can see me in all my full glory.

  ‘You look lovely.’

  I don’t. I’m wearing a purple-and-green waterproof jacket, black trousers that are the epitome of nondescript, and wellington boots. I brush away his compliment; it can’t be sincere. Sincere compliments aren’t often bestowed on women in their forties who carry a bit of extra weight. Still, it’s nice of him to pretend. We fall quiet for a moment or two. I notice the terrifically English sound of a blackbird warbling. ‘I think it all started to go wrong, in terms of sartorial elegance,’ I say, ‘when I had Katherine. Shopping interfered with her routine and, besides, I didn’t like leaving the stroller outside the changing room while I tried on clothes. I began to do most of my shopping online, or from those slim A5 catalogues that seem to pour through the door, although I swear I’ve never signed up for any one of them. You know the ones – all the young, beautiful models look slightly fazed to find they’re wearing sensible jumpers and functional brogues.’ Tom laughs. Literally throws his head back and laughs out loud at my comment, even though it wasn’t that funny, just an observation. His laughter settles like a great big, golden commendation. I like making him laugh even more than I like surprising him. ‘I barely remember the days when brands such as French Connection or Diesel or Ted Baker were my staples.’

  ‘There’s nothing to stop you wearing those sorts of brands now.’

  ‘It’s too late now. I’m too far removed from that woman. I don’t know what’s fashionable this season because I don’t know what was fashionable last.’

  We all have only a finite time in which we can call ourselves young. I wasted a lot of mine. I mentally shake myself. No one forced me to wear beige, to be beige, to start to consider wellington boots as the must-have footwear in my wardrobe – I wanted to be this sort of mum. The practical, dowdy, reliable sort. I did not want to be the flouncy, flirty, flighty sort. I pull myself together. ‘I’m being silly. Why am I talking to you about clothes? It doesn’t matter. It’s peripheral.’

  ‘Where are you from, Alison? I can’t quite place the accent.’

  No, he wouldn’t, I’ve worked hard to get rid of it. To try to sound a little more like Jeff’s friends, a little less like me.

  ‘A town about fifteen miles from Liverpool.’

  ‘And what made you move down here, London and then the Home Counties?’

  ‘Oh, you know, the usual. Work attracted me to London and then, when Katherine was a toddler – well, it’s very pleasant out in Surrey. There are great schools, low crime rates, an above average percentage of children go to the Russell Group universities.’

  ‘Same reasons we moved. Don’t you think it’s odd that we ended up living relatively close to one another? It makes me think we’re sort of fated. I mean, either of us could have moved anywhere.’

  ‘Yes,’ I admit, although I secretly wish that one of us had decided the Hebrides was where it was at.

  ‘It’s such a lovely part of the world, isn’t it?’ he enthuses.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But?’

  How did he hear the ‘but’? Jeff never hears it. I sigh, ‘It’s just I sometimes feel uncomfortable with how … comfortable it all is. Does that make any sense at all?’

  ‘Yes.’ He turns to me and quickly squeezes my shoulder, a token of solidarity and understanding. It’s distracting; I almost stumble into a patch of nettles. I cough and carry on.

  ‘Where I come from we don’t do smug.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. Nothing to be smug about. We’re witty, gritty, real. I’m a deserter. I saw it was easier down here. I listened to Thatcher when I was a little girl and it sunk in. I got on my bike. I didn’t like her but I had a feeling she knew which side my bread was buttered on. So I came south.’

  I did it all for Katherine. Even though Katherine hadn’t even been born; I hadn’t even met Jeff when I made the decision. I did it for my future babies, plural, as I had expected there would be more than one, I suppose. And I’m pleased. I made a good call. I mean, look at her. My daughter, she’s magnificent. She’s tall and glossy, talented, polite, she speaks the Queen’s English with utter precision, she never has to think twice whether it’s a basin or a sink, whether it’s ‘pardon’, ‘excuse me’ or ‘sorry’. She knows those things. I shouldn’t care that I can never go back. I don’t care.

  ‘And it’s all worked out beautifully,’ he says, giving me the endorsement and the approval I crave and yet don’t feel entitled to. ‘Here you are, happy wife and mother.’

  ‘Partner.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Partner and mother. Jeff and I are not married.’

  ‘You’re not?’ Tom momentarily stops dead in his tracks. I’m surprised. I have come to expect that reaction from some of the more conservative mums at the school gate but I’d somehow thought Tom might be cooler about our situation; indeed, I think part of the reason I told him we aren’t married is so he wouldn’t think of me simply as a predictable, uptight Home Counties mum and wife.

  I backtrack a little. ‘Not as such, no.’

  ‘“As such”?’ I realise my comment is ridiculous. A person is either married or they’re not.

  ‘But you wear a wedding ring.’

  ‘It was my grandmother’s. It doesn’t fit on any other finger.’ This isn’t strictly true. I suppose I do wear it on my wedding finger to avoid too many nosey questions. I sometimes answer to the name Alison Mitchell for the same reason. ‘We never got round to it. Never saw the need.’

  He never asked me.

  This is possibly my own fault. ‘When we met I did make quite a big deal about how I could never see myself being married. I was a free spirit. I said I didn’t want to be shackled to a patriarchal institution that had been invented so that men could further subjugate women.’

  ‘Nicely encouraging,’ laughs Tom.

  ‘Wasn’t I? We both wanted kids, though. There’s no question that we are a family. A unit. Besides, it’s not that unusual in this day and age.’ Or at least that’s what I’m always telling myself.

  Tom suddenly starts to do a poor impression of Beyoncé. He wiggles his bottom and begins singing something about if Jeff liked it, he should have put a ring on it – I don’t know whether to be cross or amused but before I can make up my mind Amy calls for Tom; she and Katherine are having trouble reading the map. He dashes off to aid them and I feel oddly deserted. I glance behind me and find Jeff staring at me, his forehead creased in concern.

  16

  The moment we get home from the walk Katherine seems keen to disappear to her room. I try to engage her in conversation but as I was on the walk with her she doesn’t think there’s anything for us to talk about. I ask, ‘Did you have a good time?’

  ‘Awesome,’ she replies. But it’s a flip ‘awesome’, rather than a heartfelt one; she is more interested in something on her Instagram stream.

  ‘Did you like the picnic?’ I pursue, a bit anxiously. I really want her to tell me how she felt about being with Tom, Amy and Olivia but I don’t seem to be able to burrow my way into that conversation.

  ‘Yeah, the chicken drumsticks were nice. What was that on them?’

  ‘They were honey-and-soy roasted. It’s Martha Stewart’s recipe.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, well, tell Martha I liked them.’

  ‘No, I don’t know her, she’s—’ I don’t get the sentence finished because Katherine has drifted out of the kitchen and up the stairs, her long legs sauntering, her long hair swishing. She has the distinct air of someone who has somewhere far more desirable to be. I give up and turn to putting away the water
proofs and cleaning mud off the boots. I can hear Jeff talking to someone on the phone about our day. I guess it must be his father, or maybe his sister; I still won’t let him talk about our situation widely. I’m not sure how I’m going to keep it contained, or even why I need to, but I have a desperate feeling that I must. Only Jeff’s immediate family and my friend Rachel know; I’ve sworn them all to secrecy. I’m not sure I would have even told Rachel if she’d still been here in the UK, but the distance between us somehow makes me feel safer, and I had to talk to someone. I know I’ll have to tell my family sooner or later; later looks attractive. After the initial hurdle – Rachel’s shock and incredulity – I’ve called her four or five times to discuss the matter, and it has helped. The first three times I just sat in front of the Skype screen and cried while she said over and over again, ‘Oh, Alison, I’m so sorry. I wish I was there with you. I’m so sorry. It might not be as bad as you fear. She might not have the gene.’ Rachel, a true friend, didn’t care how often I sobbed back, ‘But she might!’

  Listening to Jeff’s calm, objective tone riles me. How can he be so unruffled? I don’t doubt that his family are trying to be sympathetic but everything they say seems insensitive or dismissive. They think the situation is simple: Katherine is our daughter, full stop. But I’m beginning to see that’s not true. She is our daughter, semicolon, because – and it kills me to admit this – she’s Tom’s daughter, too, in an undeniable way. I have to share her. From here on in, that is how it will be. Then there’s Olivia. I think how much time Jeff spent talking with her today. I am going to quiz him about what was said, although I shan’t be surprised if he’s reluctant to share with me the ins and outs of their conversation, Olivia has probably asked him not to. I wonder whether she’s given him her mobile number; it was clear they had plenty to say to each other, that they got on. I twice heard Jeff laugh out loud while they were chatting. What might Olivia have said that was so amusing? I wish I knew. I’m glad Jeff is talking to her; it compensates somewhat for the fact that I can’t find a way to yet.

  But I do accept that she’s ours, too, now. In an indubitable but imprecise way.

  I suppose, given the fact I find it all so complicated and confusing, it’s a big ask expecting Rachel to grasp the niceties of this dilemma over Skype, but she’s all I have, so once again I dial up. I don’t even check the time, and when I get through I see that she is in an apron and has a tea towel thrown over her shoulder. It looks a bit theatrical.

  ‘I’m just making lunch,’ she says, somewhat unnecessarily. ‘We have three couples and their kids coming round.’

  ‘Wow, quite a houseful.’ I should feel delighted that she’s made so many new friends so quickly, and I am glad, but I also feel a tiny bit jealous and despondent. We used to throw big, inclusive, warm, welcoming Sunday lunches when Katherine was very young. For many years now Sundays have been devoted to her homework and lacrosse games. Weekends are much more structured and purposeful. I mourn for the fluidity of mothering a pre-schooler and, for a fleeting second, I question my choices. Competing is important, but is it as important as a family lunch? I’ve always thought it was, but what if that is just something else I have been wrong about? I suppose I also envy Rachel her big family. Even though she’s my age, having a three year old makes her seem incredibly youthful by comparison. I also envy her security, her certainty. It’s highly unlikely she’s ever going to find out that any one of her four children was swapped at birth. I’ve covered off that quirky statistic.

  Annoyingly, today’s conversation is out of sync; her voice trails behind her lip movement by a second or two, which hampers communication. She starts to tell me what she’s cooking but I can’t stop myself from cutting across her and telling her all about the ‘family’ walk. Well, almost all. I do tell her about the arrival of the dog, which delighted Katherine, I confess that the only child I managed to speak to was Amy. ‘Katherine is closing down on me and I don’t know where to begin with Olivia, since she’s made it clear she wants nothing to do with me.’

  ‘It must be difficult.’

  I don’t tell her how much time I spent walking with Tom. I don’t mention his gentle way of eliciting so much from me or the fact that, curiously, I wanted to impress him. I don’t tell her that at times I judged my own tone to be a tad flirtatious. I don’t know why that was the case. Maybe because I was talking about when I was a much younger woman. It was probably just that. Talking to Tom makes me feel as though I am listening to Radio 1 and that the tunes playing are for me. I don’t know what to make of that. I certainly daren’t say it aloud, not even to Rachel.

  ‘It’s so weird watching Amy. I’m not saying she’s exactly like Katherine, but there are similarities. Their hair colour – although they have that in common with Olivia, or at least they would if she didn’t dye hers – but it’s more about Amy’s build and her gait. I keep wanting to scoop her up into a big hug, smother her with kisses, you know? It’s so disconcerting.’

  ‘I wish you’d tell one of our other friends about your situation. Maybe one of the girls at Pilates.’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘I think it would be good to have someone close by to talk to.’

  ‘Well, you’re at the end of a phone line and you’re my best friend.’

  Rachel looks concerned, not convinced. ‘I wish I could give you a hug.’ Paranoid, I think she’s trying to give me the slip, palm me off on someone else. ‘You seem so—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Lonely.’

  ‘Well, whose fault is that?’ I try to laugh, but my tone is angry, hurt.

  ‘I think it would be good to have someone to take your mind off the whole thing now and again. Someone you could share a bottle of wine with, or go to the pictures with, like we did.’

  ‘I can’t imagine the latest blockbuster would distract me.’

  ‘No, you can’t, can you?’

  The problem with Skype is that there’s always the temptation to look at your own two-inch-square image – to check your hair doesn’t look awful – rather than look at the person you are talking to. I know it’s not the biggest sin in the book, but when Rachel suddenly gasps, ‘Gosh, I really need to get my roots done! Are they honestly that grey?’, I can’t forgive her. I press disconnect.

  I go to Katherine’s room to check she is doing her homework, or at least listening to music, rather than texting some dangerous middle-aged man who wants to lure her away and chop her up into tiny pieces but operates under the avatar of LouiseLacrossegirl15. She’s absorbed in designing a poster to advertise the school production of Macbeth. I suggest that she could splatter red food colouring over it and my suggestion is met with appreciation and enthusiasm. I’m relieved: it could just as easily have been dismissed as infantile or obvious; I no longer feel I’m on firm ground with her. I hang about in her doorway, waiting for her to invite me in or start a conversation. Horrifyingly, I find I don’t know what to say, and the not knowing pains me. I don’t know whether the problem is my grief and guilt or her resentment and fear. The truth is, I’m beginning to wonder if, on some level, she thinks she hates me. Sometimes her soft, almond-shaped eyes calcify with resentment or confusion, or terror. We don’t have conversations as such, just a symphony of irritated or jaded exhalations. She seems to be for ever biting her lip, as though forcibly trying to hold in what she wants to say. She ought to just spit it out. I know it, anyway. How could I have let this happen?

  Conversation used to flow easily and readily between us. I remember when we’d talk about something she’d learnt at school, or something someone had said at school, about clothes, a TV show. Simple stuff. Uncomplicated stuff. Things have changed since she became a truant so that she could spy secretly on the Trubys, and she doesn’t even know that I know so. Since I dipped out of a dinner party to spy secretly on her, which she is unaware of. Since she told me that Olivia attended the ice-hockey match, which I know to be untrue. It’s a mess. A web. We never had secret
s from each other before. Besides, now I’d find it hard to be interested in who said what at school, or to hold a conversation about what she watches on TV; all I want to know is what she thinks of Tom, Olivia, Callum and Amy. Whether she thinks she’ll ever be ready to take the mutated-gene test? Does she still think of us as her parents? These questions are hard. Impossible. But I’m her mum, I can’t give up. I take a deep breath and give it a go.

  ‘We were lucky with the weather today. I’m glad the rain held off.’

  ‘Yup.’ She doesn’t look up but holds her head at a slight angle, a sign she’s concentrating. Maybe on the poster design, maybe on avoiding talking to me. I gather up the plates and plastic water bottles that are scattered around her room like pigeons in Trafalgar Square. I pick up her dirty clothes and put them in the laundry basket; I manage to resist commenting that, really, she should put her own clothes in the wash at her age. She tolerates the tidying for a few moments and then says, ‘I can’t really focus on this with you pottering about. Do you mind?’ She nods towards the door. Her tone is pleasant enough, but unequivocal.

  ‘Sorry, no. No, of course not. I’ll get out of your hair.’

  ‘Goodnight, then. Sleep well.’ It’s only seven o’clock so I guess what she’s saying is that I don’t need to bother her again tonight.

  ‘Don’t forget to pack your school bag.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  I close the door carefully behind me.

  I’m losing her. She’s slipping away from me, like sand through a timer; a constant flow, one way. The wrong way. Is this normal? Is this a teenage thing or a swapped-baby thing? I don’t know.

  Later, when Jeff and I are each devouring a glass of wine, I tell him what I did to Rachel. He sighs wearily; it’s annoying and exaggerated. ‘That was unreasonable.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘You can’t expect Rachel to want to talk about it as much as we talk about it.’