by Delaney, JP
“Hello,” he said, without ado. “Can we come in?”
“Why?” I asked stupidly.
“It’s about your son,” he said patiently. “I really think this would be better done inside.”
“All right.” And his manner was so brisk and purposeful that I found myself stepping away from the door, even though I was now thinking, Was it his child Theo hit? Am I about to get shouted at?
“Er—coffee?” I said, leading the way into the lounge—which is to say, taking a few steps back. Like most people in our street, we’ve ripped out the walls downstairs to create one decent-sized room. The older man shook his head, but I saw the younger man glance at my cappuccino. “I make them fresh,” I added, thinking a pause for coffee might defuse the coming row a bit.
“Go on then.” There was an awkward wait while I frothed more milk.
“I’m Miles Lambert, by the way,” he added when I was done. “And this gentleman is Don Maguire.” He took the cup I offered him. “Thanks. Shall we sit down?”
I sat in the only armchair and Miles Lambert took the couch, carefully moving some toys out of the way as he did so. Don Maguire sat in my swivel desk chair. I saw him cast an admiring glance at my MacBook.
“There’s no easy way to do this,” Miles said when we were all seated. He leaned forward, lacing his fingers together like a rugby player about to take a penalty. “Look, if it was me, I’d want to be told straight, with no bullshit, so that’s what I’m going to do. But prepare yourself for a shock.” He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry to have to tell you that Theo isn’t your son. He’s mine.”
I gaped at him. Thoughts crowded in on me. That can’t be right, followed by So that’s why this man looks like Theo. Disbelief, shell shock, horror, all paralyzed me. I’m not fast in a crisis, unfortunately; Maddie’s the one who thinks on her feet.
Maddie. Oh my God. Was this man telling me they had an affair? Is that what this is? That I’m a—
The word cuckold, with all its medieval ugliness, crashed into my brain like a rock. Maddie and I have had our problems, we’re like any couple in that regard, and there have been times over the last year or so when I’ve sensed her drawing away from me. But I’ve always put that down to the trauma of Theo’s birth—
Theo’s birth. Think straight, Pete. Theo was born just over two years ago. So it would have been two and a half years ago when this supposed affair happened. Which was nigh-on impossible. Maddie and I only came back from Australia, where we met, three years back.
I realized both Miles Lambert and Don Maguire were looking at me, waiting for me to react, and I still hadn’t said anything. “What are you trying to tell me?” I said numbly.
Miles Lambert simply repeated, “Theo isn’t your son. He’s mine.” His blue eyes held mine, concerned. “I’m sorry. I know it’s a shock. Please, take your time.”
It was Don Maguire who coughed and added, “You both have sons who were born prematurely, I understand, who were both separated from their mothers briefly when they were transferred to the neonatal intensive care unit at St. Alexander’s. It’s conceivable that, at some point during that process, the wrong tags were put on the wrong babies. That’s our working theory, anyway.”
Double negative, the editor shouted at me. The wrong tags got put on the right babies, you cretin. Which only goes to show that, at moments of crisis, you think the most bizarre things.
4
PETE
“SO YOU THINK YOU have our son. Our birth son, that is.” In all this chaos, it was the one thing I could grasp.
Miles Lambert nodded. “David. We called him David.”
“And what…” What happens now, I wanted to ask, but my brain just wouldn’t go there. “How do you know? That the babies got switched, I mean?”
Miles indicated Don Maguire. “This man’s a private investigator. He finds missing people.”
“But how do you know?” I insisted.
“I took the liberty of removing an item with Theo’s DNA on it from his nursery,” Don Maguire said apologetically. “I very much regret having to do that, but we didn’t want to put you through the strain of this approach if there was any chance we could be wrong.” As he spoke he was removing something from a padded envelope. It was Theo’s sippy cup, the one the nursery told me had gotten lost.
“The tests came back yesterday,” Miles added. “There’s absolutely no doubt.”
Don Maguire placed the sippy cup on my desk carefully, as if it were fragile bone china. “We’d like to return this to you now, of course.”
“Jesus. Jesus. You tested my son’s DNA without my permission—”
“Well, technically my son. But yes, we apologize that was necessary,” Miles said.
My son. The words thudded in my head.
“This is a copy of the test results for you,” Don Maguire added, taking an envelope from his folder and placing it next to the cup. “As Mr. Lambert says, there really is no doubt. Theo is his biological son.”
Theo. I couldn’t comprehend what this might mean for him. I put my head in my hands.
“What are you suggesting we do about this?” I managed to ask. “What do you want to happen now?”
Again, it was Maguire who answered. “Please understand, Mr. Riley. Nothing specific is being suggested here. Cases like this are so rare, there’s very little precedent—legal precedent, I mean. There’s certainly no automatic requirement for the family courts to get involved. It’s best for the parents to work out a solution between themselves.”
“A solution?”
“Whether to swap back, or stay as you are.”
The words, so stark and binary, hung in the air.
“Like I said, it’s a shock,” Miles added apologetically. “It was for me and Lucy, too, but obviously we’ve had longer to absorb it. You don’t need to say anything right now. And of course, you should get your own advice.”
I stared at him. The way he said it made it clear he’d already consulted lawyers.
“We’re suing the hospital,” he added. “Not St. Alexander’s—the private one where Lucy gave birth. You may want to join our action, but…like I said, that’s all TBD. To Be Discussed. There’s no rush.”
My eye fell on some pieces of red Duplo by his foot. Only that morning, Theo had assembled them into a tommy gun that promptly fell apart under the force of his overenthusiastic shooting-down of my attempts to get him to clean his teeth. A wave of love for him washed over me. And terror, at the abyss that had just opened up beneath us.
“Would you like to see a picture of David?” Miles asked.
Unable to speak, I nodded. Miles took a photograph from an inside pocket and handed it to me. It showed a small boy sitting in a high chair. He had a fine-featured face, fair hair, light-brown eyes. I could see instantly that he looked a lot like Maddie.
“You can keep that, if you like,” he added. “And if I could take one of—of Theo…”
“Of course,” I heard myself say. I looked around, but all my pictures were on my phone. The exception was one that someone had sent us after a birthday party, which I’d stuck to the fridge with a magnet. Theo dressed up as a pirate, complete with an eyepatch, a tricorn hat, and a cardboard cutlass that was raised toward the camera, his eyes alive with mischief. I took it down and handed it to Miles.
“Thanks.” He studied it for a moment, his eyes softening. “And this is me,” he added briskly, handing me a business card. “Mobile and email. Get in touch when you’ve had a chance for it all to sink in, yes? And discussed it with Madelyn, of course. Absolutely no pressure, but—I’m here. We both are.” He glanced at Don Maguire, then clarified, “Me and Lucy, I mean. Don’s part in this is over, I guess.”
I looked down at the card. Miles Lambert, Chief Executive Officer, Burton Investments. An office address in central London.
/> Miles reached down and plucked a foam football from the floor, squeezing it in his hand experimentally. “Sportsman, is he?” he asked conversationally. “Can he catch this yet?”
“Most of the time he can. He’s quite advanced, physically. A bit too advanced, in some ways.”
Miles raised his eyebrows, and I explained. “He sometimes gets a bit physical with the other kids at nursery. It’s something we’re working on.”
“Does he, now? Well, I wouldn’t worry too much about that if I were you. I was the same at his age. It came in quite handy on the rugby pitch later. Didn’t hear anyone complaining then.” Something about the way he said it—fond, almost proprietary—made me realize that, despite the surreal calmness of this conversation, I wasn’t just making small talk with another dad at a party. I was talking to my son’s father. His real father. My world had just turned upside down, and nothing was ever going to be the same again.
“We should get you around,” Miles was saying. “Make some proper introductions. When you’ve had a chance to digest it all.”
I tried to reply, but the words wouldn’t come. There was an awkward moment when I thought I was going to break down. Miles affected not to notice. He raised the picture I’d given him. “Anyway, thanks for this. Lucy will be thrilled. Something to be going on with.”
He tucked the photo inside his suit jacket, then held out his hand. His handshake was dry and decisive. “And try not to worry. We’re all reasonable people. It’s a terrible thing that’s happened, but it’s how we handle it that matters now. I really believe we’ll figure out the best way forward. But for the time being, we’ll get out of your hair.”
Don Maguire shook my hand, too, and suddenly they were gone. Miles Lambert hadn’t touched his coffee. I poured it down the sink. The washing machine beeped and I went to pull it open. Automatically I pulled the wet things out. It was as if I was in a kind of trance. On top of the pile was one of Theo’s T-shirts—mustard yellow, with I’M TWO, WHAT’S YOUR EXCUSE? across the front. For a moment I could almost feel Theo’s hot little body in my hands, the familiar shrug and wriggle of his tiny ribs as I hoisted him over my shoulder, the kick of his legs. Tears pricked my eyes and my chest heaved, but I knew I couldn’t fall apart, not yet. I had to call Maddie.
5
Case no. 12675/PU78B65: AFFIDAVIT UNDER OATH by D. Maguire, cntd.
Together with my client, Miles Lambert, I visited Mr. Riley at home. There we served notice that the child he believed to be his son was in fact the son of my clients, and that, conversely, the child my clients were bringing up was believed to be Mr. Riley’s.
Mr. Riley was understandably distressed by this news. At several points during the subsequent discussion he broke down in tears.
While he recovered his composure, I took the opportunity to make some observations of my surroundings. This was facilitated by the fact that it was a small space, the sitting room, playroom, kitchen, and dining room all being combined in the area in which we were sitting.
There were several indications that Mr. Riley was struggling to cope with his domestic routine. The table bore a number of soiled dishes, plates, and other kitchen utensils. Unwashed laundry was strewn over the furniture, and there were two empty wine bottles on the floor in the kitchen area. When I glanced at Mr. Riley’s computer, I noticed the browser was open at a men-only internet forum on which he appeared to be making an appeal for help with his parenting. (Subsequent investigation confirmed that, under the pseudonym Homedad85, Mr. Riley had made over 1,200 posts of a similar nature.) Another tab was open at a videogame, which was paused. Although Mr. Riley’s LinkedIn profile states that he is a freelance journalist, there was no evidence of this, nor of any journalistic work in progress.
My client reiterated several times to Mr. Riley that he and his wife wished to try to resolve this situation by means of discussion and reasonable compromise. Mr. Riley did not respond to these assurances. When his manner started to turn hostile, we left.
6
MADDIE
I’M IN A MEETING, going through the casting tapes for a Doritos commercial with the clients, when my phone flashes. We’re in the middle of a heated discussion—the director wants edgy, independent, moody teenagers, the client wants wholesome and smiley, a debate I must have chaired at least a hundred times, and we’re just starting to get somewhere by focusing on the director’s third choice who’s also the client’s second when the call comes. I glance at the screen. Pete. Or rather, PETER RILEY. The first time we met, four years ago, I put his name and surname into my contacts at the end of the evening, and somehow I’ve never gotten around to changing it to something less formal.
The phone’s on silent, so it goes to voicemail. But he instantly disconnects and rings again. That’s our signal something’s urgent, so I make an excuse and slip out of the meeting to call him back.
“What’s up?”
“It’s all right, Theo’s fine. He’s at nursery. It’s—” There’s the sound of a couple of deep breaths. “There was a man here just now with a private detective. He claims our babies somehow got mixed up in the NICU. So he thinks the little boy he’s got at home is ours and Theo—Theo—”
It takes a moment for what he’s saying to sink in. “It could be tested,” I say. “A DNA test.”
“They’ve done that. He left us a copy. Mads, this guy looked exactly like Theo.” There’s a pause. “I think he’s telling the truth.”
I don’t reply. Despite what Pete’s just said, I don’t really believe it. That sort of thing simply doesn’t happen. There must be some other explanation. But Pete’s clearly devastated, and he needs me to be there. I make a quick decision. “I’m coming home.”
I look through the glass wall into the meeting room. On the TV monitor, an impossibly rosy-cheeked fourteen-year-old is miming awed excitement at the contents of her packet of corn chips. Professional etiquette demands that I go back in and make my excuses, explain to the clients that there’s a family crisis; no, nothing life threatening, but I’d really better leave. But I don’t. Almost without being aware of it, I prioritize. I send a text to one of my colleagues, asking them to take over, and walk out of the building.
* * *
—
WHEN I WAS PREGNANT, I always assumed it would be me who’d be the primary carer. After all, the fact we were having a baby at all was ultimately down to me—the pregnancy was an accident, the timing bad in all sorts of ways. We even discussed termination, although I could tell Pete was uneasy about the idea, and eventually I admitted I was, too; I’m not always as hard-nosed and practical as my friends like to make out. But the international advertising agency that paid my relocation costs from Sydney to London included a year’s private health insurance in the package, and when I checked, it included maternity. Instead of having a baby on a crowded NHS ward, I could have it in the comparatively luxurious surroundings of a private hospital in Harley Street, complete with dedicated midwife, C-section on request, twenty-four-hour consultant care, and postbirth recovery program. Of course, the possibility of a pampered, luxurious birth would be a pretty terrible reason to have a baby—but as a reason to have a baby that already existed, why not?
Looking back, I think I’d already decided to keep it and was just looking for some kind of justification. Telling work was awkward, of course—I’d been in my new job less than four months, and now here I was, announcing I’d be taking a year off—but they were grown up enough to realize that, since they had no choice in the matter, they might as well sound pleased for me and emphasize that the position would still be there when I came back.
In short, it looked like everything was working out ridiculously well. But the gods had other ideas.
I was twenty-seven weeks when Pete and I went to Andy and Keith’s wedding. If you can’t let your hair down at a gay wedding, when can you? Later, I’d torture myself about
that. Was it the glass of champagne I allowed myself with the speeches? The exuberant dancing to Aretha Franklin and Madonna on the packed dance floor afterward? (I still can’t hear “Respect” without flinching.) The tumble I took on my way back from the ladies’, tripping over that marquee rope in the dark? The consultant told me it probably wasn’t any of those, but since he couldn’t say what did cause it, how could he be sure?
Next morning I had a terrible headache, which I put down to the glass of champagne now I wasn’t used to it. But I also realized I hadn’t felt the baby move for a while, and when I threw up it somehow felt different from my first-trimester morning sickness. So—since it was a Sunday, and we had a private hospital in Harley Street on tap, staffed by experienced midwives we could go and see anytime we liked—Pete suggested we get the baby checked out, then have brunch on Marylebone High Street.
As it turned out, that brunch plan saved our baby’s life.
“I’m just going to do a quick scan” turned into “I’m just going to get the doctor to take a look” and then suddenly a red cord I’d barely noticed in the corner of the room was being pulled and I was surrounded by people. Someone shouted, “Prep for theater.” I was bombarded with questions even as they were stripping me of my jewelry—I never did get my Vietnamese bracelet back—and putting in a catheter. Someone else was measuring my legs for stockings, of all things, and Pete was being told to scrub and change into a gown if he wanted to be present at the emergency C-section they were about to perform because of my sudden-onset preeclampsia. I was given an injection to help the baby’s lungs and a drip to help with something else, I never caught what. And then a surgeon appeared, took one look at the trace, and said just one word: “Now.” After that it was a blur of corridors and faces and gabbled explanations. There was no time for an epidural, another doctor told me. Seconds later, I was unconscious.
