Chapter 30 1,217 Words and Exactly the Right Amount of Feelings
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 staff room if anybody notices us.
We have just come back from taking Bill for a quick run on the beach and are calling 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 ax murderer!”
“Bill will protect her,” he replies firmly. “Plus, if she goes on a date, we’ll go with her and sit at 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!”
“Aah, I’m sorry, baby,” I say, checking the mailbox 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 center, 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 realize 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 stepdad 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 realize 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, in that picture isn’t the funky clothes or the makeup 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 unfold 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 savor 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 anymore” letter. I hadn’t even realized 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 hit man.
I asked Mum what I should write, and she told me some of the things she’d want to know if she was you. She’s usually right about stuff, so here goes.
Mum is Sue, and she was a nurse in a children’s hospital when they adopted me. Dad is Richard—known to everyone as Richie—and he’s an electrician. We lived in Watford when I was a baby, but then we moved to Surrey.
When I was about four they decided to become foster parents, but they were really rubbish at it because they kept keeping the kids instead—so I have three adopted younger siblings, Irina who is ten, Rory who is eleven, and Isabelle, she’s fifteen. It’s a bit of a patchwork family and they drive me nuts, but we all love each other really. Deep down!
Apart from all that, I suppose I’ve had a pretty normal childhood. I went to the local school, and now I’m studying psychology, biology, and chemistry before hopefully going to college. I think I want to be a doctor but I’m not totally sure what type yet. I did pretty well in my courses and so far so good with the exams, which is excellent news as I need three As to get into my course.
It’s weird that you live in Liverpool, because it’s my first choice for uni. I came up for an Open Day and loved the place. It’s strange to think that you’re there too, and we could even have been walking around the same part of the city or eating in the same café or whatever and not even known.
Mum says she wonders if I get my academic brains from you, but she’s just being daft—it’s as much down to them as anything. They always encouraged me to work hard, like they did, and that’s just as important as anything genetic, I think, isn’t it? I don’t mean that to be rude—I just know that they’ve made me who I am, and I still feel a bit like I’m betraying them by even writing this, no matter what they say.
Mum also said you’d probably want to know a bit about me, like everyday stuff. So, I like animals—we have a rescue dog from Romania to add to the chaos. He’s a handsome boy called Dax, and a big chocolate lab called Jasper who either eats everything or humps everything. I’m a vegetarian who misses bacon. My best friend is called Poppy, and I have a boyfriend called Nathan—though I’m not sure if that’ll last with us both going off to uni, because if we get our grades, I’ll be in Liverpool and he’ll be in London.
I passed my driving test last month, and Dad got me a car for my eighteenth—a fifth-hand bright yellow Nissan Micra that is possibly the least cool car ever, but it is all mine. I like reading fantasy novels, and baking, and I play bass guitar in a band. We’re pretty rubbish but it’s fun. I’ll watch anything with Timothée Chalamet in it, and I love Marvel films, and I like old rom-coms with Hugh Grant in them too.
Mainly, Mum said you’d want to know if I’ve been okay—so yes, I have. I’ve been happy, even though there was that rough patch when I was younger. I suppose everyone has one, but it could have been worse. (I don’t need to tell you that!)
I’ve always felt loved and wanted, and your letter did help with that. I don’t blame you, for giving me away—I could tell you didn’t want to. I could tell you were in a really crap situation yourself, and some of my sibs have come from difficult homes and I know what an effect that can have. When I was sixteen there was no way I could have raised a baby either. So I suppose what I’m saying is that it’s all been fine. You told me to “shine on,” and I always loved that—I hope I have.
That’s pretty much it. I don’t know what will happen next, or whether we will stay in touch or whatever. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to keep it like this for a while. I wrote this instead of emailing because it seemed right—you sent me a letter, now I’m sending you one. I don’t really feel up for phone calls or meeting or anything just yet, but if you want to write to me, that would be fine.
If you do, then I suppose I have a lot of questions too. As I said, I think my mum and dad made me—but that doesn’t mean I’m not curious about you as well. Like, is it your fault I have this hair? And that I’m as tall as a giraffe? And I suppose I want to know what happened in your life too, after me, and also if you remembered anything more about my biological father.
Anyway. This is the longest letter I’ve ever written. Actually, I think it’s the only letter I’ve ever written outside English lessons—nobody writes letters anymore, do they?
So you have my address, and if you want to write back, that’d be good. Just don’t turn up on the doorstep or anything!
No idea how to sign this one off—so I’ll stick with my English lessons.
Yours sincerely,
Beth
I finish reading. I read it again. I cannot stop smiling, stroking the paper, staring at that picture. She is here. She is not Baby. She is not Katie. She is Beth. She is in my life, and everything has changed.