Chapter 20
TWENTY
‘“I thought I could, I thought I could, I thought I could,”’ Beatrice read, before closing the book with relief. Parker was asleep, her thumb in her mouth, her long eyelashes fanned over her plump, flushed cheeks. Slate’s eyes were closed, too.
Thank fuck. She allowed her lips to form the words but no sound to emerge. Another day was done – now all she had to do was sneak out of the kids’ bedroom without waking them, stack their dinner plates in the dishwasher, mop the floor, put a load of washing on – and then she would be able to sit. Sit alone, in blissful silence, until Frances arrived home and she was free to leave.
But before she even stood, she noticed tears trickling down Slate’s face. He wasn’t crying like he normally did – the outraged bawl of a four-year-old – but silently, his eyelids squeezed tightly shut as if trying to prevent the tears from falling.
He was crying the way Beatrice used to when she was a child and didn’t want her mother to hear.
‘Honey?’ she whispered. ‘What’s the matter?’
With any luck, he was actually asleep and just having some weird Little Engine That Could -induced nightmare. Beatrice could relate to that – she often felt that if she had to read that stupid story one more time, she’d weep herself.
Then his eyes opened, his mouth turned downwards in an almost absurdly exaggerated expression of sadness, and he rolled over, burying his face in the pillow, his shoulders shaking.
For God’s sake, don’t wake your sister , Beatrice thought.
But she reached out a hand and stroked his shoulder gently. ‘Slate? What’s wrong?’
The little boy’s shoulders heaved and a thin wail emerged, muffled by the pillow.
Shit , Beatrice thought. He’s properly upset about something. But what? She was used to coping with skinned knees, devastation when cucumber was cut into rounds instead of sticks, and plain overtired grouchiness.
This felt different – like real sadness. She couldn’t begin to guess what in the inner life of a four-year-old could have brought it on. She lay down next to him and pulled him into a cuddle, not knowing whether it was the right or appropriate thing to do but acting on pure instinct.
‘My mommy isn’t coming back,’ Slate sobbed, turning over and looking at Beatrice with wide, swimming eyes.
What the fuck? she thought. But she said, ‘Slate. Of course your mommy’s coming back. She texted me just an hour ago. She’ll be home just after eight o’clock. She’s just late at work.’
Slate shook his head, not buying it. ‘Mommy isn’t coming back.’
‘Honey.’ Beatrice kept her voice as calm as she could. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘It’s Dylan,’ Slate managed between sobs.
‘Dylan at pre-school? The new boy who you were going to be friends with? Did he say something to you about your mommy?’
If he did, I’ll give the little bastard the telling-off of his life , she vowed, although she had no idea what she would actually do.
‘His mommy gave him away and now he’s adopted.’ It took Slate a few goes, but eventually he got the words out.
Oh God. Not this. Beatrice felt as if cold water was being dripped down her spine.
‘Slate,’ she said calmly. ‘You know how that works, right? Sometimes a mommy and daddy can’t have babies of their own, so they have to?—’
She stopped, her mind racing. There was a right thing to say here, appropriate words to use – she just had to remember them.
‘They get to be mommy and daddy to someone else’s baby. Someone who loved their baby very much but couldn’t look after them. That’s what happened to Dylan. But it won’t happen to you.’
‘Why, Bibi?’ He looked at her, his eyes wide and doubtful. ‘Our mommy can’t look after me and Parker and that’s why we’ve got you.’
‘Slate, that’s completely different!’ She paused. I’ve got to get this right or I’m screwed.
‘Your mommy and daddy both have big, important jobs. That’s so you can all have nice things, and also so they can do things they love, that make a difference in the world.’
Quite how marketing two-thousand-dollar handbags or betting on the yen versus peso exchange rate made the world a better place, Beatrice wasn’t sure. But that was definitely not an issue that needed covering in Adoption 101.
Slate was looking at her intently as she continued. ‘And so that they can do that, they have to have someone looking after you when you’re not at school,’ she went on. ‘And that someone is me. And I’m so blessed to have such great kids to be a nanny to, but you’ll never be my kids. Not the way Dylan is his mommy’s, or you your mommy’s.’
Slate looked unconvinced. But at least he’d stopped crying – for now.
‘When a baby’s adopted, it’s different,’ she carried on, now totally feeling as if she was making it up as she went along. ‘Grown-ups know – often before the baby’s even born – that their mommy won’t be able to keep them. Sometimes they don’t have a daddy, or the daddy’s not around. Not like yours, who’s around every single day. Right?’
Slate nodded slowly. Then he asked, ‘What if their real mommy does want to keep them though?’
She doesn’t , Beatrice thought. Not really. Not enough, anyway. She just wants a problem dealt with.
But she thrust the thought aside.
‘All mothers love their babies,’ she said as brightly as she could. ‘They always want to keep them, but sometimes they just can’t. Maybe they try and it doesn’t work out. But everyone’s looking out for what’s best for the baby, so they can grow up with a family that loves them, the way you and Parker are.’
‘So I’m not going to be adopted?’ Slate asked.
Beatrice felt tension she hadn’t realised was there slacken across her shoulders. ‘You are not. I one hundred per cent guarantee it.’
Please let this be the end of it , she pleaded silently.
But Slate wasn’t done with her yet. ‘How do you know?’
Beatrice pulled him closer, squeezing his small body against hers. Her hand had gone to sleep from his weight on her arm.
I’ve got one card left to play , she thought, then I’m damn well giving him chocolate buttons and hoping he forgets all about this nonsense. Only she really, really didn’t want to play it.
What does it matter? He can only tell Frances, and she knows anyway. Or say something to this Dylan kid, and who cares what he thinks?
It was only the household at Damask Square she needed to keep her secret from: Livvie and Luke and especially Orla. At least for now.
Right. I’m going in , she decided.
‘I know because I know all about babies being adopted,’ she said. ‘I know because I was. My mother – the lady who had me, in Ireland where I was born – couldn’t look after me, even though she loved me. And so my mom and dad, who couldn’t have a baby of their own, adopted me, and took me home to live with them, and when they moved back home to America I went with them, because I was their baby now. And they loved me just the same as your mom and dad love you and Parker, and just the same as Dylan’s parents love him.’
‘What happened to the lady who had you?’ Slate asked, his eyes growing sleepy.
‘I don’t know. She was very sad but she got over it, because she was young and beautiful like a princess.’
And then she got married and had lots of other babies and she kept all of them.
But Beatrice managed not to say that out loud. She never had – not to anyone.
‘So you see,’ she said, ‘I understand how it works. You can trust me. And any time you’re worried about this again, make sure you tell me or your teacher or Mommy or Daddy, right?’
‘Okay.’ Slate sniffed. His head was drooping now – he’d be asleep in a few minutes.
Beatrice sat up, pulled the covers up to his chin and smoothed his pillow. ‘Want me to stay with you for a bit?’
Slate nodded. Beatrice took his hand in hers – it felt warm and clammy. His eyes were closing, the dim glow of the lamp making his and Parker’s faces look peachy and luminous.
She waited, listening to the steady sound of her own breath. Then Slate made a noise that was half snore, half snuffle and turned over, his hand slipping out of hers.
Limp with relief, Beatrice stood up and crept out of the room, closing the door gingerly behind her just as she heard the soft chime of the elevator. She spent twenty minutes explaining to Frances what had happened, amazed at how calm and professional her words sounded.
Then she said goodnight and went home.
In her bed at Damask Square, the silent darkness of the house surrounding her, she finally let the tears come.