Chapter 14
FAYE
We walk over to Dina’s Mazda parked a few spaces away from my car. “It’s only ten minutes from here.” She starts the engine, turning down the loud radio that blares out of the speakers.
“Thank you,” I say. “This is so kind, really.”
“Well,” she says. “It’s not every day that you meet your long-lost sister.” And then she laughs.
“Can you tell me a little about Rachel on the way?” I ask.
She lifts her eyebrows. “I’ll do my best, but Mum was always a closed book. I guess now I’m starting to understand why.” She exhales slowly as though thinking about the past. “She never really talked about her childhood. I know she grew up in the area but as a child I never met my grandparents.”
“Never?”
She shakes her head. “Not once. I didn’t have any extended family. No aunts, uncles or cousins. No one. It was Mum, Dad and me.”
“And your dad?”
“He passed away last year. He was a teacher. A bit older than Mum. She didn’t work. I think she had a job at a butcher’s before I was born and then became a housewife and mother. I had a good childhood. We weren’t well off but there were Christmas presents and home-cooked meals.”
It sounds nice, her simple childhood. As a young woman, I might have felt resentful that my birth mother was able to take care of her second child but not me. As a fifty-year-old woman, I’m glad my birth mother found happiness with another daughter.
Dina pulls into a carpark, reverses into a bay and refuses my offer to pay for the parking.
The nursing home reminds me of a Victorian school. Perhaps it was at some point. I wrap my arms around my body, taking a few steps closer.
“Are you okay?” Dina asks as we make our way inside.
“Not really,” I admit. “I feel very strange.”
The nerves have taken over and there’s a sense of disconnection flooding my body, as though I’m hovering above myself, staring down at the top of my head.
“I keep wondering if I’m doing the right thing,” Dina says.
“Whether this is all too soon. After all, I only just met you. But to be honest, I don’t know how long she has left.
And you seem nice.” She shrugs. “Besides, if you are some sort of grifter, you’ll be disappointed.
There aren’t a lot of riches for you to pilfer. ”
I laugh. “I promise you I’m not a grifter.”
We walk along a corridor before a nurse allows us through locked doors. I follow Dina, watching her move. While the physical resemblance between us is strong, our mannerisms are different. She walks with her shoulders forward whereas I lean back.
Before I know it, we’re outside a door. Dina knocks three times.
“Come in,” answers a weak voice.
I hold my breath.
As Dina opens the door, I think time may have slowed down. I’m not ready. But how can that be possible after all these years? A few seconds later, I step into the room and see my birth mother for the first time.
This is it.
The window behind Rachel’s slumped shape illuminates her form. Sunlight peeks through the wisps of her grey hair. If she is sixteen years older than me, that makes her sixty-six, but she looks more like eighty.
“Ah,” she says. “You girls should be out in the fields, playing. Why are you inside?” She shoos us away with her hand, as if to dismiss us.
“Hi, Mum,” Dina says. “How are you today?”
“I’m fine,” she replies, with an edge to her tone. “Stop asking.”
“Okay,” Dina says. She glances back at me before taking a few steps into the room. “There’s someone here to see you. Can you be nice for a few minutes?”
Rachel makes a pfft sound. “I’m always nice. Unless it’s one of those bitches out there.”
Dina bites her lip. “Sorry. She’s been a bit difficult recently.”
I wave a hand to tell her not to worry. I know already that dementia can cause changes in personality.
“Hello, Rachel,” I say. “Can I sit down?”
“I suppose so.” She leans forward, as though interested in who I am.
I bring the chair closer so that she can see me properly.
“I know you,” she says. “You’re the girl.”
“I was once,” I reply.
“No. The girl!”
“Which girl?” I ask gently.
She stares out of the window. “It’s going to rain, you know. And when it rains, I get tired. I always say that, don’t I?”
“You do, Mum,” Dina says.
“I totally understand,” I say. “I promise I won’t stay if you’re tired.”
“That’s good of you,” Rachel says with a huff.
The sense of disconnection grows. A hot flash works its way up the back of my neck. I move my hair and waft air around my shoulders.
“Hot, are you?” she asks. “It’s always fucking freezing in here.”
“Sorry,” Dina says. “She never used to swear.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” I say. “Rachel, can I tell you something?”
“If you want,” she replies.
“Fifty years ago, a young woman gave me up for adoption. I think that young woman was very scared but very brave to do that. I was adopted by two amazing people who loved me very much. I don’t feel any anger or animosity towards my birth mother. I’m just sorry she was so afraid.”
Rachel listens, her eyes misty, her expression impassive.
“Do you remember anything about that?”
“No,” she says.
I glance at Dina.
Dina shrugs.
I pull my attention back to Rachel. This time, before I speak, I take in her features. She has the same heart-shaped face and thin lips she gave her daughters. I wish I’d seen her before her hair went grey. I’m guessing we share the same natural colour.
“Did you have a baby when you were young?” I ask.
She turns away from me. “That’s none of your business.”
“Rachel, I think I might be the baby you gave away,” I say. “The adoption agency gave my mum a letter. It had your name and address on it.” I rummage through my bag, my fingers trembling. When I produce the letter, she won’t look at it. “I know you wanted to meet me. At some point, anyway.”
She says nothing.
“I think she might be tired,” Dina says. “Don’t take it personally.”
I nod slowly.
This is only to be expected. Rachel is very ill right now and Dina is right. I can’t take any of this personally. Rachel may have even forgotten about me, not because she doesn’t care, but because of the dementia.
I put the letter back in my bag. “It was very nice to meet you. I’m so sorry that it’s under these circumstances.
” I stand up, deciding that it would be best to let her rest. But I have one more question.
“Rachel, I’ve been wondering something, and I don’t know why.
I can’t explain it. I have this strange feeling that I have a twin.
I know this is hard for you, but can you tell me that? Did you give up twin babies?”
Rachel’s eyes grow unfocused. Then something dark crosses over her expression. She leans closer and grabs hold of my hand. As I look into the eyes of my mother, waiting for the answer, spittle forms on her lips and she says, “Get out before I say something cruel to you.”