Chapter 43
FORTY-THREE
30 OCTOBER 2005
Since I told Livvie, I’ve been thinking about my daughter – about Aisling – all the time. If Livvie knew this, I expect she would think it peculiar that I didn’t think about Aisling all the time anyway, but the truth is I didn’t – not any more than I think about my arms or my toes or my spleen.
They are all just part of me; I take them for granted. And I’ve come to take her absence – the absence of that being that grew inside me and was part of me for nine long months – for granted too.
I’ve been remembering those months, too, which I’ve never properly done before. All those conversations with my grandmother, going round and round in circles.
Can I not keep the baby?
That would be impossible, Orla.
Can I not go to England and… you know?
That would be illegal, Orla.
Isn’t there someone – a midwife or someone – who could help me here?
That would be wicked, Orla.
So she took over and arranged everything.
It will be for the best, Orla.
I believed her; I trusted her. There was no one else I had to trust. And it did seem like it was for the best, right up until that moment when I lay alone in my bed in the maternity hospital, my body opened and stitched together again, my breasts swollen, surrounded by women nursing their babies, their proud husbands visiting them, their relatives bringing flowers and teddies.
In the weeks that followed, I thought something would happen, somehow, to change it. Declan would come and find me and say he knew why I had dropped out of college. He’d say he had never loved his wife but did love me, and wanted to be with me and our baby. The nuns would say that the couple who wanted her had changed their minds and were giving her back to me. My grandmother would say she’d had a change of heart and realised that she wanted to raise her great-granddaughter as her own, and we could all be a family together.
But none of those things happened, and I did nothing to make them happen. I stayed at my grandmother’s house in Clonmara for six weeks, until I knew that the adoption was final, until my body had healed. Then I left for England and I never went back. I ran away.
Now, I have the chance to run away again. It happened yesterday, when I was returning from the supermarket laden with vegetables, tins of food for Maud and a pack of chicken breasts for Beatrice.
Approaching the house, I saw a young man putting a leaflet through the letterbox, and I knew straight away who he was and what he was doing there. All the places I’ve lived in the world, I’ve noticed that estate agents all look the same, with their cheap suits and their sharp haircuts, and I recognised him as one of that tribe.
When he saw me climb the stairs, he launched without hesitation into his sales pitch. This was a fine home. He could see that I was renovating it – had I considered having it valued? The area was becoming highly desirable and original Georgian properties were like unicorns. With skilful marketing, the house could be worth a great deal of money. If I were ever to consider… etc.
And I am considering. The temptation is so great – I can sell this house, move away and stay away. I’ve done it before. If I do it again, she will never find me.
But there is another option. I could, finally, apply to have my name on the Adoption Contact Register.
I can face my past, or I can leave it behind forever.