Despite not wanting to think about her, wishing more than anything to put all that had happened behind me, I couldn’t help but wonder how she was doing. Was she healthy? Did I do things right? Did I take care of her well enough while she was inside me? I felt this incredible urge to know. And without even realising what I was doing, I started walking towards the nursery.
I followed the signs and as I approached the end of the corridor, I saw a couple huddled together, staring through the large glass panel into the nursery, where babies were lined up in cots, dressed in shades of blue and pink. The couple was unaware of anything else that was happening around them, but just gazed right ahead, barely moving. The man was dressed in a perfectly tailored dark suit and had his arm around the woman, probably his wife. She was very slim, the large belt accentuating her tiny waist. There was no way she had given birth and I knew instinctively that it was them, that they were the people who were adopting her.
Alarm bells rang in my ears. “Walk away,” they warned, getting louder and louder. But I just couldn’t help myself. I kept walking slowly towards them. As I approached, the husband removed his arm from around the woman’s shoulders and whispered in her ear, before kissing her on the cheek, taking a last glance through the glass panel and walking away. She didn’t even look at him, continuing to stare through the glass, as if she was mesmerised.
I walked towards the woman, who didn’t move. I felt bad intruding on this special moment. But I just couldn’t help it. I looked at her. Her eyes were red and puffy but her lips were curved into an unmistakeable smile that revealed how she was bursting with happiness.
Following her gaze, I looked at the crib she was staring at. Even without that guidance I would have known which one she was. The fine strands of red hair could be seen escaping her woollen hat, contrasting against her pink skin. She was fast asleep, peaceful. The woman tore her eyes away from her daughter for a quick second to look at me, and smile, before returning her gaze to the person who really mattered.
“Which one is yours?” I heard myself asking, surprised that I was talking to her. She pointed at the crib where I knew she was.
“First row, third one from the left,” she said. “It’s a girl,” she added quickly.
I continued staring at the baby. “She’s beautiful.”
“Thank you.” A tear escaped the corner of her eye and started the rushed journey down her cheek, before she stopped it with her hand, blinking hard to stop others from forming.
We stood there, both staring at the same baby. I knew I should go, leave her alone to bask in her happiness. But I found myself unable to walk away, wanting to prolong this moment for as long as I could, knowing that I would never see her again. I wanted to etch the memory in my brain, allowing me to remember her like this, sleeping peacefully in the crib.
The woman turned to look at me. “Are you visiting someone?” she asked gently, as if she realised that it was only polite to make conversation.
“My sister,” I lied.
“Ooh,” the woman said. “That must be so exciting.”
I shrugged noncommittally. I needed to leave. I looked at the baby one last time, drinking in every inch of her. The curve of her cheek, the cute nose, the bow-shaped lips. “Goodbye,” I said to the woman.
“Good luck to your sister,” she said, reaching over to clasp my hand. As she stretched, the small bag that she had been holding under her arm slipped from her grip, falling to the ground, opening and spewing her belongings all over the corridor. Coins – both pounds and dollars – spread across the tile floor and a tube of lipstick rolled towards the corner. A packet of tissues cartwheeled to my feet and pieces of paper fluttered to the floor. We both bent down to pick up her belongings. She put her bag on the floor, and we both put the items back inside. I picked up her mirror, which had miraculously remained intact. She reached out for her wallet, but it was open, and when she picked it up all its contents dropped out. We looked at each other and laughed, starting again to pick up everything. I was putting a few coins inside the zip compartment when I noticed her British driving licence peeking out. Without even thinking, I reached out, took it and put it in my pocket.
Chapter 13
2014
Maya is sitting at the kitchen island, reading, when I get home that Friday. She looks up and smiles, her eyes glistening in the light coming from the overhead lamps. Putting my bag down on the island, I sigh deeply that this week is finally over.
“Hello, Mrs P.” She closes her book and sits straight on the stool.
“Hi Maya, are the kids asleep?”
“Yes.” Then, looking at her watch, she adds: “I put them down around forty-five minutes ago.”
Although her answer was expected, it’s still depressing. By six o’clock I’d been ready to leave, to rush home and start off the weekend. But then the phone rang and I had to deal with a work crisis. “I kept them up a little longer, but in the end they both were too tired,” Maya says.
“Did they give you any trouble?”
“Not at all. Julian wanted to finish his homework. I took a peek and it looks like a good job. They helped me make chicken nuggets. There’s some left that I put in the freezer.”
The kitchen is pristine. The sparkling white countertop doesn’t look like anyone has just done any cooking, let alone with the help of small children. The utensils are lined up on their magnetic strip; the floor is immaculate. Sometimes Maya seems to know how my mind works. I pick up a small jar of white pepper that’s next to the sink and put it in the alphabetised spice rack.
“Thank you so much.”
“Mum brought over a chicken casserole. I put it in the fridge.”
The grumbling in my stomach makes Maya giggle, a lovely sound that brings a smile to my face. “Thank your mum, she’s a life saver.”
A staccato ring comes from the dishwasher. Maya jumps off the stool and starts emptying it, putting all the contents away. I catch my breath as I watch her line everything up, the mugs with their handles facing to the right, bowls and plates separated according to their size and colour. Just the way I would do it.
Pouring myself a glass of water, I stand across from Maya, taking small sips.
“What’s new with you?” I ask her.
“Not much, it seems that all I do is study these days.” She gestures towards the book she put down earlier.
“Introduction to Philosophy,” I read the title. “Thrilling!”
“Yeah, right.” She makes a face like she’s been cast in cement from boredom, and before we know it, we’re both laughing, the offending book lying on the countertop between us.
“I should go,” Maya says after a while. I feel a pang of disappointment. But before she leaves, she takes the casserole out of the fridge and spoons a portion onto a plate. “You can put this in the microwave when you’re ready to eat.”
Upstairs, I check on the kids. Opening the door to Leah’s bedroom, I look at her small shape sprawled over the bed. She’s uncovered, the blanket shoved to one corner. With her legs and arms wide open, she looks like a starfish. Kissing her softly on the forehead, I tiptoe out of the room, closing the door behind me, and walk down the corridor to the next bedroom. Blue light is coming from a nightlight, projecting Star Wars characters onto the walls. Just like his sister, Julian is fast asleep, clutching his blanket close to his chin. My heart fills with love for my five year old son as I look at him for long minutes. I kiss him softly and walk out of the room, longing for the morning when he will be awake.
The master bedroom is at the other end of the hallway. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I crane my neck from side to side and arch my back to stretch in the hope that the stiffness, caused by hours slouching in my chair poring over documents, will go away. Then I try one of my breathing exercises, inhaling through my nose and pushing the breath loudly out through my mouth.
There’s a knock on the front door. For a second I think I’ve imagined it, and am just about to go back to changing out of my suit, when
I hear it again. I contemplate ignoring whoever’s at the door. But perhaps it’s Maya and I rush downstairs, barefoot. Opening up, I see it’s my neighbour, Ellen, on the doorstep. “Maya said you’re alone. Would you like some company?”
“Come on in,” I say, holding the door wide and hugging her tightly as she steps in.
“Feels like I haven’t seen you in ages,” she says.
“I know. I’m sorry I had to cancel lunch these past few weeks. I’ve been so busy.”
It was around a year after we moved to the neighbourhood that I bumped into Ellen on Regent Street. She was out of breath, lugging several shopping bags. “Here, let me help you,” I’d said, taking some of her load. As she thanked me I smelt the alcohol on her breath. “I was going to grab something to eat,” I said. “Why don’t you join me?”
We’d popped into Fortnum and Mason and I sat back as Ellen told me hilarious stories about the other neighbours. By the time we finished our sandwiches, we’d made plans for weekly lunches in the city.
“Thank you for the casserole,” I say now.
“Have you eaten?” she asks and as if on cue my stomach grumbles one more time. I take the plate Maya had prepared and put it in the microwave.
“A glass of wine?” The words are barely out of my mouth before I start to regret them. There was one time when Ellen confided in me about a period of heavy drinking many years ago, before Maya was born, when the pressure of repeated failed fertility treatments got to her. But although she’s sometimes tipsy, she seems in control, the only effect of alcohol being her increased chattiness.
“Please.”
Reaching for two glasses and a corkscrew, I pop open the bottle.
“Did you put the kids to bed?” she asks.
“Maya did.” Holding it from the stem, I twirl the glass round and round, looking into the golden liquid swishing inside. “I’m missing out on so much time with them.” The thought never leaves me but I rarely say it aloud. I wasn’t there when Julian crawled for the first time. Or when Leah said her first word.
The microwave pings, interrupting my thoughts, and I tuck into the meal, sighing my satisfaction as I swallow the delicious dark thick sauce sticking to the chicken and vegetables, covering them with sweetness.
Sitting around the kitchen island I am transported back to the day Ellen walked into my life, the first person to knock on my door to welcome me to the area. The memory of that Saturday morning is as clear in my head as if it was yesterday and not five and a half years ago. On my own, I was surrounded by boxes that needed to be unpacked, unsure where to start. Miles was at work and I was left with the overwhelming task of turning the empty rooms into a home. Opening a box, I’d stopped, unable to bring myself to start unpacking. So, I moved on to the next box. And the next. When Ellen showed up at my door with a chicken pie, I burst into tears. Within seconds, she’d put the dish down on an unopened box and was hugging me. I’d cringed at the close contact with someone I didn’t know, but she held me tight. “It’s ok, everything’s going to be ok,” she’d said softly in my ear, rocking my body gently as if I was a child.
Ellen gets up from her stool and walks towards the far end of the kitchen. She tears out two sheets of paper towels from the roll on the countertop and hands them to me. “Careful you don’t get your clothes dirty.”
Tucking one into my shirt’s collar, covering the front of my silk blouse, I shrug out of my jacket, hanging it over the back of the stool. Laying the other towel on my lap, I take another spoonful. Ellen beams her approval.
It had taken me some time to stop sobbing when we first met, but when the tears had finally dried up, Ellen released her grip and I blushed in embarrassment at my outburst. “Second trimester,” I’d explained and Ellen smiled. “Let’s get you all moved in,” she said. Walking into the house, she started to unpack a box. For the next few hours, we worked together, taking items out of boxes and putting them away, Ellen fussing over me like a mother hen and taking care of anything that she deemed heavy.
Picking up my wine glass, I clink it against Ellen’s. “These are the glasses you gave me after we moved in.”
I had been stocking the shelves in the pantry when I heard the sound of glass shattering followed by a piercing scream, making me jump in shock. “What happened?” I asked rushing towards Ellen. “Are you hurt?”
She was standing still looking at the floor. Next to her feet was a box of wine glasses, or what remained of them. “I’m so sorry,” she finally said, bending over to pick up the box, which had luckily contained the broken glass.
“Don’t worry about it,” I responded. “Those came from Ikea, and anyway, it’s not like I’m drinking much wine these days.”
But Ellen would not stop apologising and the next day she had turned up at the house with a beautifully wrapped box. I’d invited her inside, but before she stepped in, she looked to her left and summoned someone.
Maya skipped into the house, her red hair bouncing up and down as if it had a life of its own, the thick white hairband barely containing it. “Hello,” she’d said, cocking her head to one side and politely extending her right hand.
My feet felt glued to the floor and I stood there, transfixed, looking at the young girl, taking in the delicate red brows, her small upturned nose, cheeks that still held a childhood chubbiness, and eyes the colour of emeralds. “This is Maya, my daughter,” Ellen said, breaking the spell.
“Hello, Maya.” Shaking her hand, I marvelled at her strong grasp, so unusual for her age.
“We’ve come to help you with the rest of the unpacking,” Ellen said. “Maya can start on the books and we can continue with the breakables.”
“Thank you.” I showed Maya into the shelf-lined room that was to become our office and watched for a few minutes while she started taking books out of boxes and lining them neatly on the shelves.
In the kitchen, Ellen put the box she had been carrying on top of the island. “This is for you.” I removed the wrapping paper to uncover a box of crystal wine glasses. “I wanted to replace the ones I broke,” she said.
Miles found us sitting on the sofa when he got home from the hospital that evening. Maya had left shortly beforehand, but Ellen had stayed to keep me company. We’d kicked off our shoes and were chatting about everything and nothing. The house had started to look like a home. I’ll always be grateful for Ellen’s help and the friendship that had started forming that day.
What Ellen doesn’t realise and what I would never tell her was that we’d met before. Soon after her life changed forever. It had been a short meeting that she surely didn’t remember, as she had much more important things to think about. And even if she did, she’d never think it had been me who stood next to her at the clinic as she looked at her newborn daughter.
Chapter 14
Ellen takes a long sip out of her wine glass. She tucks a glossy strand of hair behind her ear. Her brown eyes stare into the depth of the glass as she twirls the stem round and round.
She has worn the same hairstyle all these years, a neatly parted brown bob that I now know to be expertly coloured every six weeks. Back then, behind the door of my hospital room I turned the driver’s licence over in my hand, gazing at her photo. The sophisticated air and the kind brown eyes – her face had already been committed to memory from our brief encounter. Even without the help of the photo on the driving licence, I knew that I would never forget it. The happiness, so clear in her eyes as she stared at her baby daughter would remain in my mind forever.
At first, I didn’t know what to do with the driving licence. At the dorm I put it in my underwear drawer and eventually forgot about it. Or at least I told myself that I had. I focused on my studies and tried not to think about the baby I’d given away. Whenever I caught myself wondering what she was doing, whether she had smiled for the first time, if she was happy, I tried to shake the thoughts out of my head. I wanted her to be part of my past, a past that was never to be relived. My only focus was doing well in
my studies and getting into law school, earning the money to pay for it, and then earning enough to pay back my student debt. That was my way out.
It was as I was packing before returning back to England that I found it again. I turned it this way and that in my hand, trying to decide if I should throw it out, forget that I’d ever had it and make myself move on. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it and in the end I stuffed it in the inside pocket of my duffel bag, where I had hidden everything that reminded me of the attack and its aftermath, unwilling to leave the newspaper cutting at my parents’ house. I’ve since thrown out the bag, hiding everything under my wedding shoes, where I know Miles would never look.
“Have you noticed anything different about Maya lately?” Ellen asks, interrupting my thoughts.
“I don’t think so,” I respond. Ellen’s love for her daughter is intense and leads her to scrutinise every minuscule turn her daughter makes and reads volumes into insignificant actions. Last year it was a new friend that Ellen was not sure about and two months ago all she could talk about was Maya’s short-lived vegetarianism. “She seems the same to me. Why do you ask?”
Ellen inhales deeply before taking another sip of wine. “I don’t know. She seems different. Distant. Almost as if she can’t wait to be out of my sight.”
Hiding my face behind my glass of wine, I take a long sip to buy myself some time, consider my words, as I try to control a pang of jealousy and instead focus on what a great mother Ellen is and how much she loves Maya. Still, deep inside there’s a desire to tell her to chill out, stop being on Maya’s case, stop obsessing about her daughter’s results and who she’s friends with, start giving her some autonomy. I want to tell her that Maya needs space to be a teenager; to make mistakes, and not have her mother constantly within arm’s reach. She’s not a baby any more, but Ellen seems not to have noticed. I’ve seen her looking at her daughter, analysing every small movement, telling her to stand straight, picking non-existent lint off her already spotless sweaters, using her fingers to comb out imaginary knots in the teenager’s hair. It feels that whenever Ellen opens her mouth, it’s to tell Maya what to do and what not to do.
If You Only Knew: A gripping, debut thriller that you won't want to put down Page 11
