‘Shall we google her?’ Daksha sat upright, as the idea occurred to her.
‘I . . . I guess.’
‘I mean, you’ve not googled her before, have you?’
‘No, Daks. Firstly, there was no point in googling my dead mother and, secondly, I didn’t know the name Hansen until yesterday!’
‘Good point.’ Daksha scrabbled from the bed and reached for the laptop on the floor, handing it to Victoria. ‘You do it.’
With her mug of tea now on the nightstand, she slowly opened up the machine and typed: ‘Sarah Hansen’. There were many, but one thumbnail picture stood out. Her Sarah Hansen, a partner in a law firm in Oslo – a lawyer! She clicked on the bio and read the woman’s credentials and her expertise of working in family law, before handing the machine to Daksha.
‘That’s her. A lawyer.’ She thought of the conversations over the years where Prim had lamented the waste of her daughter’s life.
‘She had the whole world at her feet, reading law at Durham! Set for life, until that man came along and got her in his clutches!’ It was invariably at this point that her gran would reach for her handkerchief, as usual secreted up her sleeve. Even the thought of Prim sharing confidences with her was more than Victoria could stand tonight.
‘What are you going to do now, Vic?’
Slipping down under the duvet, she closed her eyes, wanting to hide from the world. If her thoughts were usually anchored, tonight they were in free fall, floating in her brain and recoiling as they collided.
‘I am going to sleep and will wait for the proof.’ I want to disappear, shut down . . . just for a while . . .
‘You go ahead, honey. I’ll guard you,’ Daksha cooed, and just her kindness, the fact that she was not going to leave her alone, was enough to make Victoria’s tears fall, travelling over her nose to form a damp patch on the pillowslip.
She was quite unable to settle and turned over on the mattress, crying quietly at the wonder and horror of the news. Flipping her hot pillow to the cold side, she kicked off her cover, only to reach for it minutes later.
Victoria woke the next morning glad of the chance to get up and face the day, knowing that, at least in the daylight hours, she might be able to occupy her thoughts with chores or the distraction of chatting to Daksha, blocking out the tsunami of intrusive questions that were coming at her thick and fast. She carried the same feeling of anticipation tinged with nerves. A movie played in her mind over and over of the way Sarah had tried to hold her, reaching out as if desperate to make skin-to-skin contact, and her own confusing revulsion whilst half wanting, no, craving that contact. Of one thing she was certain: if the woman was a con, then she was a bloody good one. The truth was, Victoria expected to have their relationship confirmed, anticipated that proof would be forthcoming and was putting off the moment she had to face that particular reality: that her whole life up until this point had been a sham. The thought was enough to make her catch her breath. Daksha had fallen asleep at the other end of the bed and was snoring.
Victoria reached for her laptop, deciding to google Sarah again and read some more about her career, keen to glean any little detail she could. She flipped open the screen and there were no less than sixteen new emails waiting for her. Sitting up straight, she stared at her inbox – they were all from Sarah.
Hello Victoria,
I have only just got home and am scanning these so you get them sooner rather than later. Having to send them separately as I only know how to load one at a time.
I can’t imagine what the last few hours have been like for you, but expect, like me, you are doing a lot of reflecting. My thoughts are all over the place and my emotions high.
I am still replaying every word you said to me and each moment I got to see your face. This is tough for you, tough for us, but I hope these give you at least some of the answers you are looking for.
I am sending you a copy of my most precious photograph, taken when you were born. In fact, the only one I have of us together. And also letters sent between Mum and me when I was at Henbury House, the rehabilitation centre where I was staying when I was pregnant and when I lost Marcus. They are uncensored and quite raw, but I think it’s best I don’t censor them – they are honest and I think the proof you are looking for. And I understand that need to see evidence, I do.
Contact me any time, day or night, if you want to talk about anything, anything at all! Any time.
I shall wait for that contact.
I wish I knew how to sign off, so for now I will just end with –
Sarah X
With her thoughts and heart racing, Victoria felt the need for privacy. Creeping from the bed with her laptop under her arm, she quietly closed the bedroom door behind her and made her way to the drawing room, where she sank down on to the sofa. The morning light filtered in through the side window and lit everything it touched; she saw dust particles floating in its rays and thought for the first time about housekeeping, knowing she wanted to keep the place as nice as Prim had, but that could wait for now.
Is this it, Prim? Is this the moment I find out why you lied to me? I am scared, so scared . . .
Victoria opened the second email and there it was: a photograph, which filled the screen.
‘Oh my God!’ she cried, lifting the screen until it was close to her face, enabling her to better study the detail. She stared at the young, thin Sarah – painfully thin, in fact, with long, lank hair hanging over her sallow cheeks, pale lips and huge, haunted eyes, holding a tiny baby swaddled in a pale lemon blanket – but that wasn’t what drew her attention. She stared at the side of the image and the arm of a woman standing behind Sarah. A woman who had almost been cropped from the picture, save her hand, supporting the child’s head and the light almost glinting from the unmistakable large baguette-cut emerald that graced her finger.
With a shaky touch, she opened the second email and devoured it, word for word:
February 2001
Rosebank
Epsom
Surrey
Dear Sarah,
How are you feeling? Is there anything you need? Daddy and I think about you each and every day. I hope Henbury House is everything we hoped it would be. It sounded like the perfect place and they promised results, which is all that matters, so I would say no matter what, stick with it! This is a bump in the road, but doesn’t have to be your path.
I say that with a heavy heart because I have a terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach that this might be our last chance. I feel like we are running out of options and, though it is hard to say, running out of energy too.
I have to believe that in the controlled environment with counsellors and good doctors on hand, you stand your best chance of coming off that terrible drug. A drug I hate with as much passion as I have ever loved anything, and you know how fiercely I love!
Nothing else has worked, has it? Empty promises and half-hearted efforts will always come to nothing if you are within sight and sound of a temptation that is stronger than your resolve. And to see you looking so . . . hollow, so broken, is almost more than any mother can stand . . .
Victoria paused in her reading – it was odd to see her gran’s handwriting on the screen, and jarring to know that Sarah was in possession of these letters – sent to her as proof. Oh my God, Prim . . . you might have written these words on this very sofa . . . She ran her hand over the seat cushion, swallowing the bitter tang of betrayal, before she carried on reading.
Daddy read a book about an approach where it suggests you almost have to abandon your loved one, change the locks, unplug the phone and look the other way in a bid to make them understand that this is the absolute last time, rock bottom. I cannot conceive of doing that. Cannot conceive of not being your safety net. Not ever. That’s the deal: to always catch you if you fall.
And I know that even mentioning his name in a negative way will cause your anger to flare because you are so very blinkered, but can you imagine what it has been li
ke for us? We are the people who have loved you your whole life long, have steered you through school, held your hand when you cried and have done our very best to give you the skills with which to navigate the choppy waters of life. For what? This? And I know you think you are grown up, and indeed you are in law, but you are twenty-one, a mere chick, really, and our little chick at that.
When you won your place at Durham! Oh my! I couldn’t sleep! I was so full of excitement for all the wonderful things that lay ahead for you. I pictured your marvellous, marvellous life – our little girl, a lawyer – I thought you had it made. I thought you would live the life I always dreamed for you. Because I love you and, to me, you only deserve the very best life. You say this man loves you – but I am unable to imagine a kind of love where you give the person you love a drug so foul it robs them of everything that made them wonderful . . . how is that love, Sarah, how?
Think about it!
Think about everything.
Keep working hard and know that we love you. We might not like your choices, we might not understand, but we always, always love you.
Mum X
Victoria paused again to wipe her eyes on the sleeve of her pyjama top and to catch her breath. Proof . . . this is my proof . . . but how . . . how is this even possible? I feel sick, so sick.
March 2001
Sarah Jackson
Henbury House
West Sussex
I’m feeling better, thanks for asking. I’m doing really well.
And for your information, this place is more like a prison. I am locked in. LOCKED IN! It may come with a glossy brochure but be under no illusion the place is a jail. A jail you pay for. You knew that, though, right?
Of course you did.
I don’t need anything from you.
Nothing!
So do your worst, change the locks, unplug the phone, bag up the stuff in my room and bin it – or whatever else you are threatening – I really don’t care!
Marcus is everything. I love him! I don’t know what part of that is so hard for you and Dad to get. But I’m sick of trying to make you understand. Bloody sick of it!
The way you want to hem me in, control me, I can’t stand it. I’m twenty-one, a grown adult, and it’s not fair. I won’t let you do it any more.
You always said you wanted me to find someone to love who loved me back. Well, I have, but now that’s not good enough because what you meant was you wanted to pick someone for me, someone you and Dad approve of, someone from the bloody tennis club.
Here’s the thing, like it or not, Marcus and I come as a package.
And when I get out of here we will start afresh.
The plan is to get a nice little place and maybe have a garden, grow some vegetables. I’d like a dog – you know I’ve always wanted a dog . . .
Life will be good, but I can’t see you being part of it, not with how you hate the man I love. And I know you hate him so don’t try and deny it! Can you imagine your precious Sunday lunches at Rosebank with Marcus and me on one side and you and Dad on the other, scowling at him over Granny C’s best china?
No, me either.
Marcus says: Hate and recrimination are big things and if you let them fill you up it brings you the opposite of peace because if you hate it takes all of your energy – and that’s such a waste; how can you live life weighed down like that?
But that’s something for you to figure out, not me.
Oh, and I guess you should know; I’m pregnant.
It’s the incentive I need to finish what I’ve started here.
As I said, I am doing really well.
I think it’s wonderful news, a baby, but as I sit here at this desk in the corner of the recreation room, I can see your face as clearly as if you are standing in front of me and you look upset, shocked, angry – in the way you always do because nothing, nothing I ever do is quite good enough for you.
But you know what? I don’t care. I DON’T CARE!
S
Pregnant . . . pregnant with me . . .
Reaching for her phone and with her fingers shaking, Victoria dialled the number at the bottom of the email.
She read the numbers aloud: ‘0047 22 . . .’
‘Hello?’
The sound of Sarah’s voice threw her, and the words stuck in Victoria’s throat. It took all of her effort to get sound out.
‘You . . . you are my mum, aren’t you? You’re really her!’ she croaked, holding the computer screen to her face, again studying the minute detail of the photograph, wishing she could remember some of it, anything.
‘I am.’ Sarah spoke slowly, clearly, as if overcome with emotion. ‘I am your mum. I am.’
‘You didn’t die. Even though everyone told me you did, you didn’t die!’
‘No, darling, I didn’t die.’
Victoria gripped the phone as a sob left her throat with a sound that was close to a whimper.
‘Prim lied to me! She lied to me! You lied to me! You all did! Everyone! Everyone I loved, everyone I have lost.’ Her voice was clear, despite being distorted by her sobs. ‘What am I supposed to think? What am I supposed to do now? And who am I supposed to trust?’
Sarah took her time in replying. ‘I have always hoped – believed – that one day I’d get the chance to explain to you what my life was like, what our life was like.’ She took a slow breath. ‘It was a mess of a time, chaotic, and it was only when we all came out the other side, years later, that we were able to analyse the decisions we made. Did we get it right? Probably not, but we did the best we could, Victory. We did the best we could.’ Sarah started crying so hard she could barely catch her breath.
‘And, and you are sure Prim knew you were alive?’ Victoria sniffed and asked the question, still hoping at some level that there was a reasonable excuse that would keep Prim from being implicated, meaning her gran had not lied. Meaning their relationship could remain intact.
‘Yes. Yes, she knew,’ Sarah levelled.
Victoria felt like she’d been punched in the chest. She let her head fall to her chest and lowered the phone for a second. What was it Prim used to say?
‘That’s the things with lies, darling; they are like wounds that never quite heal, the hurt goes too deep. It’s not only the thing that is said or done that rankles, it’s also the fact that the person lying to you thinks you are stupid enough to fall for it.’
Victoria knew she must be very stupid, because she had fallen for it hook, line and sinker. Again she put the phone to her face.
‘And . . . and Grandpa too?’ Her bottom lip quivered.
Again, Sarah’s voice was steady. ‘Yes, he knew.’
‘I don’t know what to say.’ She breathed deeply. ‘I . . . My whole life! The people I trusted, the people I loved. They lied to me. It’s like grieving – this feels like grieving, but no one has died, the opposite, someone has come back to life, but I am still grieving – no one told me the truth!’
‘I know,’ Sarah whispered, as if shamed.
‘I don’t know what to think. I don’t know how to feel. What about my dad? Did he really die? Or is he living in a different European city with a new wife, just waiting to pop up out of the woodwork at another low point in my life?’ She regretted the flippant, almost callous nature of her comment, fuelled by distress and embarrassment. The noise Sarah made was one of deep sorrow, almost torment, and Victoria knew it would stay with her.
‘Your dad . . .’ Sarah coughed to clear her throat. ‘Your dad died while I was pregnant with you. He never got to meet you, but he did hear your heartbeat and it was the most wonderful day we had ever had.’
The picture she painted was so beautiful that for a short while Victoria forgot her pain and, despite her tears, smiled briefly at the image.
‘My head is such a mess.’ She spoke aloud.
‘I can only imagine. Please try to forgive me. I know your hurt is raw, new. But you have to know that not a single day has gone by that I haven’t thought
about you, loved you, ached for you . . .’
‘But you never got in contact, never came to see me or Prim or Grandpa! How could you do that? You say it has hurt for all these years, but if that’s true, how could you stand it?’
‘Because, Victory, my beautiful girl. That was the deal . . .’
‘The deal? You made a fucking deal? I am a person! I am a person, Sarah! Not a thing, a deal! How could you? How could you?’ She only realised she was yelling when Daksha rushed into the room.
‘What’s going on?’ She placed her hand on her chest, like she was ready to face an emergency.
‘I gotta go.’
‘No, Vi—’
Victoria ended the call and slammed her laptop shut. She jumped up with her fists balled and punched the cushion on the chair by the fireplace.
‘What’s the matter?’ Daksha took a cautious step into the room.
‘Everything! Is the matter! Everything!’ Victoria yelled.
SIX
Victoria spent much of the morning in contemplation, with a shiver to her bones, despite the warmth of the day. Dozing for moments on the sofa before waking with a feeling of confusion so profound she thought she might be dreaming. Mentally prodded by the facts that would not sink in.
Sarah Hansen is my mum.
My mum did not die.
Prim lied to me. She lied!
My mother is Sarah Hansen . . .
Sarah Hansen. A lawyer.
A lawyer from Oslo.
I still don’t think it’s true! It can’t be true, can it?
It was a surprise when Gerald poked his head around the door of the drawing room. ‘Hello, dear.’ He pointed towards the front door. ‘Your friend let me in.’
‘Hi, Gerald.’ She sat up on the sofa and swung her legs around to make space. He sat next to her. The kind man who still believed that Prim was a good person, but she knew differently.
‘No need to ask how you are doing. I can see not great, and I mean that in no way disrespectfully.’ He folded his hands into his lap.
The Day She Came Back Page 10
