Chloe’s irritation is becoming palpable. But I keep her waiting for a little longer, knowing that I won’t be able to fully concentrate before wrapping up my other work. Sure enough, her face is beginning to flush, and her crossed leg begins to twitch and then swing and shift with the other and back again. “Let’s start,” I finally say. She utters something indecipherable under her breath, but I ignore her. “Tell me exactly what happened that day.”
“Haven’t we already gone over this?” She arches her eyebrows and pulls the loose neckline over her bare shoulder. It stubbornly falls away again, showing a yellowing bra strap. She stares at me.
“And we’re going over it again, as many times as I feel is necessary.” I stare back at her until she shifts in her chair.
“I was at a party with my foster carers and Ben was there…” she starts. Despite knowing the story by heart, I pay attention to each word, alert to whether she deviates, even slightly, from her original account.
“Why didn’t you fight him off when he attacked you?”
“Don’t you think I tried?” she splutters, her face suddenly splashed with crimson. “He pinned me down until I could barely breathe. I can still feel him on top of me.” Her body shudders, as if trying to shake off the despicable memory, and I notice how bony her collarbone is. She looks to her lap and I catch a glimpse of the vulnerability that she normally keeps well hidden.
“So, why didn’t you tell the police when they questioned you?” I press. “Or the public defender?”
Chloe shrugs, pursing her lips until her mouth becomes a thin line. “Nobody asked why I was leaving the house,” she finally answers. “Everyone was focused on him being hurt, me running away, me doing the bad thing. Nobody bothered to ask why I wanted to get away.” She pauses to catch her breath. It’s the longest she’s spoken without prompting. “Nobody cared. Except for you.”
The urge to go to the other side of the desk and hug her, tell her that I’m here for her, is strong. But I’m still weighing whether I should even take her case, so I resist. Exhaling slowly, I tap my pen absentmindedly on my desk, looking at her, still proud and stubborn against the odds, and feel how much it’s costing her to try and trust me. This young girl has nobody in the world. Nobody to protect her or fight for her. Sadness creeps upon me as I think back to how alone I’d felt after I’d killed my attacker, how terrified I was of what I did catching up on me and having my life turned upside down. It could still happen and not a day goes by when I forget it. I could lose everything that I have built. She stands to lose everything that’s still to come.
“Look, I might be able to help you, Chloe. But I’ll need you to be honest with me. Tell me everything. No more half-truths or beating around the bush. I need all the details if I’m to present a winnable case.”
A knock on the door startles both of us. Jennifer walks in, making her way quickly to my desk. “I’m sorry to disturb,” she says, glancing towards Chloe. “But Mrs Spencer just called to say she’s on her way over. She received a letter from her ex-husband’s solicitor and wants to talk to you.”
The small silver clock on my desk shows it’s past five o’clock. This is going to be another long day. But Mrs Spencer is an important client, her constant legal battles with her rich ex-husband providing a good income for the firm, making it impossible for me to blow her off, especially for a pro-bono case.
“I’m sorry.” I turn to Chloe. “We have to cut this meeting short. Come back tomorrow?”
For a second Chloe looks wounded, then stands up quickly, before falling back into the chair. Her face turns grey, the colour draining from her cheeks and lips. Her eyes, usually so fiery and bright, look broken, the rims reddened and circled in shadow. Jennifer looks at me, stopped in her tracks. “Are you ok?” I ask, standing up and walking around the desk.
Chloe continues to sit there, still and hunched, her mouth working like she’s suddenly chewing on air. “What’s happening, Chloe?” I ask again.
She opens her mouth to speak, but no words come out. Instead, an expression of panic spreads over her face. Her eyes open wide and she slams her hand over her mouth, looking wildly around my office. Shooting out of the chair, she hurls herself towards the other end of my desk, pulling out the waste paper basket and throwing up inside it.
Jennifer rushes out of the room while I reach Chloe. She’s slumped to her knees and is still vomiting into the bin. Pulling her long hair away from her face, I rub her back, feeling the jerking movements her body is making as she retches over and over. “It’s ok, it’s ok.” I repeat the words like a mantra.
“Has this happened before?” I ask when she finally stops heaving. The suddenness of the episode is familiar but I can’t quite articulate it to myself.
Before she can reply, Jennifer is back in my office “Here, I got tissues, and water.” She puts one bottle of water on the floor, next to Chloe, and the other on the back of the girl’s neck. “Do you feel any better?” she asks.
There’s a small movement from Chloe and I think it’s a nod. A short while later she straightens up, wipes her mouth with the back of her palm, and looks at me. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Jennifer says before I can speak, handing Chloe an open bottle of water. “Here, drink this.”
Glancing at the door, I wonder when Mrs Spencer will arrive and walk straight in on this scene. Sensing my worries, Jennifer grabs Chloe by the arm. “Let’s go to the bathroom and get you cleaned up.”
The paper basket half hidden behind her skirt, Jennifer leads Chloe towards the door. She looks frail and thin, and drags her feet with every step. And then, as if she regained some energy, she turns back and asks: “Are you taking my case?”
Two sets of eyes stare at me. Pros and cons that I’ve been evaluating for a couple of days rush through my mind. No need for a hasty decision; I can always tell Chloe that I still need time to assess the case. But deep in my subconscious, my mind is made up. I know what the right decision is. I can’t turn my back on her. This could have been me.
“Yes,” I say. “Come back tomorrow if you’re feeling well enough.”
The corners of her mouth curl into a weak smile and the muscles in her face relax. She nods and turns around. Miles is going to be furious and Luigi is not going to be happy. But I’m relieved to have made a decision.
Chapter 10
1998
The bus let me off in the unfamiliar city and I lugged my suitcase down the steps. Although campus was not far, walking was not an option. Instead I’d have to take another bus. Totally exhausted after the long flight, I pondered a taxi. But I quickly quashed the thought, wanting to save as much money as possible.
Although classes didn’t start for a few days, relaxation was not an option. I headed to the library and asked whether they had any jobs. I needed every penny I could scrounge and if the library didn't work I'd have to ask at the cafeteria, something that I wasn't keen on. But I was in luck, the library was looking for a clerk in the preservation unit and it suited me perfectly, allowing me to schedule my shifts around my classes.
Satisfied with the day's accomplishment, I decided to go for a walk, clear my mind. But my body was starting to change and before long I started to feel tired. My back was stiff and my legs hurt. Craving a glass of water, I headed to a café. I was sitting at a table outside, across from a small park, reading, when I felt a hand on my shoulder. My body stiffened. I lacked the energy to turn my head. “Elizabetta!” came the familiar voice.
Even as the fear fizzled, I felt panic bubble inside my chest. I was banking on a new start, where nobody knew me. At least for a few months. “What are you doing here?” The words were out of my mouth before I could think how rude they sounded.
But Luigi didn’t seem bothered. “Same as you, I’d guess,” he quipped, sitting down next to me. “Let’s go explore,” he begged. A summer spent backpacking across America had not tired him in the least and he had major party plans for this year. “I hear N
ew Haven has a great nightlife.”
“But we’re underage. We won’t be able to get into any bars.”
“Oh, don’t you worry about that. I know where you can get a fake ID. I already have one.”
“Really?” My brain was going so fast that I almost felt dizzy. “How much would that cost?”
“Depends how believable you want it to be. A good one will set you back fifty dollars. That’s around thirty pounds. But it’s worth it. I haven’t been turned away from a single place.”
“All right, can you give me the details?”
Luigi’s eyes sparkled. “Only if you promise to come partying with me.”
*
Partying was the last thing on my mind. Once classes started, I immersed myself in my work. Any spare moment was spent at the library. It was there, as I sat hunched over a desk covered in books, that I felt the baby kick for the first time. At first I didn’t know what it was. The weird sensation made me instinctively clutch at my stomach. When it faded, I dismissed it as gas. But then realisation hit and I knew that I had put off this decision far too long. I only had a couple of months to come up with a plan.
Although I had tried my utmost not to think about the baby, it seemed that my subconscious had done a fair amount of evaluating and knew exactly the steps I needed to take. Despite locating a nearby Planned Parenthood clinic, I hadn’t gone to the doctor. I knew that I was too far gone for a termination to be possible, so what was the rush? There were moments when I regretted not ending the pregnancy before the summer break. Nobody else would have needed to know and I could have put this ordeal, this lasting sign of what had happened that night, out of my mind. But there was also a strange relief to have that decision pulled off the table. Sometimes I wondered whether I’d waited for so long because I wanted to try and give this child the best chance in life, if that was the only thing I ever did for it.
Yet I also knew that I wouldn’t be able to take care of it. There was no way I could be its mother. Not only would it mess with my plans for my life, but a baby would link me to him forever. It would be a constant reminder of John Larkin and I worried that someone would somehow find out that the baby was his and piece everything together.
The ease by which I reached a decision surprised me. There was no need to think about it. I knew what needed to be done and I was driven by my belief in doing the right thing by the child. That was my only option. This baby would be put up for adoption the minute it was born, enabling it to have a life with a family who wanted it and could take care of it. Most importantly, it would never be connected to John Larkin. Or with me.
With my mind made up, I tried to distance myself even more from the life growing inside me, knowing that I could never allow emotions to cloud my judgement. It was imperative to make the right decisions for this baby and for myself. This meant not leaving a trail behind me and making sure that I could never be tracked down, even half way across the world. While open adoptions might be a good option for some people, I wanted the cord to be totally severed. There would be no looking back.
It was as if the baby knew how important it was that its existence was kept a secret and while my tummy was getting a little rounder, it was never big enough to be conspicuous. As the weather started getting colder, I cloaked my body under layers of oversized clothes, shielding myself from the snow and from prying eyes. “I’ll find you good parents,” I’d whisper to it sometimes in the night if I felt it kick or move, as if telling me not to forget about it and to start making plans for its future.
Although I was a virtual unknown in a new country, I still worried about being tracked down, then or in the future. So that weekend I dyed my hair dark brown, wanting to mask my most striking feature. I was almost unrecognisable, even to myself, and when I went to the cafeteria to pick up a bagel for dinner, I was able to walk by Luigi without him noticing me.
The following Saturday I packed the thick rimmed glasses that I’d bought and pocketed the address that Luigi had given me. I needed to give birth to this baby not as Elizabeth, but as somebody else, someone who would disappear again once the baby was born. Someone who would never be seen or heard from again. It was the only way I could be certain of distancing myself completely from the child. I took the bus to a house in the Connecticut suburbs where a guy just a few years older than me was sitting in a makeshift studio. Three hours later I picked up the finished ID card. Another piece of the puzzle was completed. I was now Laura Black.
Now it was time to find parents for the baby. It felt like a massive task, one of the most daunting I had ever faced and a complete unknown.
After days trying to find as much as I could about adoption, I was feeling apprehensive but hopeful. The ability to arrange a private adoption in the US should allow me to stay under the radar. The next step was to find a lawyer who could broker the deal, ideally someone who was more focused on his pay packet for a successful adoption than discovering as much information as possible about the birth mother. As much as it pained me to admit it, I needed a true transaction-focused mercenary.
Huddled in a telephone box in town, I started making calls. The first two firms would not put me through to a lawyer. A man answered my third call. “Yes, that’s me. I’m Steven,” he said. I asked if he had any clients who were waiting to adopt a baby. His enthusiasm could be felt through the phone line.
The following week I took the bus to Stamford to meet with him. I was glad his office was in another city, easy enough to get to but far enough that nobody would know me. His office was on the third floor of an old building in a narrow street. I was winded by the time I got there, my changing body making me less mobile and tiring more quickly. Steven went straight to business, asking question after question about my situation, why I wanted to give the baby up, whether I wanted to be in its life. “I want to find a good family, someone who will take the baby as soon as it’s born,” I explained.
After what seemed like an eternity, he sat back in his chair and took a deep breath. “Do you want the baby to stay in the US?”
What a strange question, I thought. “Uhm, I don’t know. Why?”
He looked at me for what seemed like forever. “I have a great couple who would make marvellous parents.” They had been trying to have a baby for many years with no success, he explained, adding that they had already been approved as adoptive parents. “They’re English, like you. They might move back so the baby could be brought up there.” I felt myself shifting in the chair, uncomfortable under his scrutiny. “Would you mind that?”
Quickly I shook my head. “No, that’s fine.”
“They’ll pay for your medical bills and your delivery costs,” he said. It was a relief to hear. Somehow, I had not even thought about that expense.
Steven wanted me to see a doctor immediately. When I balked at making the journey to Stamford on another day, he somehow managed to get me an appointment for that same afternoon. I gnawed at my nails as I waited at the clinic for Laura Black’s name to be called, terrified that if something was wrong, I would be stuck with this child, unable to find a home for it and forced to explain myself.
There was no need to worry. Everything seemed to be going well and despite my lack of prenatal care the baby looked as healthy as could be. At least that’s what the doctor said. I refused to look at the screen, staring straight at the wall ahead to make sure I didn’t catch a glimpse of the life that was growing inside me. There was no way I was going to allow myself to get attached, to feel anything for this baby that would make it difficult to give it away.
As I left the clinic I wondered how other women would have rejoiced if they had been in my shoes, having been told by the doctor that the child they were carrying looked perfectly healthy. But all I could focus on was that I was a step closer to giving it up for adoption.
Two weeks later I was back at Steven’s office signing documents. Diagnostic tests had confirmed that the baby – a girl – was perfectly healthy and Steven was keen to get the pape
rwork finalised before I changed my mind. A social worker was there, and went over my rights. I was barely listening, not really interested in what she had to say, not caring how she was involved. My decision to give up the baby was final. The weeks-long cooling period seemed unnecessary and I asked whether I could waive it, sign the documents when the baby was born. But the social worker shook her head and said that this was mandatory. Later, Steven went over the process hastily. I would continue seeing the doctor and the couple would reimburse my travelling costs. They were offering a stipend to allow me to buy healthy food, something that I was grateful for. Once the baby was born, they would make a generous donation to cover any future medical costs associated with this pregnancy. Steven went to great pains to underline that this was not a payment for the baby, but solely a voluntary action to help me out.
The baby was due at the end of December. My biggest worry was that I would miss classes if she was born late. But there was little I could do.
It broke my heart to know that I wouldn’t make it home for Christmas, even though the scholarship included return flights for the holidays, which had already been booked. At the beginning of December I called my parents to tell them I was going to stay on campus for the holidays. “I have a lot of studying to do,” I fibbed. My chest felt tight as I heard the disappointment in Mum’s voice despite her words of understanding. It made me feel like I was the worst daughter in the world. I touched my belly and hoped that this child would never do that to her own parents. That she would always be grateful for their care, that she would return their unconditional love, that she would always make time for them, look forward to going home, talk to them about her dreams and her fears. And above all, that she would trust them enough to tell them when she needed help, if she ever got into trouble, and never feel forced to lie to them and suffer alone.
If You Only Knew: A gripping, debut thriller that you won't want to put down Page 8
