Chapter Thirty #2
‘And there was something else,’ says Maeve quietly.
My chest tightens. I daren’t ask.
‘She said it was very important to tell me that her middle name was Orla, as it was the name first given to her when she was born.’
For a moment neither of us speaks. Oh, my God, this isn’t what I was expecting at all.
I look at Maeve’s face across from me at the table.
Her pale blue eyes wide behind the lenses of her glasses.
Her small, delicate features now worn with age.
I can’t begin to imagine the enormity of this news for her.
‘It’s my daughter, Emily. It’s my daughter come to find me,’ she whispers eventually.
‘But are you sure?’ I say gently, feeling both a sense of fear and joy. ‘I mean, I don’t want you to get your hopes up – there could be some kind of mistake . . .’
‘I’ve spoken to her.’
Wham. Out of the blue. Just like that.
‘You have?’
‘She left a number. I called her.’
I can feel my eyes saucer-wide. It’s not so much that Maeve has spoken to her that’s so astonishing, it’s the way Maeve seems so proactive. So determined. So fearless. The old Maeve would never have picked up that phone. She was too guilty, too heavy with remorse, too scared.
‘And?’ is all I can manage to say.
‘She sounded lovely, Emily,’ says Maeve quietly, but I detect the sound of relief and pride in her voice.
‘She’s a social worker and lives in Birmingham with her husband, Richard.
She told me that she’d always wondered about me.
That she’d wanted to find me for a long time, but while her adoptive mother was alive she never felt it was right to ask her about me, out of respect for her feelings.
‘But then when she passed away she got in touch with an agency that helps you trace birth parents. They found me straight away, but then she started to have doubts. What if I rejected her? What if I had a new life now, with more children of my own? What if I was ashamed of her and wanted to keep her a secret?’ Maeve looks at me incredulously, as if she can’t believe that anyone could ever think such a thing.
‘She kept my details in a drawer for over a year, then apparently she heard from the agency that they’d had an enquiry about a Maeve Tumpane’s daughter .
. . Actually, that was the bit that I didn’t understand .
. .’ She breaks off and shakes her head.
‘Or maybe I got that bit wrong. I don’t know, I can’t remember now.
I was so overwhelmed by it all, Emily, I could barely take it in. ’
‘Oh, Maeve, I’m so pleased for you,’ I whisper.
Having been listening to everything she’s been telling me, my fears have been slowly falling away until now I’m just left with a cautious excitement.
‘But I know it’s not going to be easy,’ Maeve continues. ‘I’m not expecting us to be suddenly like mother and daughter. I mean, she had a mother for thirty-five years – I don’t want to replace that, but I hope we can get to know each other, become friends.’
The way she says that is so humble, so hopeful, that she almost breaks my heart.
‘I’m sure you will,’ I say encouragingly.
‘And do you want to know the best bit? When I confessed to her about how all this time I’ve been punishing myself for giving her up, she said it was her that should be thanking me.
For giving birth to her and making the ultimate sacrifice by allowing her to be adopted by a wonderful couple who couldn’t have children of their own.
And who gave her and her two brothers – who are also adopted – the best childhood anyone could have ever had. ’
I smile, the bitter-sweetness of the story conjuring up all kinds of emotions within me. I look at Maeve, who’s wiping a tear from underneath the lens of her glasses, and I squeeze her hand even tighter.
‘And you know what else she said to me?’ Sniffing back her tears, Maeve suddenly breaks into a smile. ‘She said, “You’re going to be a grandmother.”’
My mouth drops open, and I shriek, ‘Maeve! Oh, my God, Maeve!’
Jumping up from my chair, I rush round to the side of the table and wrap my arms tightly round her.
‘Maeve, that’s fantastic! Though of course you don’t look old enough,’ I add.
Breaking into the widest smile, I squeeze her so hard I nearly squeeze the air right out of her, and in an almost comedy moment, the waiter finally reappears with our teas, only for us to send them back with orders for banana splits with extra cream, to celebrate.
Later that evening, after Maeve and I have got back from the restaurant and I’ve watched four episodes back to back of the BBC dramatisation of Pride and Prejudice starring Colin Firth, I’m in my hotel room, about to go to bed. Except there’s one thing I need to do first.
Tugging out my phone, I scroll down my list of contacts. I’m not expecting anyone to be there, but I can still leave a message. Finding the number, I press dial and listen to it ringing. As expected, it clicks on to voicemail. ‘Hi, Mom and Dad, it’s me. I’m just calling to say I love you both—’
‘Emily?’ My mom’s voice. ‘Is that you?’
I’m startled. ‘Oh, yeah, it’s me. I didn’t think you’d be back from your trip already.’
‘We got back today. Are you still in England?’
‘Um . . . yeah.’ God, this is silly, I should have waited until I got back to New York.
‘Are you OK, honey? What’s wrong?’
I think about saying, ‘Nothing, I was just ringing to wish you a Happy New Year.’ But then if I do that, I know it might be another twenty-nine years until I make this phone call again. And then it might be too late.
I hesitate, and then, before I know it, I just come right out with it. ‘Next year, can we spend Christmas all together? At home? As a family?’
There’s a pause. I can tell my mom’s caught by surprise. Then she says with genuine pleasure, ‘That’s a lovely idea, Emily. I think your father and I can hang up our backpacks for one year.’
Five minutes later, after we’ve said our goodbyes, I hang up the phone and flop back against my pillow.
See. It was so easy. I was expecting a row, imagining I’d have to persuade them, but I was so wrong.
Turning off the light, I close my eyes. It was as simple as just picking up the phone and asking.