Forever yours, p.25
Forever Yours, page 25
I live my days and nights in a surreal hinterland of actually happening and what-might-happen. I get on with work, and I spend time with Karim – or King I Love You the First, as he occasionally insists on being called – and I see my friends and I walk Bill and I do yoga and I run and I swim and finally I watch The Bridge and I do absolutely everything I can to keep myself busy.
It doesn’t work, of course. I seem to have developed a superhuman ability to do one thing perfectly well, whilst all the time actually being completely focused on something different. The gap between the external and the internal, the surface me and the background me, is widening, and I fear I am going to have some kind of crisis if it continues.
I know it is ridiculous, but I don’t seem quite able to end it – to clear my mind, to stop planning for the unplannable, to switch off and relax.
She has my email, my phone numbers, my address. She has had them for over a week, and it feels like the longest week of my life. I am spiralling between certainty that she won’t ever get in touch, and sheer excitement at the thought of getting to find out about her.
I am made up entirely of questions – what does she look like now? What are her parents like? Does she have any pets? Is she doing A levels or an apprenticeship or something entirely different? What’s her favourite food and colour and song and book and film? Most important of all, has she been happy?
I have tried, over the years, to keep all of this curiosity under control. There never seemed to be any point in indulging it. Early on, when I was still very young, I seemed to have more resolve – I told myself I didn’t deserve to know anything about her, that I had given up all right to know a single solitary fact.
It was brutal, but it also allowed me to go on, to move forward with my own life. In fact, it motivated me – if I didn’t make something of myself, if I didn’t succeed in dragging myself out of the future that seemed to be mapped out for me, then it would all have been wasted.
As I’ve aged, it has grown harder – to ignore the questions, the wondering, the way I find myself imagining her and what she is doing and how her world looks. As I’ve matured, and as she has grown up, it has been almost impossible not to – but I have still tried.
Meeting Katie, though, falling into that rabbit hole that had me convinced she was actually my daughter, showed me that it is not something that is likely to go away. I will always wonder, always imagine. Always yearn. Be forever hers.
Now, as my actual daughter and I make tentative steps towards each other, it is almost unbearable – knowing she is so close but also knowing that I have no way to make her take that final step. To reach out.
It is hard, and it is sucking the life out of me, and I know that I cannot go on like this for any length of time. I will simply burn out, fade away, lose my ability to do all the things I need to do, to be all the people I need to be. I have to find a way to calm down about it all, I know that much – but what I don’t know is how to go about that.
It is actually Katie who finally shakes me out of it. She turns up on my doorstep on a Saturday morning, brandishing her phone and her pink tutu. I groan as I let her in, and say: ‘Did your mum send you? Is she worried about me? Are you going to try and make me dance it out?’
She pulls a face at me, and replies: ‘No, my mum didn’t send me, and yes, she is worried about you, and dancing it out is a tried and tested method.’
‘No. Sorry, Katie, but no. I cannot face another session of K-pop.’
‘Doesn’t have to be K-pop. We can do something from your era, like Bach or Beethoven, if you prefer?’
She grins at me, and it is contagious. Cheeky pup.
‘How about a walk instead?’ I counter. ‘There was someone out there with a metal detector earlier. We can laugh when they get a beep and dig up a Guinness can.’
‘Or look on in absolute astonishment when they find an Anglo-Saxon horde.’
‘Unlikely, but yeah – that would be good. How are you doing anyway? And if your mum didn’t send you, why are you actually here?’
‘Because I was worried about you as well,’ she replies, as we troop down the stairs and out again. I have already walked Bill, so I steel myself against the mournful howl he lets out as we walk past. It is almost human, as though he is trying to form the words ‘please take me tooooooooo!’
‘In class yesterday,’ she continues, putting her tutu on her hair like some kind of strange ceremonial headdress, ‘you didn’t even line your pens up. And later, you said that Elizabeth the Second made a speech to her troops about the Spanish Armada.’
‘Gosh – I didn’t, did I?’
‘You absolutely did. And hardly anyone noticed, and those of us who did probably realised it was a mistake, but you never know … a couple of kids might fail their A levels because of it. I mean, you could be ruining their lives, you know?’
I laugh at the drama, and as we make our way down onto the sand, reply: ‘I don’t think it’ll come to that. But it’s not like me, is it? I feel a bit like I’m coming apart at the seams to be honest, Katie.’
‘I know,’ she says, her pink tutu streaming behind her in the wind, ‘and I think you’d better sew yourself back up. She might get in touch, she might not – but whatever she decides, she’ll have her reasons. You have to maybe try and trust her a bit.’
‘You’re right,’ I say, nodding, seeing the corgis run towards us. ‘But it’s hard. She has my details, and I feel like I’m on some kind of countdown. Plus, watch out for one of those corgis; he likes to pee on people’s feet.’
She nimbly moves her Converse trainer just in time, and the dog looks up at her, annoyed as he only hits sand. We say hello to their owner – Corgi Man – as we pass him by.
‘You’re not on a countdown, though, are you?’ she asks. ‘It’s not like you’re on a time limit. Nobody turns into a pumpkin at midnight. Maybe signing up to the register was a big deal for her. Maybe reaching out and getting your details was even bigger. Maybe she’s not quite ready for the next bit yet. You have no idea what’s going on in her life outside you either, do you? She might be doing A levels and feeling the pressure. She might have a complicated relationship. She might be dealing with stuff with her parents. You’re only seeing it from one side, which, as you’ve always taught us in class, isn’t right.’
My knee-jerk response to this accusation is to claim it’s unfair. To deny it. To say I’ve always tried to see things from her side. But then I start to wonder if I really have.
Life is complex, for everyone – and especially for a teenage girl making her way in the world. Add in the conflict she might be feeling about me, and it’s even more of a mess. I have no idea if her parents know she is thinking of getting in touch with me, and no idea how they might feel about that, but even if they are supportive, there is bound to be part of her that is worried about hurting their feelings as well.
In short, Katie is probably right – this isn’t just about what I want, and it’s nowhere near as simple as I want it to be. Nothing ever is.
‘OK,’ I eventually reply, ‘I see your point.’
We stop at the edge of the waves, grey and white froth chasing our toes at the shoreline, the wind turbines waving at us in the distance.
‘I see your point and you’re probably right,’ I continue. ‘I need to stop holding on so tightly to it, because, apart from anything else, it’s not going to change a thing. When – if – she contacts me, it’ll be on her schedule, not mine. And in the meantime, I suppose I’d better buck my ideas up. Elizabeth the Second and the Spanish Armada? I’m so ashamed!’
‘As you should be. I’ll settle for a full apology in writing. But seriously – yeah, maybe you need to just chill out a bit? Because otherwise, if she does want to see you, you’ll be a complete wreck by the time it happens, and that won’t be a good look on you. Now, let’s go back to your place and dance it out.’
‘Do we have to?’ I plead, sounding like a teenager myself, I realise.
‘We do, but you can choose the track.’
We clamber over the dunes on the way back to the flat, and I am grateful to have this young woman in my life. As a student and, it seems, as a teacher – on some things at least. She is not my daughter, but she is important to me.
So important that I plan to completely annihilate her in the dance-off. I decide that we will do ‘U Can’t Touch This’, and that we’re both going to be MC Hammer – because if you’re struggling to move forward, then maybe dancing sideways is the next best option.
Chapter 30
It is not until the following week that anything changes. Karim has stayed over, but we are both up bright and early ready to go to work. We are even being daring, and going in the same car – we’ll be the talk of the staffroom if anybody notices us.
We have just come back from taking Bill for a quick run on the beach, and called in to say good morning to Margie. She flirts shamelessly with Karim, who flirts just as shamelessly back, and by the time we leave he has half persuaded her it might be time to join a dating site.
‘Seriously, is that a good idea?’ I ask, as we walk back around to the front of the building. ‘She might meet an axe murderer!’
‘Bill will protect her,’ he replies firmly, ‘plus, if she goes on a date, we’ll go with her, and sit on the next table in disguise.’
‘Why would we need to be in disguise?’ I ask, as I let us into the lobby. ‘Her date won’t know what we look like.’
He pauses, and narrows his eyes at me. ‘You,’ he says, pointing one finger, ‘can be a real killjoy, do you know that?’
‘Just being logical.’
‘I know. That’s the problem! I was all set for matching false noses and berets, and now you’ve taken all the fun out of it!’
‘Aaah, I’m sorry, baby,’ I say, checking the mail box behind the door to see if there is anything I need to drop off for Margie, ‘maybe we can do that at home instead?’
He looks interested, and replies: ‘Well, if we’re going to do costumes at home, I’ll put a bit more thought into it.’
I roll my eyes and pull a small pile of envelopes out of the box. A flyer for the local garden centre, what looks like a hospital letter for Margie, a phone bill, and an intriguing plain white envelope that is actually handwritten.
I drop the others to the floor, and stare at this one. It is postmarked somewhere in Surrey, and there is no return address on the back. No stamp or marker that indicates it is corporate in origin. Just that neat, sloping handwriting in black ink, indicating that it is, in fact, personal in origin.
Somehow, I just know. I don’t understand why, but every instinct I have tells me that this is it. This is the moment I have been waiting for. This is from her. That I have been insanely checking my phone all this time, and she has instead gone delightfully old-school.
Karim peers over my shoulder, looks at what I am holding.
‘Huh,’ he says, ‘weird. Who writes actual letters anymore?’
I look up at him, and immediately he sees that I am shaken, stirred, scared and excited all at once. I don’t say a word – there is part of me that even wants to hide it from him. Old habits, dying very hard.
‘You think it’s from her? Your daughter?’ he asks, placing a calming hand on my shoulder.
‘I think it might be. It looks like it could be. Maybe.’
‘Well, you could, you know, open it? Or are you planning some kind of full forensic examination first?’
‘I know I should open it,’ I say, stroking the handwriting, knowing that I will feel like such an idiot if it’s actually just a cleverly disguised marketing mail-out for memory-foam mattresses or something. ‘But we’ve got to go to work.’
He ponders this, then replies: ‘Unless that envelope contains a letter the size of War and Peace, we’ve got time. If not, or if you need longer, then I’m going to call work and say I’ve got car trouble and we’ll both be late. And yes, it’s as good a way of outing us as any, I know.’
‘But I have lessons first thing, and a staff meeting after first period, and—’
‘The place will survive without us for an hour, Gemma. This is more important. Come on, let’s go inside. I’m going to have a long shower so you can read that in private, but you know where I am if you need me. Then you can tell me about it, if you want to.’
He leads me upstairs, and I realise that I have left the other letters on the floor. He sees me looking back and adds: ‘Don’t worry. I’ll sort it.’
He is, of course, perfect. Kind and calm and take-charge in all the right measures.
‘Thank you,’ I say, as we go into the flat. ‘For being so brilliant. I mean, not many men would be thrilled at the prospect of becoming a kind-of, almost-but-not-quite step-dad to an eighteen-year-old girl …’
‘Well, I’m not most men, am I? And I know how much this means to you. So, sit down, and I’ll bring you a coffee.’
I do as I am told, and within minutes I am installed on the sofa with a steaming hot mug, and a blanket over my legs to keep me warm after my run. Karim kisses me on the top of my head, and disappears off to the bathroom.
As soon as he is gone, I realise that I needed the space – this time alone with this shining thing, this feeling as if a bomb is about to go off in my face, this Pandora’s envelope. He knew that even before I did. King I Love You The First is a mind-reader, among his many other talents.
I sip some coffee, the background noise of Karim clanging about in the shower reassuring me, and hold the envelope in both hands as though it is too heavy to support with one. Physically, it weighs next to nothing. Emotionally, it is made of lead.
In this moment, I can imagine anything I want to. A happy ending. An invitation to meet up. A declaration of forgiveness. A description of her perfect life, the life she lived because I didn’t raise her. It could even simply be a strict instruction never to contact her. It could break my heart, or make it sing.
In that moment, it could be anything and it could be everything and it could be nothing. I am reminded of that poem again, and know that my dreams are beneath her feet.
I close my eyes, breathe deeply, and take the plunge. I open the envelope, careful not to tear it because every scrap of connection with her is significant and precious. I pull out the contents.
A letter, two sheets filled with the same sloping handwriting as the envelope. Inside the folded pages, dropping out onto my lap, a photograph. I pick it up with trembling hands and look at it, still hardly daring to believe.
I look at it, and I see that she is beautiful. She is perfect. She is magnificent. She is more than I ever could have expected.
Her hair has come in darker than mine, a deep and shining shade of auburn that she probably hates but everyone else will admire. She wears it short and choppy, a little bit punk. Her eyes are large and brown, with lashings of black kohl that give her an exotic look. She has several hoops in her ears, and judging by the background, she is tall – maybe even taller than me.
The main thing, I notice, though, on that picture, isn’t the funky clothes or the make-up or the car she’s leaning against. It’s the smile. A big, confident, loving-the-moment smile that seems to beam right through time and space and photographic paper and into my soul.
It is a smile that says she is happy.
I manage to tear myself away from the photo after a few moments, reluctant to let it leave my hands, and lay it carefully by my side, scared it might disintegrate like a message in Mission Impossible.
I catch up on the breathing I seem to have been forgetting to bother with, and manage a smile when I hear Karim start to sing ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ in the shower. It is, I know, his not-so-subtle way of reminding me that he is here if I need him.
I fold open the handwritten pages, and see an address in the usual spot. I read it slowly, as I know I will read every single word slowly. I want to gobble it all down, to inhale it, but I am making myself take my time. Making myself savour it.
The address tells me she lives in a place called Great Bookham in Surrey. I have no idea what that means, or what it’s like, but it makes my heart soar to see it. The fact that she has put her address on the page means that she wants a reply. That this isn’t just a ‘please don’t bother me any more’ letter. I hadn’t even realised how much I’d been dreading that until I’m not.
I smooth the paper down on the blanket on my lap, and I read …
Dear Gemma,
It’s me – ‘Baby’. Though I go by Beth these days, which is better than being named after someone from Dirty Dancing, isn’t it?
Thank you for leaving your details on the Adoption Contact Register. It took me a while to decide what to do, and how to get in touch – or even whether I should get in touch.
My mum and dad gave me your letter when I was fourteen. Two years earlier than you wanted, but I was a bit of a bitch when I was fourteen, and I think they were worried about it and thought it might help. Plus you’d said that thing about it being good if I had bossy parents, which I think they liked. It didn’t stop me being a bitch, but it did maybe make me calm down a bit. Especially your words of warning about the vodka. I think perhaps that came at just the right time, and it was pretty easy to imagine myself in the same position.
So, I didn’t really know what to write in this – it’s a hard situation, and I was worried about upsetting my actual mum and dad as well. They’ve always been honest with me about being adopted, but still, it must be weird for them, knowing you’re out there and knowing I’m sending you a letter. They’ve never had anything bad to say about you, by the way, they were always just really grateful that I turned up.
I talked to them about doing this, and they said they were happy for me to contact you. That doesn’t mean they don’t have their own doubts and worries about what it might start up, but they’re keeping those to themselves for now. If they get any hint that you’re bad for me, though, I warn you, they might hire a hitman.
