Chapter 17 Eighteen Years of Missing Her
The day of October 3 falls on a Saturday. I wake up with Karim by my side, his hair in dark tufts and his bare chest slowly rising and falling. He is one of those people who kicks all the covers off himself at night and wakes up cold. I look at him for a moment, syncing my breathing with his, trying to calm my own heart rate.
I have been trapped in anxiety dreams all night long. Dreams where my fingers have turned into actual sausages that are too big to operate a keyboard. Dreams where I have forgotten my phone passcode and get locked out so many times my phone actually explodes in my hands like a grenade, leaving me with bloody stumps. Dreams where I am in hospital and nobody will let me out of bed to check my emails, tying me to the headboard with surgical stockings.
Over and over I have woken up, slicked in sweat, exhausted and drained. It has been about as much fun as it sounds.
I slide out of bed as quietly and softly as I can, trying not to disturb him as I pull the duvet up over his sleeping form. I put on a robe, creep out of the room, and stand alone in the lounge. I need coffee, I tell myself, and go through the motions of putting a pod in the machine, pressing the button, and realizing too late that I haven’t put a cup on the stand.
I clean up the mess, do it all again, sip brown liquid that I do not taste, so hot it scalds my lips.
It is 5:54 a.m., and I know there is zero chance of me getting back to sleep. I give in and go out onto the balcony. It is raining heavily, the sky is dark, the sea a black, roiling smudge that stretches on forever.
I open my phone, relieved to find that the passcode is the same as it always has been, relieved that my fingers are not made of minced meat, that nothing explodes.
I check my emails, hands shaking, forgetting to breathe until I wheeze. I have imagined this moment so many times. Pictured getting a notification, opening it, seeing that she has found me on the register. That she has agreed to contact. That my details have now been passed on to her so she can get in touch.
In my wilder moments of fantasy, everything has happened at once—there is already an email there from her, inviting me into her life. It is chatty, and friendly, and curious—just the way I hoped it would be. Understanding and nonjudgmental and full of colorful details about how good her life has been.
We will arrange to meet, and that meeting will be the beginning of something wondrous that will make me whole again.
That, of course, was fantasy—and this is reality. This is a cold, wet pre-dawn morning, and there is nothing. Nothing at all.
I sit down and I go slack. I hadn’t realized how scrunched up I was until I’m not, and then suddenly I feel like all my muscles have stopped working.
She is eighteen today. Only eighteen. She probably has other things on her mind. She probably isn’t even out of bed yet. I have been in too much of a rush, and I need to be more rational about this.
I sit, that hope-killing phone on my lap, and I remember that day eighteen years ago. The aching agony. The fatigue. Geoff with a G, and the Irish midwife, and the blood and the gore and the sheer perfection of my baby. I remember her ten tiny fingers, her ten tiny toes. I feel tears on my face, and I let them be. I am sad. I am allowed to cry. I wish that I had a mother to console me, to tell me that everything will be fine. But now, as it was then, I do not.
I have more than I had this time last year, I remind myself. I have Margie and Bill. I have Katie and Erin. I have the man who is lying in my bed. I have more than I had—but right now, at this exact moment, it feels like nothing at all. It feels empty and hollow and sour.
I hear the door open behind me, feel a warm hand on my shoulder. I do not look round. I don’t want him to see that I am crying. I don’t want him to see me like this at all.
Karim doesn’t go along with that plan and crouches down in front of me. He is only wearing boxers, and must be freezing out here in the damp, not-quite-awake air.
He puts his hands on my knees and looks up at me. I bite my lip, and swipe away those stupid tears, and meet his eyes.
“Anything?” he asks. There is no need to explain. He knows exactly what I am doing out here. We have not discussed it, but of course he knows. He insisted on staying over last night, even though he has to take the school’s football team on an away match to Manchester later.
I shake my head and close my eyes. I don’t want to see his sympathy. It might break me.
“Well, it’s still early,” he says gently. “Not everyone gets up before six, especially teenagers. Come back to bed.”
I let him lead me back inside, and I clamber under the sheets with him, and he wraps me in his arms and kisses the top of my head as I cry.
“You’re right. It’s too early, isn’t it?” I say eventually. I don’t know if I mean it’s too early in the morning, or too early for her to come anywhere close to forgiving me.
“It is too early,” he agrees. “Everything could change. For now, just stay here, nice and warm with me. Lie here and see if you can get some more sleep.”
“I don’t think I can,” I reply, letting my head rest on his chest, feeling his hands stroke my hair.
“Just try,” he murmurs softly. “Just breathe, and keep your eyes closed, and try.”
Some kind of small miracle occurs, and I actually do fall back to sleep. This time, it is deep and solid and devoid of dreams. I don’t know whether it is because of Karim’s comforting presence, or because my own mind understands that it really must rest.
I sleep, and I sleep, and I sleep. When I finally come to, it is a gradual and gloriously gentle thing—a slow stretch of arms and legs, a fluttering open of eyelids, a luxurious emergence into consciousness.
I know, of course, that this is where the problems usually start, so before I even pull the covers back I tell myself that I have had my indulgence for the day. That I will not spend every waking moment checking my phone. That I will not cry, or mope, or sacrifice myself on the altar of self-pity.
I will be my own mother and set my own boundaries. I will allow myself to check my phone once more today. No, I decide—that’s not realistic. I have to be realistic. Five times, I think, sounds more like it. Five more times before midnight, I will let myself hope, in the full knowledge that hope can be crushed as completely by nothing as by something.
Karim is gone, a note left again on my pillow. It is a scrawled doodle of a love heart. Nothing more, nothing less, but enough to make me smile.
I take my time getting up and potter around the flat, tidying and cleaning things that are already clean. I have slept through the whole morning and some of the afternoon, and by the time I emerge into the world it is almost 2:00 p.m.
I do some grading and prep for a meeting on Monday, and I read about a job that the recruitment agency has sent me. Head of History for sixteen-to-eighteen education at a school sixth form in Norwich. It is a good job, the logical next step for me—but it is in Norwich, and my life is here.
Even thinking that scares me. I reply to register my interest, agreeing that they can pass on my details. There is no harm in finding out more, I think, in keeping my options open. If nothing else, it will be something tangible to think about—I will not move. I will not run. But it might give me a little boost if they want me, a small win in what might be a short term that is not littered with wins.
I check in with Margie, agree to her invitation to have dinner with her later, and take Bill with me to walk round to Erin and Katie’s house. The rain has settled into a gray drizzle that coats my hair and seeps through my jacket, and the people I see are hunched and hurried, keen to get back inside their cars and their homes.
I smile as I reach their house. The whole of the outside has been decorated with balloons, birthday-girl banners, and a giant cardboard cutout of Katie herself, with “18 Today!” emblazoned across it.
I can hear music blasting inside, and all the lights are on to fight off the seeping dimness of the day.
I take the now slightly soggy envelope from my pocket and quietly slip it through the door. I know I could knock. I know they would welcome us inside, feed me cake, allow me to share in their celebrations.
But I also know that it would be wrong. I don’t want to intrude on their happiness, or to suck them into my own turmoil on a day that should be all about Katie.
They both know what this day means to me as well, and they are both too damn lovely not to try to make me feel better.
I hear the card gently thud onto the mat in the hallway, and I turn away quickly before I can change my mind. Before I am lured in by the soft light and the laughter and the promise of the kind of familial warmth I have always longed for.
I walk with Bill for another hour, in and around the dunes, along the beach, to the coast guard station and back. I would have been content to carry on, but Bill is a dog with his own strong opinions, and when he simply started walking back toward home I had no choice but to follow. Margie opens her terrace doors and he slinks off inside, shaking rain from his shaggy fur and making her yelp as she gets splattered.
I give her a wave and go back upstairs, where I fill in more time with a long bath, with a book I’m too distracted to concentrate on, with a random episode of Ru Paul’s Drag Race, with cooking. I make a huge pan of spaghetti Bolognese to go with the garlic bread and tiramisu that Margie has promised. I suspect there will be alcohol as well, and I also suspect that she has been very deliberate in this dinner plan.
She, like Karim, knows that today will be difficult for me, and she is providing me with respite care for my worn mind.
There is still a small corner of me that resents this. Fears it, even. If I start to depend on them, does that mean I can depend on myself less? Does it even matter?
I’ve depended on myself for my whole adult life, and I can’t say that it’s brought me a lot of joy. Contentment, yes; a quiet life and security. But joy? No. Definitely not, as my previous boyfriends can testify.
My past default settings have been to back away when anyone gets too close, like some strangely choreographed dance of shifting emotions. They take a step toward me, I take two steps back. Eventually, I am always dancing alone.
Changing that will take time, I know, but I am at least willing to try.
Just after 6:00 p.m., I make my way downstairs, carefully carrying the pan of pasta in front of me. Margie has left the door unlocked, and Bill is waiting for me right inside the hallway. I have food, so he is on high alert. If I were to trip over now, or lose my grip, he would turn into a slavering wolf and gulp down the lot, then belch in our hungry faces. The love of a dog only goes so far. I walk round him and put the pan on the stove to warm up. The garlic bread is out and laid on a tray, so I pop that in the oven as well.
I walk through the flat, which is pretty much the opposite of mine, despite having the same layout. Margie’s place is fifty shades of stuff—books, DVDs, family photos, magazines, plants, candles in wine bottles, cuddly toys, crossword-puzzle compendiums, a collection of wooden elephants. No surface is left uncovered, no corner left empty.
I find her outside, where she has set up the table beneath the pullout awning she uses for shelter. She is struggling to move chairs so I take over, and she sighs a breath of relief.
“Thanks, love,” she says, rubbing her fingers. “It’s raining sideways, isn’t it? Can you move everything back a bit?”
I do as I am asked, and notice that she is wearing makeup—that bright red lipstick she said she used to love—and has swept her hair up and tied it with a gold scarf.
“You look nice,” I say, examining her. She gives me a very slow twirl, making her skirt puff out, and replies, “Well, this is Italian night—thought I’d make a bit of an effort.”
She goes inside, puts a disc into her CD player, and I hear the sounds of opera waft out toward us. She’s usually more of a Fleetwood Mac kind of girl, so she really is making an effort. I feel shabby in my leggings and trainers, and run my hands over my hair in an attempt at looking a bit better.
When the food is ready, we settle down to eat, to drink, to chat. It is pleasant, and it is good for me. She doesn’t ask if I’ve heard anything, and I don’t raise it. The whole point is to switch off, I think, to let myself go along with this distraction.
We are tucking into our tiramisu when Bill starts barking. It’s not his full-alert bark, not his terrifying deep growl that tells us a stranger is lurking. It is a woof of anticipation that means someone he knows is here. He gallops through the flat and I follow.
I open the door and find Erin outside. She has clearly been ringing my doorbell, which I didn’t hear due to not being at home. She looks glum and is holding a carrier bag.
“Hi!” I say brightly. “Come in—you’re just in time for cake.”
Her eyes widen slightly in pleasure, the universal response to the mention of dessert. She follows me through, Bill dancing around her legs in excitement. I lead her out to the terrace, grabbing an extra glass on the way.
She takes off her raincoat and slouches down on the chair I give her, brandishing the plastic bag at Margie.
“I came to get my Wonky Cushion back,” she says simply. “And I accidentally fell into the liquor store on the way round.”
“That used to happen to me all the time,” answers Margie, taking the wine and placing it on the table. She pours us all a fresh glass from the bottle we have open, and Erin glugs hers down like it’s lemonade before pulling a face.
“This is nice,” she says, glancing around at the fairy lights and the heater and the pots of now-fading flowers. “And the music too. It’d feel quite exotic, if it wasn’t for the rain. Sorry to turn up unannounced. I didn’t really plan it. I wasn’t thinking quite right. I just didn’t want to be in on my own. Katie’s gone to town.”
She says the last word as though she really means that Katie has gone on a swingers’ holiday to Sodom and Gomorrah.
“Thanks for the card and the cash you dropped off, Gemma,” she adds. “She’ll probably use it to buy drugs on a shady street corner, and then she’ll get bundled into a kidnap van and I’ll never see her again.”
Margie and I share a look, and I say, “Probably not. Do you want me to go and get your Wonky Cushion from upstairs?”
“No, any old cushion will do,” she replies sadly. Immediately I grab one of Margie’s many cushions from the living room, and Erin hugs it to her tummy.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, pouring her some more wine. It feels like a night that calls for more wine. “When I called past earlier, everything seemed great.”
“It was! It is . . . everything’s great. Katie’s had a brilliant day, and she’s so excited about going out with her friends, having her first legal drink, going clubbing . . . Honestly, it was a joy to see. She looked so beautiful and so happy, and so carefree. It was perfect. Then she left, and I felt . . . God, just so sad, you know? He should have been here to see this. He should have been with us, singing ‘Happy Birthday.’ He’s missing so much—and I’m missing him so much too.”
Margie reaches out and pats her hand. “It’s bloody horrible, love, what you’re going through. It’s not the same, but when I got divorced, the nights were the hardest—getting used to being on my own after all those years together. Have you thought about getting a dog?”
Erin gazes at Bill, who is curled in a snakelike ball at her feet, and says: “Maybe, one day. I had a border terrier when I was little, but he hated me and used to bite my toes—but maybe. And thank you, both of you. For listening, and for putting up with a misery-moo when you’re trying to have a nice night. Oh, I love this one!”
The music has changed, and “Nessun Dorma” begins in all its showy glory.
“This could be us, if we sing along,” she adds. “The Three Tenors, live in Liverpool!”
“More like the Three Terrors Tena-Ladies!” Margie cracks, then descends into a throaty cackle. It lightens the mood, and Erin seems to perk up. Or maybe she’s just drunk.
“What about you, Gemma? How are you doing? Any . . . news?” she asks.
I shake my head, and realize that I am possibly a little drunk as well.
“No. I’m trying to be reasonable about it all. I’ve set myself a phone-checking limit. Five times before midnight.”
“Wow,” she replies, “that’s brilliant. That level of self-discipline is amazing.”
“Thank you. So far I’ve checked it sixty-eight times.”
We all laugh at that one, and I start to wonder if Three Witches might actually be more appropriate than Three Tenors. None of this is amusing—loneliness, grief, regret—and yet somehow, together, we seem to be managing to see the funny side of life. Maybe this is what I should have been picturing all these years when I told myself there was safety in numbers.
“You know, it might not be that simple at her end,” says Erin, leaning forward and sniffing the tiramisu. “Apart from the emotional stuff and whether she wants to meet you or not, it might not be easy logistically—she’s only allowed to register when she’s eighteen, which I know, technically, was midnight, but probably she wasn’t up late filling out forms. Plus, it depends on how much information she has, whether she has her original birth certificate or has to apply for one, all that kind of stuff . . .”
I do, of course, know all of this. I have just allowed myself to ignore it—to build this day into something it was never going to be. It was a mistake, but I seem to have no control over myself when it comes to this particular subject. It’s like all of the order and perfection I see in the rest of my life counts for nothing, and all of the chaos and mess and craziness gets channeled into this one thing.
“Yeah. You speak sense, Erin, I know . . . I’m just not feeling very sensible.”
“That’s not like you!”
“I know, right? What’s a girl to do? I’ll feel calmer tomorrow, I’m sure.”
We all sit with this last sentence, and I suspect we all recognize it for the benign lie it is.
“I was thinking,” says Margie eventually, in a slow, hear-me-out tone, “about all of this today. About your baby, Gemma. And yours, Erin. About families, I suppose. None of us know what’s around the corner, do we? She might get in touch, Gem, she might not—either way, she’ll have her reasons. But I was also thinking about your mother.”
That catches me unawares, and I reply, “My mother?”
“Yeah. Your mum. I know you said she had lots of issues, and I know you were in and out of care, but I know you also said she did her best with a bad lot, and I was thinking . . . in the same way you miss your daughter being in your life, maybe she does too? Maybe you’re not the only one who wishes things had been different with their child? Just saying. Don’t be offended.”
I’m not sure how I feel, but offended isn’t it. Confused, maybe. Mentally jarred. A little dizzy from Margie phrasing her question in a way that forces me to see things from a different perspective.
My mother moved on, it always felt like. Nothing says “thanks but no thanks” like changing your phone number without telling someone. She moved on, and so did I. But I never really made the effort to find her, to stay in her life, to build a proper adult relationship with her. I never thought of her missing me, feeling sad at not being able to give me what I needed.
Why is that? I wonder now. Was I too selfish? Too angry? Was I too damaged by my childhood and incapable of separating her from that trauma? Was I scared that if I stayed in her orbit, she’d pull me into her own whirlwind of instability? I can’t pinpoint one exact reason—and perhaps I don’t have to. Perhaps it is allowed to be a mess.
“It’s complicated,” I say to Margie and Erin, which I think sums it up.
“It’s complicated!” says Margie with a snort. “I’ve heard that from you so often, girl, I think you should have it on your gravestone!”
She is joking. It is funny. We laugh. But somewhere deep inside, she has planted an image: a cemetery full of headstones, dedicated to loved ones. Engraved words to much-missed mothers and the best dads in the world and wives who were soulmates and children whose smiles lit up a room. And mine, all alone, and none of those things—not important enough for anyone to miss. Here Lies Gemma Jones: She Was Complicated.
Being complicated is overrated, I think. All the happiest people I know are also the most straightforward. Hidden depths just give you farther to fall; still waters can drown you, and too many layers can be suffocating. I don’t want to be complicated. I want to be simple.
I want to love and laugh and live. I want to find my little girl, my baby who is now a young woman—but perhaps I also need to find the little girl that I once was as well.
Perhaps, right now, I can’t be in my daughter’s life—but maybe I can be in my mum’s.