The Making of Us

by Lisa Jewell

  “But what I don’t understand is why I don’t remember it. I mean, I must have been there. Or I must certainly have known my mum was pregnant, that there was going to be a baby. I must have met the baby, you know? And then realized that it was there one day and gone the next. I don’t understand how I could have forgotten that? I mean, surely it should be in here”—she pointed at her own head—“somewhere? Surely I should know this. Surely I should know!” She dropped her head into her hands and groaned. “My sick, fucked-up, fucking family,” she growled.

  Dean looked at her with concern. He wanted to calm her down but didn’t want to make things worse. “Listen,” he said, putting a hand on her upper arm. “Listen. I don’t want to sound like I don’t believe you, but maybe it’s not as bad as you’re thinking. Maybe there’s a better explanation.”

  “Like what?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe someone took the baby. Maybe it was adopted. Maybe after your mum died your dad couldn’t cope with a new baby and he gave it away.” He stopped abruptly. The realization struck him like a metal weight against his chest: he could be talking about himself. He stopped breathing for a few seconds and then he inhaled. His heart pattered tremulously. He licked the Rizla paper and he sealed the spliff and then he lit it. The first rush of smoke to his bloodstream calmed his nerves for a moment. He imagined Lydia’s father. He imagined him big and shiny, like a skinned rottweiler. He imagined him with rheumy eyes and thick fingers and a snarling mouth. He imagined him ugly and spitting and crazed. The sort of man who could throw a small baby to its death; the sort of man who could kill his wife and then sit back in an armchair and get on with the rest of his life. He imagined, in other words, the man that Lydia remembered. The weird man. The strange man. The ugly man.

  And then he wondered what his own daughter would imagine when she thought of him in years to come. The man who couldn’t raise her because she was too small and too clever and too fucking perfect. The man who couldn’t raise her because he was too small and too stupid and too fucking pathetic. Would she see an ugly man? A spiteful man? Would she hate him so much that she could reasonably picture him throwing babies off balconies?

  He blanched at these thoughts, dragged two, three, four times greedily from the spliff before passing it to Lydia.

  She took it without comment and he watched with interest as she put it to her lips and inhaled. And as he watched her, all of a sudden he could see her as she said she’d once been, a loner, a drinker, a loser. He looked at her and saw her fade and then re-form in front of his eyes into a hunched teenager, with a faithful dog, sitting on the bank of a disused railway, drinking away the pain of her own bitter disappointment. He suddenly felt closer to her than he’d ever felt to any human being. He wanted to pull her to him and hug her, but he could see that she was lost for now in her own terrible thoughts. After a couple of draws on the spliff she handed it back to him with a small smile and then she laid herself backward against the long grass and crossed her arms over her heart.

  He lay down with her and for a while they rested together in silence, studying the astringent blue sky, passing the spliff back and forth until it was nothing more than a tiny brown lump.

  The silence was absolute, broken only occasionally by the twittering of a small bird somewhere out of sight. Dean had not experienced such silence since he was a child, in a place quite like this, somewhere in Devon, lying with Tommy, sweaty and exhausted after two hours of playing soldiers. He could remember the moment clearly: the two of them panting hard and loud, in and out, the grass tickling his neck, his cheeks burnished red, watching the sun pulsating gently overhead. He remembered eating up the feeling, swallowing it deep inside, knowing that it was rare, knowing that it was special. And now here it was again, a perfect cloudless day, a kind sun, long grass and a kindred soul. He closed his eyes and he breathed it in again, wondering how long it would be until the next time he felt so complete.

  He let his thoughts wander beneath the bloodred of his closed eyelids. He thought of things he hadn’t let himself think about for a long time. He thought of the moments outside the room in the hospital when Sky was silently dying behind the doors. He thought of Rose’s face as the doctor explained what had happened, the way all the muscles that kept her face looking like a face had collapsed as one, leaving her suddenly a hundred years old. And he thought of the way his daughter had looked in that plastic box, so inhuman, something that a person was not genetically programmed to see, like a two-headed man or a cow with six legs. Wrong and unlikely yet radiantly beautiful, a fleeting glimpse of a celestial angel. He hadn’t thought of these things for so long because they had nauseated him, but he could bear to contemplate them here, now.

  A sudden breeze stirred the air; it sounded like water rushing over rocks. He opened his eyes and saw that Lydia was gone. He sat up too fast. Blood rushed to his head and rocked his brain from side to side. And then he saw her, standing a few feet away, her hands in her pockets.

  “You’re right,” she said as he got to his feet. “I’m being too dramatic. There could be any number of explanations. I need to see Rod. I need to see my uncle.”

  He nodded. “D’you know where he lives?”

  “Sort of,” she said. “I know the name of the village. Once we’re there it’ll just be a matter of asking around. Thing is, though, it’s getting late. By the time we’ve done this it’ll be too late for the train back to London. I’ll probably take a room somewhere, in a B and B or something. But it’s up to you. I’ll get the taxi to drop you back at the station, if you like, or you can stick around with me.”

  Dean got to his feet and stretched himself out. He considered the options. He wanted to know what had happened to Lydia’s baby brother. But he had the feeling that Lydia wanted to do this on her own. He also felt there were things he needed to do too, people he needed to talk to. He had learned more about himself in the last ten minutes here in this forgotten hollow full of thick, unsullied air than he had in the last twenty years of his life. He could be more of a man than Lydia’s father had been. And he could be more of a person than he’d ever thought possible.

  He’d seen now where Lydia had come from, he’d seen her council flat, her dowdy village, the place she came to escape. And he’d seen where she’d gotten to, the mansion, the housekeeper, the burly fake-tanned trainer. He didn’t want a mansion and housemaid and burly fake-tanned trainer. He just wanted more than he had. And for the first time in his life he really believed, not only that he was capable of more, but also that he deserved more.

  “It’s all right,” he said, “I reckon I’ll get back, if that’s okay with you?”

  “That’s fine with me.” Lydia smiled.

  “And he’s cool, is he, this uncle of yours?”

  She smiled again. “As far as I recall,” she said. “I don’t remember much about him, but I’m pretty sure he was a sweetheart.”

  “Good.” Dean nodded. “And you’ll be all right, staying here?”

  “Yes,” she said, laughing. “I’m a big girl.”

  “Yeah,” he said, “I know you are. You’re brilliant. I just . . .” He stared at his sneakers meaningfully for a moment, wondering if he should say what was on his mind. He looked up at her and blushed. “I’ve only just found you. I don’t want to lose you again. That’s all.”

  Lydia’s face did something strange then. It sort of shifted into a different position, as if she were preparing to impersonate someone famous, and then suddenly she was crying. “Come here,” she said.

  He stepped into her arms and let her hug him. It was still there, that stiffness, that reserve, but less so than before. This felt more familiar. “I’m not going anywhere,” she said, her lips pressed to his ear. “I’m right here for you now, forever. Okay?”

  “Okay,” he whispered back into her ear.

  And then they headed away from the sweet silence and solitude of this tiny corner of the universe and back toward the waiting taxi.

  LYDIA<
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  The first person Lydia asked knew exactly who Rodney was and exactly where he lived.

  “Over there,” the slightly vague woman in a blue headscarf had said, “there, other side of the hall, the cottage looks like it’s falling down. Got a weeping willow outside.”

  Lydia had smiled gratefully, and also in amusement. She was right to think that nothing would have changed. She was sure that locals would say that it had, that the area wasn’t what it used to be, that it was all so different, but to Lydia’s refreshed eyes, this place where she’d been bred, this place that had raised her, it was all precisely the same, even down to vague ladies of indeterminate age in blue headscarves.

  She stood now in front of the cottage, which was exactly as the woman had described it, crumbly and tumbledown but not without its charms. Not the least of which was the extravagant willow that hung like an upturned head of hair over the small front garden, patterning everything in its shadow with intricate Moorish dappling.

  The front door to the cottage was made of wide planks of wood, painted gray. Lydia grabbed a heavy iron ring and knocked it against a matching iron plate. She turned to the cabdriver, parked on the road, and threw him a nervous smile.

  A moment later the door opened and there he was. Uncle Rod. He was a small wiry man, physically youthful but gaunt and craggy in the face. His hair appeared to be dyed black and he still wore a small silver hoop in his left ear. He was dressed in a band T-shirt, some kind of heavy metal thing involving snakes and crosses, and faded black jeans. He peered at her curiously through round wire-framed spectacles. He looked terrified.

  “Hello,” she said, as coolly as she could. “I’m Lydia.”

  “Of course you are!” His face opened up into a smile. “Wow! Gosh! You haven’t changed a bit. Do come in.” He pulled the door open wider and revealed a flagstoned kitchen and a small greasy-haired dog, sitting behind him and panting.

  “Is this okay?” she asked. “Is now a good time?”

  “Now is an excellent time.” He smiled again. “I was just making my supper. You can join me, if you like?”

  Lydia looked at this gentle pixie of a man and saw the welcome glow of a comfortable lived-in home behind him. Her stomach felt entirely empty and she could see on the kitchen counter a chopping board spread with fresh herbs and a small uncooked chicken in a roasting pan. She approached the taxi driver and peeled five £20 notes from the large wad in her purse and then watched him leave, heading back toward the city.

  “I must say,” said Rod, leading her into his kitchen and installing her at a battered wooden table covered with paperwork and old newspapers, “you look very well. The last time I saw you, well, you must have been about . . .”

  “Eighteen. It was Dad’s funeral.”

  “Yes, that’s right. I saw you then, but from a distance. I didn’t want to intrude.”

  Lydia nodded her head sympathetically, as though she understood perfectly why Uncle Rod had kept his distance at the funeral, but she didn’t, she had no idea.

  “You were just off to university then, weren’t you, off with all your A levels, your aunty Jean told me. I bet your dad must have been so proud.”

  “He didn’t know,” said Lydia, smoothing her hands against her thighs. “He was in the hospital by the time I got my results. I mean, I told him about them but I don’t think he could hear. You know?”

  Rod nodded and leaned back against the kitchen counter, his legs crossed at the ankles. “Well, I suppose I can guess why you’re here.”

  She smiled.

  “You got the article, then?”

  “Yes,” she said, “I got the article.”

  “Yes. Sorry about that. Wasn’t quite the ideal plan. But it was just, I don’t know, I’d been carrying that blessed secret around with me for nearly thirty years, you know? Thirty years knowing too much about you.” His voice trailed away and he turned to the counter, where he started rhythmically to untie the chicken, shred herbs, stuff the cavity, rub butter under the skin, slice carrots, peel potatoes and boil water. Lydia watched him hungrily, listening to the words that flowed from him in his sinewy Welsh accent. “Anyway,” he continued, “you know how sometimes the time for something just feels right? You leave something and you leave it and you know you should be doing something about it but you keep putting it off, and then something happens and you think, Aha, now I know why I waited, now I know why I put it off, because now is the right moment. Well, that’s what I felt when I saw that newspaper article. I could live with you not knowing your real father, in a way that was my last gift to my brother, but you not knowing your brothers and sisters, believing that you’re all alone in the world . . . well, I may or may not have made a terrible mistake, you may hate me for it forever, but I felt deep down in my heart of hearts that I’d done the right thing.”

  He was facing away from her now and Lydia could see the sharp edges of his shoulder blades pushing against the fabric of his black T-shirt. She felt inexplicably sorry for him and found herself getting to her feet and standing alongside him. “It’s okay,” she said, touching his arm. “It’s okay. You did the right thing. Honestly.”

  “I did?” he said, turning to face her.

  “Yes. Totally. It was a relief to find out that my dad wasn’t my dad and, God . . .” She felt the next few words rushing too fast to the tip of her tongue, so laden with joy and happiness were they. “I found my brother! I joined that Registry, and I found my little brother! He’s called Dean. He’s twenty-one. He’s lovely. And there’s a sister, too, but I haven’t been in touch with her yet. I think I will when I get back. I think I’m ready now. And then last week the dad signed up. The dad. The donor! And he wants to meet us. And it’s been really weird. I won’t pretend I was totally happy when I got your letter, I can’t pretend I wasn’t angry with you because I was. But it’s all coming together now. And I promise you, whatever happens, you did do the right thing, you really did.”

  “Oh, thank God. Thank God for that. I’ve been wrestling with myself ever since, you know. Killing myself over whether or not I’d ruined your life. But I just had this feeling. And thank God that feeling was right.”

  “But why did you do it anonymously?” asked Lydia, stooping to stroke the greasy and slightly pungent dog who was sitting on her feet, looking at her hopefully.

  “I’m not sure really,” he said. “I think I just wanted it to be something you could ponder in isolation, if you see what I mean? Not think about anyone else. Just your dad and how you came to be. Not worrying about poor old Uncle Rod and how he was doing. And it’s not that I haven’t thought about you often over the years because I really have, very often. You were such a funny little girl, so stern and serious, and I always had the softest spot for you. I’d take you out to the playground . . . I even took you to the department store once to get you some new shoes—but I don’t suppose you remember that.” He smiled and his eyes filled with the mist of nostalgia.

  Lydia shook her head. She certainly did not remember that. But there were bigger and more pressing missing memories to confront. She went to the table to retrieve the old shopping bag with the baby clothes in it.

  “Listen,” she said. “I’ve been here all day, with my brother, wanting to . . . I don’t know really, wanting to confront my fear of my past, I suppose. I wanted to show my brother where I came from, show him the flat, show him where my mother died, show him the places I used to go when I was young. When I was like him. And I’d kind of wanted to work out what happened that day, the day my mum fell off our balcony. I thought maybe if I went there and saw the place again, it might trigger something. That I might suddenly remember. But instead of remembering, I’ve ended up finding out more stuff that I’ve forgotten.”

  She handed him the shopping bag silently and watched as he peered inside.

  “Good God,” he said. He put down a wooden spoon and pulled the clothes out. He held them in his hands and stared at them, blinking behind his glasses. “Good God,
” he said again. He looked at Lydia and said, “Where did you find these?”

  “The man who lives in the flat now, he found them in Dad’s wardrobe. He’d had them all this time.” Lydia felt her heart race then as she mentally prepared herself for the truth, whatever it may be.

  “Jesus Christ,” said Rod. The color had left his face. He took the clothes and sat down heavily in one of his paint-splattered, spindle-back chairs. Then he removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I can’t believe your dad put these away. I can’t believe he kept them.”

  “But whose are they?” she asked, desperate for him to get to the crux of the thing.

  He stood up again and opened the oven door with a tattered padded glove. He slid the chicken into the oven and then he came back to the table. He sat down opposite Lydia and smiled at her sadly.

  “They belonged to your baby brother,” he said. “His name was Thomas.”

  Lydia felt a terrible jolt of sadness run through her. “Thomas?”

  “Yes. He was a lovely little thing. He really was.”

  Lydia’s heart quickened. “What happened to him?” she asked brusquely.

  Rod sighed and slid his glasses back onto his face. “Oh, God,” he said. “I don’t know where to start here, Lydia, to be honest. This is all so unbearable. It really is. And I swore . . . oh, Jesus, I swore I’d never say. But little Thomas, well, he died.”

  Lydia blinked and gulped. There it was. Just as she’d expected. “Was it him?” she asked. “Was it my father? Did he . . . did he kill my brother?”

  Rod looked at her in amazement. “What? Trevor? Kill the baby? Good God, no! No! What on earth . . . I mean, why would you ask that?”

  Lydia felt a wave of tension lift from her body. “I don’t know,” she said, “I just thought . . .” She didn’t finish her sentence. “So what did happen?”

  “Well, little Thomas was only five days old when your mum died. Tiny little thing he was. And your dad, well, I suppose he had a kind of breakdown. He couldn’t cope. Our mum took in the baby, but she wasn’t young then, she was in her late sixties and not well herself. And there was a lady in the village here who said she could take in a baby . . .”