Chapter 12
FAYE
The journey goes by in a blur, despite introspection plaguing every moment. I’m still questioning whether I’m doing the right thing as I pull up to a terraced house on a narrow street. This is Rachel Lacey’s address. Or at least it was fifty years ago.
The street is lined with red-brick houses that I imagine haven’t changed since the seventies, with doors that open directly onto the street, and windows smudged with children’s handprints. The sun beats down overhead as a woman pushing a pram goes by in a spaghetti-strap dress.
I draw a deep breath. On the way here, I pictured myself saying the immortal words of every saccharine straight-to-video movie. I am your long-lost daughter. But the chances of Rachel still living here are slim. This is simply my first stop.
Never one to prolong the moment, I exit the car, hurry up to the door and knock, my heart pattering away beneath my ribs. When the door opens, my heart stops, and then restarts.
A man stands expectantly, waiting for me to speak.
“Hi,” I say.
His hand hovers by the door, as though he’s considering shutting it in my face. He’s young, less than thirty, wearing jeans, no socks and a t-shirt with a stain on it. He hasn’t shaved and his hair is greasy.
“I’m so sorry to bother you. This is a long shot. I… I knew someone who lived here a long time ago and I’m trying to track her down. Her name is Rachel Lacey. I don’t suppose you know her?”
He shakes his head.
“Have you lived here long?”
“Nah,” he says. “About a year. I don’t own the house, I rent it.”
“Ah, okay.” I can tell he’s about to close the door. I know I have to say something quickly to keep his attention. “The thing is, I’m Rachel Lacey’s biological daughter. She gave me up in the seventies. I just found her name and former address. I know it’s a long shot, but if you know anything.”
He contemplates my words for a moment. “Well, I do recognise the name. Wait there a sec.” He disappears into the house.
I do as he asks, leaning with my foot on the front doorstep. With the door swung open, I see a trail of half-filled boxes leading into the living room. He’s either about to move out or really hates unpacking.
There’s an alleyway between this house and its neighbour. When I was small my parents lived in a terrace just like this. All the gardens joined up at the back and everyone knew everyone’s business. It was claustrophobic.
He returns. “I thought the name Lacey sounded familiar so I checked the details on my rental agreement. The person who owns this house is called Dina Lacey. I reckon they could be a relation.”
“I think you’re right,” I say. “Do you have a phone number for her by any chance?”
He shakes his head. “All of my dealings go through the estate agent. It’s Hardy and Co if you want to get in touch with them. Maybe they can help you.”
I can tell he wants me to go. He’s been helpful and polite enough, but he doesn’t want to be dragged into my drama.
Back at the car I gaze up at the building. This could be the house Rachel Lacey grew up in. Then my stomach flips over. Maybe Dina inherited the house from Rachel, and my birth mother is dead.
I push the thought out of my mind. After a quick Google search, I discover that Hardy and Co have an office about a fifteen-minute drive away. I put the address into the satnav and start the car before I have a chance to hesitate.
A thrum of rebellion courses pleasantly through me.
I know all about the clichéd stubbornness of older patients suffering from a cognitive decline.
I also know that young-onset dementia can make people more impulsive.
But right now I don’t care about those aspects of my disease.
A list of symptoms written on a piece of paper do not equal the reality of life.
My stubbornness to remain independent can be a strength, not a weakness.
My new impulsivity is taking me to places I’ve been too scared to visit before.
In other words, I am living.
It takes me twenty minutes to find the estate agents. It would have been quicker if I hadn’t taken one wrong turn and almost gone the wrong way down a one-way street. Though I’m not sure I can blame that one on the dementia. Then I park the car and sit for a moment, composing myself.
I flip down the mirror on the sun visor. “Get a grip, Mathis.” Then I sigh, grab my bag and head into the office.
A polished young woman with blonde hair looks up from her desk as I walk in. “Hi. Let me know if I can help—”
“Actually, I’m not here about a property,” I say, stepping over to her desk.
“I’m trying to track someone down.” Considering the best way to approach this, I reach into my bag and grab the envelope.
“Um, this is a long shot and probably really weird, but I need to find Dina Lacey. She’s a landlord who owns a house on Emerald Drive and I know you handle the business side.
” I hold out the details from the adoption agency with Rachel’s address on it.
“I’m confused,” the woman says. “What am I looking at?”
It all comes tumbling out of my mouth. My adoption. The fact that Dina could be related to my birth mother. Even the dementia diagnosis.
The young woman stares at me open-mouthed. “I… Okay, let me make a call.”
I nod, thinking she’s probably going to call the police, but a few moments later she beckons me over.
“I have Dina on the phone if you’d like to speak to her?” She holds the receiver out like it’s no big deal. Like this phone call isn’t about to change my life forever.