by Claire Allan
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
Louise
My heart was thumping in my chest when I knocked on her door. Not with fear, mind. I wasn’t scared. I was just desperate to see my baby. To hold her. I felt as if I’d just given birth and the primal urge for skin-to-skin contact was strong.
Just as it had been with Noah. As soon as I came round from the anaesthetic, I’d begged for him.
‘Let me hold him,’ I’d screamed, even after they’d taken him away for the last time, leaving me to hug nothing but my empty arms to my chest.
She opened the door with my child in her arms, Eliana. She was the most beautiful baby. So small. So delicate. Rosebud lips. A button nose. Soft lashes gently grazing her cheeks as she slept in her arms. The woman looked at me, examined me, and for a moment I was sure she could place me as ‘that woman in the café’.
‘I’m here to see you and your baby,’ I stuttered, flashing my folder at her. ‘I’m from the health visitor team. I’m here to see if we can offer you any support.’
‘Support?’ she said, blinking into the daylight. ‘Like what kind of support?’
I could see she was taking me at my word. Probably too tired, too shell-shocked from the birth to think otherwise.
‘We know being a new mum can be a daunting time,’ I said, my best sympathetic look on my face. ‘A lot of people don’t talk about that. How scary it can feel. I’m one of a new team offering a listening ear for mums and, of course, if we can offer any practical support, we will. But it seems as if your little one’s doing just fine.’
I nodded towards the baby sleeping in her arms. She looked down and I saw it then, what I never thought I’d see from her. Love. A bond. Despite her tiredness. Despite her difficult pregnancy. I saw she had the desire to be a good mum.
I couldn’t waver. I deserved that baby as much as she did, if not more. She can always have another baby. I can’t. So I didn’t waver, and just as she looked at the baby, I did too. Just as she felt that bond, I felt that bond. Just as she wanted to make things work, I wanted to make things work.
I was a mother as much as she was. In that moment I felt it.
‘Maybe I could come in and we could chat over a cup of tea,’ I asked. ‘Just a friendly chat, nothing to be worried about.’
She nodded, turned and led me into her living room.
‘If you want to show me where your tea things are, I’ll make us both a cup and we can chat,’ I said.
As I’d hoped, she said she’d make the tea and told me to take a seat. She’d only be a minute, she said. She apologised for being in her dressing gown still. I told her not to worry. I don’t think I’d dressed for an entire month after my child’s birth, I told her.
I watch as she laid the baby oh so tenderly in her crib. She turned to look at me and asked how I took my tea. I told her milk but no sugar. ‘I’m sweet enough,’ I smiled, and she gave me a warm smile in return.
I could see she trusted me. Liked me, even. I could see she was grateful for someone to talk to. In different circumstances, perhaps we could’ve been friends.
But we wouldn’t ever be friends. As I heard her potter around the kitchen, I crept out of her house, the baby wrapped in a blanket in the large bag I’d brought with me. Lying on top of Noah’s notes.
I was sure she’d understand in time, but I couldn’t wait around.
I’ll never know for sure if it was her wailing that I heard carried on the wind as I turned out of the street and hurried towards my car. I don’t want to think about it too much.
I promised my baby as I put her in the car, that I was going to give her the best of everything. My beautiful Eliana would have everything.
In ten minutes we’d be outside Derry on the road to Belfast. In the space of two hours we’d be on the ferry to Scotland. It was the safest way to travel. No searches. No passport control. By dinner time we’d be sitting in a bedsit in Paisley.
I thought maybe they’d be looking for the person I was before. But I doubted it. Louise Barr moved away to Galway weeks before. She’d gone to start again. She wasn’t on anyone’s radar.
I decided I would change my name. In Scotland, I was able to register Eliana as mine after a few weeks. A home birth, you see, I’d told them. Didn’t realise I was pregnant. Had periods the whole way through. Delivered her myself on the bathroom floor. Had been too shocked by it all to come forwards to register you before.
Then we just had to keep our heads down. Live our lives. No one would have any reason to question why.
When she would ask me about her father, I’d tell her she was conceived on a night out that took a nasty turn. I’d say enough to make her think it was too painful for me to talk about, that I might not know his name. I’d say enough to stop her asking me about him again.
No one would suspect what I’d done.
Not even my baby.
Especially not my baby.
Eliana must never know.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
Eli
A cool cloth to my forehead. Soft light. A gentle voice. The world starts to come back into focus. Slowly. I start to get a sense of my own body again. A cold floor beneath me. Something under my head. A towel. I’m not ready to open my eyes just yet. Dampness, cool around my legs, reminds me of the indignity that’s just passed. I feel tears prick at my still closed eyes. My hand goes to my stomach, willing my baby to move.
‘I’m here, Eli,’ my mother’s voice soothes. ‘I’m here, my darling Eliana, and everything’s going to be okay. Mum is here.’
Something inside me folds in on itself and cries out. Not her. Not now. But I stay quiet. Just as the world is coming into focus, so is the reality of what my mother has done.
I have to stay calm, or at least appear calm. I feel my mother’s hand on my shoulder, feel her breath – smell her breath – as she whispers in my ear. My skin crawls.
‘My poor baby. My poor, poor girl. You’ll be okay. We’ll get you cleaned up and resting. You’ll be fine.’
The nausea is still coursing through my body. I still feel sick. Sick and weak.
I think of how I’d slept all day. Maybe I am getting sick. Properly sick. Or maybe … No. Not even my mother would go that far. Had she put something in my food or drink?
‘Shall we get you up?’ my mother says, her voice sounding full of genuine concern. ‘Can you strip off and I’ll run a shower if you feel well enough? Just a quick wash and I’ll get those soiled clothes in the machine.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I mutter, humiliated despite my fear and my sickness.
‘Not at all, darling,’ my mother says, helping me to my feet and supporting me while another wave of nausea floods through me and I retch again, dry heaving and feeling my muscles strain.
Maybe this is my way out. I could play to her overprotective nature …
‘Mum, I really don’t feel very well at all. Maybe, I think, maybe you should phone a doctor. Maybe even an ambulance.’
If I can get out of here safely, if I can get away from her …
‘Nonsense,’ she says matter-of-factly. ‘It’s just those hormones. I’ll look after you. Just like I did when you were little. Now, come on. Strip off and we’ll get you cleaned up.’
‘I’ll be okay on my own,’ I mutter. I don’t want her touching me.
‘Now now, Eli, you’ve just fainted. You’re still not well. If you think I’m going to take a risk with you falling again, you’re very wrong.’
She pulls off my top and pulls down my pyjama bottoms.
‘I’ll get some towels,’ she says as she puts down the lid of the toilet seat and encourages me to sit down.
I hold my pyjama top to me, offering me some privacy at least, as I strip off my knickers. Shame bubbles up inside of me. Shame at having wet myself. Shame at being so vulnerable in front of my mother and shame, and grief, at not really knowing what kind of person she is. I feel the tears start to slide down my face as my mother walks back in and hands me a bath towel b
efore switching on the shower.
‘Just a quick clean. You made a bit of a mess,’ she said gently. ‘There’s no need for tears. These things happen.’
She guides me into the shower cubicle, my face crimson, my legs still shaky.
‘Good girl,’ she says, lifting a sponge and starting to sponge me down while I shudder.
She’s treating me a like a child. Speaking to me in an annoying sing-song voice as if I’m four years old.
‘I can do it myself,’ I say, my voice a little stronger.
‘No need for that tone, Eli,’ she says, hurt in her voice. ‘I’m only trying to help. I’ve only ever tried to help.’
I won’t cry. I won’t give in to the urge to sob. I won’t let her see how truly wretched I am. I say nothing.
‘Okay, then, I’ll clean up this mess and you can clean yourself!’ she snaps, pulling back and closing the shower door with a slam.
I watch through the glass as she gets on her knees and uses a towel to mop the floor.
‘It’s a good thing you didn’t go out, sweetheart. Given how sick you are. Was it that letter? The cufflink? I know it must be hugely upsetting, but it’s better you know now what he’s really like. Before the baby comes. You don’t want to have to do a midnight flit with a baby in tow. Now you can just settle yourself to being here, to being a family together. You’ll always have me, darling. You and your baby. We’ll be good.’
I soap my legs. Try to wash away my shame. Then I soap my tummy, rubbing my bump, thinking of the little creature who’s inside, still a couple of months from coming into this world, and I promise even as I stand here unsure of how I’m going to get out of this mess, that no harm is ever going to come to her.
And there’s no way in hell I’m letting my mother anywhere near my daughter.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
Angela
I’d never considered Eli the ungrateful type, but she was being cheeky to me. Shunning my help. That tone in her voice when she’d said ‘I can do it myself.’ She’d practically pushed me away, when I was only trying to look after her.
I know she’s upset. I know that cufflink will have knocked her for six, but she doesn’t need to take that anger out on me.
I’ve enough to worry about without becoming her emotional punchbag.
I remind myself she’s in shock. She can’t deny what he is any more. You only hurt the ones you love, so that’s why she’s hurting me now. I’m her safe place. Just as I always wanted to be.
I don’t like seeing her look so helpless – but I have to break her completely so that I can start to build her up again.
From the strength of her reaction to the cufflink, I think it’s safe to say she’s broken.
Still, I never want to see her looking so pathetic again. With God’s grace, I never will. He will help her through this, just as He helped me in the past. When I asked, I received. It could be the same for Eli. If I could just get her to turn to Him for support. I close my eyes, put my hands to my crucifix, hold it and offer a silent prayer for guidance.
She’s vulnerable now. I have to make sure she doesn’t slip into self-pity, or self-harm. I have to double my efforts to take care of her and to protect her, and there’s no way on this earth I’m going to let her out of my sight any time in the near future.
You know, I might just suggest a weekend break away. Back to Scotland maybe. We can book the ferry and travel over. And sure, who’s to say we ever have to come back?
I know hiding her keys might seem a little extreme. As is taking her purse. But it’s with her best interests in mind.
I do have one dilemma, though. I’ve been planning on locking her in her room again, for her own safety, of course, but what if she’s sick again? She probably won’t be. I mean, there can’t be anything left of what I gave her. Maybe I should put a basin on the floor. Some towels. A glass of water.
But if she faints and hurts herself? And I’m asleep and don’t hear. I’d never forgive myself if something bad happened to her.
No, the best thing I can do is stay as close to her as I can. I’ll sleep beside her. Be there to nurse her, just as I did when she was little. During the happiest years of my life.
My mind goes back to when she was four and had the measles. I’d stayed awake all night just watching her and making sure her temperature didn’t rise. She’d been so weak, the rash all over her body. She’d called out for me in her sleep and had clung to me through the day. I hadn’t even been able to go to the toilet without carrying her there with me.
I’d been so scared she’d get worse. I’d whispered that I loved her hundreds of times and she’d told me she loved me, too. I’d prayed over her until her fever broke and she started to come back to me and told me I was the best mammy in the world.
I’d give anything to have her look at me with that amount of love in her eyes again. If I just look after her now the way I looked after her then, maybe she will.
‘Come on, darling,’ I say, helping her out of the shower and handing her a towel.
I can tell she’s embarrassed to be naked in front of me, so I turn my back to her as she dries off and slips on the dry pyjamas I brought her.
‘I’ve thrown your other clothes in the wash,’ I tell her. ‘We’ll get you into bed and comfy. I’ll get a basin in case you need to be sick again. Maybe I’ll even light the fire for you. We can read something together. Would that be too cheesy? You used to love it when I read to you. Do you remember, Eli?’
‘Yes, Mum, of course.’
‘Those were happy times. You’d always beg me, ‘Just one more chapter, Mum! Then I promise I’ll go to sleep.’ Except one more chapter was never enough, was it? You’d say, ‘I mean it this time. This really will be the last time.’ But we kept reading, until you fell asleep, Eli. Do you remember?’
‘I do, Mum.’
‘And when you were sick. When you were older and you had a cold, I’d curl up beside you and read some more. Pride and Prejudice. That was your favourite. “It’s a truth universally acknowledged that a single man …”’
I wait for her response. Can hear her breath. Shaky. Emotion-filled. Something in my chest tightens. Something isn’t right.
I speak again. A little louder. ‘“It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man …” Oh, Eli, what’s the next bit? Help me remember. Surely you know it?’
Her voice meek, subdued, answers me: ‘“… in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.”’
‘That’s it!’ I say, clapping my hands with glee before turning around to see her standing there in front of me. A grown woman. Pale. Dressed in white cotton pyjamas, more suitable for summer than a wet winter’s night in Belfast. Her eyes are red-rimmed and a weak smile plays on her lips. I know instantly it’s false. I’ve seen it before. I know when my child’s hiding something. When she’s lying. When she’s scared.
I see it all there in her now and in that second I know. Whatever’s happened in the last few hours, she knows. The cufflink hasn’t been enough. I’m losing her.
I can’t let go of her. I refuse. I decide to believe that the smile is genuine. I’m not ready to acknowledge the cracks. I keep her gaze.
‘I’m sure I still have a copy of it lying around. I’ll see if I can find it and we can read together.’
‘If you don’t mind, Mum, I think I’d like to go back to bed. I’m still feeling queasy and I just want to lie down. There’s no need for you to be with me. I’ll probably just sleep some more.’
Her gaze slips from mine, just momentarily. The cracks grow wider and deeper. What does she know? How much? What notions has that Kate one planted in her head?
I shake my head. There isn’t a chance I’m leaving her alone. No matter what she wants.
‘Sweetheart, you’ve been so ill. There’s no way I’m leaving you on your own tonight. I want to make sure you’re okay. You’ve slept all day. I want to make sure it’s not something more serious. Go to sleep if you wa
nt. I’ll read my Kindle or just watch the fire in the hearth. That can be lovely and calming, sweetheart. Maybe you’re just getting yourself all worked up and it’s making you ill. Hormones can be a curse.’
I wait for her to challenge me but she doesn’t. She looks defeated. For the first time, I notice how hollow her cheeks have become. She isn’t blooming in pregnancy, she’s withering. Just as her mother did.
And she’ll grow to hate me, just as her mother did.
Peter was wrong when he’d said all this can be fixed. This cannot be fixed. I cannot give her back to the Kearneys. I wondered, should I reply to his bloody emails – his incessant ‘I need to talk to you’ emails – and tell him he’s just made everything so much worse?
CHAPTER SEVENTY
Angela
The first email had been short, to the point. He wanted to get in touch with me. Urgently.
I’m looking to get in touch with Angela Johnston, urgently.
She was once known as Louise Barr or Louise McLaughlin.
If you are the same person, can you email me back?
If not, I apologise for intruding on your time.
I wondered what was so urgent. I opened the second email, hoping it would offer some clue. It was more or less the same as the first.
The third was different, though. It brought all the fears I’ve been living with over the last thirty-three years into focus.
Reading the words in front of me had made me sick.
Angela,
Please excuse the intrusion. I suspect that despite your silence this email is reaching the right person. That it has reached you, Louise.
I need to talk to you. I’m worried about you. Even now. After all these years. I’m so sorry I let you down all those years ago, but please, I need to ask you something.
