Chapter Eighteen
It’s a relief to walk out the front door and climb inside James’s pearl white Tesla after dinner.
I put on self-driving and stare up at the star-spangled sky.
Being back behind the wheel of a car should probably instil a fear in me after what happened today, but something tells me that with Raven inside the house, nothing’s going to happen to me tonight.
I’m not particularly thrilled about leaving my family with her, either.
But what choice do I have? If I kick her out before I can prove she’s either a deranged tormentor or my lost and broken daughter, I’ll be the bad person.
And so I drive, my hands positioned at nine and three o’clock on the wheel.
Each car that comes close behind me makes me uneasy, but they all overtake me, leave me behind.
Carol knows something is wrong the moment she sees me, and it isn’t the Tesla giving it away. It takes all of my strength not to crumple in her arms as she hugs me hello.
‘I haven’t seen you look this rough since Matthew Perry passed away.
’ She eyes me curiously and I have to scoff.
Like much of the world, I had mourned the actor who played Chandler Bing like he was a close friend, and I guess perhaps, after ten seasons and two hundred and thirty-six episodes I’d watched countless times, he was.
‘Carol, you’ve been there for me through so much,’ I mutter, pulling away. ‘If I tell you something, do you swear to keep it to yourself?’
‘Of course!’ she breathes, taking me by the shoulders and leading me to a bench outside the hall.
No one else has arrived for the meeting yet, so we have some time. We’re usually the first to arrive by at least fifteen minutes so we can set up the chairs, but tonight I just need to speak to my friend and forget everything else.
We sit out in the last of the evening sun on the weathered bench, and my eyes roam the roses climbing up the trellis on the brickwork.
‘What’s going on?’ she asks, her hand never leaving my shoulder.
Once again, I wonder if it’s better to keep my concerns to myself until after the test results have come back.
Like DCI Gary Quinn, Carol has been there through so many times I’d believed girls were Robin when they weren’t.
I’m sure it’s getting old for her as it is for the police .
. . my hysterics. But if I can’t tell my best friend, then who can I tell?
‘There’s a girl staying with us,’ I say hesitantly. ‘She’s claiming she’s Robin. She keeps plaguing me. It won’t stop.’
‘Oh, wow.’ Carol puts a hand to her mouth. ‘What has James said?’
I swallow, stammer. ‘I-I haven’t told him.’
‘Bella! Why?’ she asks, incredulous. Her thick white hair falls in front of her face and she pushes it back, strands sticking to her shiny forehead.
‘Because.’ I take a deep breath, exhaling slowly. ‘Because I’m doing things differently this time.’
‘How so?’ she asks, frowning now.
My heart hammers, the truth on the tip of my tongue.
‘I’ve sent off some DNA samples for testing,’ I say quickly, letting the words escape before I can stop them. I watch as her emerald-green eyes become colossal.
‘And this girl agreed to these DNA tests?’ she asks.
‘Well, no . . .’ I admit.
‘Oh God. Bella.’ Her head falls to her chest, heavy, to match her breathing. ‘What’ve you done?’
‘I just need answers, Carol,’ I say. ‘The truth.’
‘Isn’t it against the law to–to . . . ?’
‘Yes,’ I snap. ‘But no one needs to know. I just need confirmation. For me. Not for anything legal, not yet anyway. If she’s lying to me, she’s basically harassing me, non-stop.’
‘And then what? What if she is? You can’t tell the police about the results, can you?’
‘I won’t need to. I’ve thought it all through. She’s come to me, told me she’s Robin. What’s stopping me going to the police with that? They might decide to do official testing themselves,’ I gabble.
‘When have they ever believed you before?’ Carol looks at me sadly.
She has a point. I can’t prove Raven’s been telling me she’s Robin, but maybe I could start recording our conversations?
The thought strikes like a match but dies a quick death.
That’s crazy, isn’t it? Would there be privacy laws against that, too?
I just don’t know. There’s too many stepping stones here, too many unknowns.
‘I had to do something,’ I say. ‘I couldn’t sit back and let her keep plaguing me any more. I couldn’t. If you knew what she’s been like, you’d understand. You all would.’
Her hand reaches out for my shoulder again. ‘Bella, I’m here for you. Just be careful, please? Don’t go getting yourself into any trouble with the law for this.’
‘I’ll be as careful as I can be,’ I promise, and lean into her. We stay resting against one another for a few minutes in silence until people start to arrive for the meeting.
* * *
Over the years since forming the support group, I’ve got to know many different women and their reasons for infertility.
Each one harbours the pain of their condition, cradling it in their arms like the baby they were never blessed with as they share their story among the group.
Sometimes it’s easy to guess the problem, while for others the issue lies beneath the surface.
‘I never knew that what I was doing to myself would be so harmful,’ Jane, a newer member admits tonight.
She’s hiding her bony limbs under an oversized cable knit cardigan.
‘When my periods stopped, I was actually proud. Like I thought I’d beat the system, somehow.
No more monthly cycle! No more pain! I thought it was great, at first.’
A few of the other women in the group nod their understanding.
‘It makes me so sad for you,’ Carol says, wiping a tear from her eye. ‘You know, my body decided never to allow me to have children. Endometriosis.’ She interlaces her fingers over her womb, long past its childbearing years.
‘That’s what most people don’t understand,’ Jane says.
‘My body decided that too. An eating disorder isn’t something I woke up wanting to have one day, it crept up on me.
People think I did this to myself, that I chose to make my body go through all those hormonal changes and stress that led to this. I didn’t. I didn’t choose this.’
‘I think that’s what’s important to understand,’ I say, cutting in. ‘Bulimia and anorexia as well as conditions like endometriosis and polycystic ovaries — they’re all disorders. They’ve all affected us, our lives — taken something from us. Every single one of our experiences is valid.’
Everyone in the group nods in unison.
‘Now I’ve arranged something special for tonight. Sabine Allen from Mindful Mourning is here to teach us some mindfulness tricks. Welcome, Sabine.’
The group claps as Sabine stands, modestly stepping into the centre of the circle.
While she introduces herself and instructs everyone to sit silently, monitoring their breaths, I relax into myself.
There’s solace here, in my group. It’s a comfort to have something else to focus on, if only for a little while, to get back in tune with my body, and for just a moment I allow myself to forget about Raven and the DNA test currently speeding down the motorway to somewhere in Huddersfield, West Yorkshire of all places.
Sabine’s been going for twenty minutes by the time I realise she’s gone completely off course. I asked her to do a session teaching mindfulness for infertility, but what she’s doing is making everyone in the group repeat affirmations that aren’t going to help them.
‘My body is capable,’ she’s saying in an airy tone, her eyes closed, oblivious to the mood in the room. ‘All that I want is heading my way.’
I cringe inwardly as less than half of the group repeat the words she’s saying.
Most, like me, are older and we have been here long enough to see each other well past the days where we had hope of fertility knocking on our doors.
There are a few though, Jane being one, who seem captivated, and I must remind myself that the group is for women of all ages, and if this sort of session helps the younger generation, then I can’t shut it down.
The rest of us, the OG’s as one might say, sit on with arms folded across our chests, waiting for the session with Sabine to end. Wishing the time away.
Usually the meetups are just about general support, sharing how infertility has impacted our lives and relationships.
We are each other’s rocks and while new members do appear from time to time, we have developed a bit of a clique over the years.
So I’m surprised when, after the session, Jane comes up to me and thanks me.
‘That was honestly so refreshing.’ She smiles, her face flushed pink. ‘I needed that.’
‘I hope it helps.’ I manage to squeeze her hands in mine before turning away, unwilling to share the envy in my eyes.
Unlike me, Jane still has time. Maybe if she manages to gain enough weight, if she gets the right care and support, she’ll be able to have a healthy pregnancy.
Conceive. Start a family of her own. And what must it be like to look at your child and see yourself in their features?
I’ll never know, and that does hurt. I’m so lucky to have Skyla, but she looks nothing like me.
Sometimes I catch myself wondering what her birth parents look like, what she’s inherited from them — it’s another thing I’ll never know, and perhaps that’s a good thing.
‘Isabella. Wait,’ Jane calls, forcing me to turn back towards her. ‘I have to ask, are you okay? You seem pretty tense tonight.’
I’m not used to people taking an interest in me here.
As the hostess, my own struggles with infertility are often forgotten, especially by the newer members.
My role has always been to bring structure to the group; it’s never really been about me and what I’ve been through — and yet those newer to the group like Jane often make me feel uneasy.
I wonder about their intentions. Are they truly here for the support or are they here to ogle at me, Isabella Rushmore.
It’s no secret to the outside world that I run this group.
There have been times where I’ve let people into this space and all they actually wanted was to bombard me with questions about my past, about Robin and what ‘really happened’. Their words, not mine.
I haven’t quite sussed Jane out yet and so I feel the need to keep her at arm’s length.
‘Oh, don’t worry about me. I was in a bit of an accident this afternoon, but I’m fine,’ I say, because at least that is a slice of the truth.
Why would I tell this stranger about the teenager claiming to be Robin staying in my house, tormenting me?
Why would I mention the DNA test results now back at the forefront of my mind?
I have confided in my best friend; I don’t need anyone else.
My circle of friends has always been small, especially after my ordeal.
‘An accident! And you still came here, oh bless you!’
I look down at Jane’s arm stretched out in front of her, reaching for me but not quite connecting.
Her cardigan sleeve has ridden up, and it’s the first glimpse at the soft ginger tufts of hair covering her skin, an attempt from her body trying to keep warm with no body fat to help.
This is the direction Raven is going; her skinniness is bordering on an eating disorder — I don’t like the reminder of her in this moment.
While I look at Jane’s arm I catch a glimpse of scars too. White slashes, the only parts of her arms not covered in hair. Some see scars as symbols of survival, yet all I see as I stare down at Jane’s wrist is her past pain.
When she notices me looking, she wriggles back into her cardigan. ‘I should go,’ she says, shying away.
Part of me wants to stop her, to protect her somehow.
That built-in maternal instinct of mine, back again, more for her than for Raven, which makes me feel queasy inside.
But Jane is gone, saying goodbye to some of the other newer members before scurrying out to the car park.
I don’t go after her. I know how exposed she’ll feel, knowing I’ve seen what’s really under the baggy clothing.
Her vulnerability makes me warm to her, just slightly. Perhaps she is someone I can learn to trust in time, after all. But right now, her scars have reminded me of the silvery scar above Raven’s lip, and I need to find Carol. I need her to placate me before I go home and have to face this girl.
One more sleep. I say these three words in my head to comfort myself.
They are the words I used to say to Skyla on Christmas Eve, and I wonder, is this Christmas Eve?
Am I finally going to get the one thing I’ve wished for all of these years?
My daughter back? If I do, will that be a gift, or a curse?
A very big part of me is starting to wonder that if Raven is Robin, would it have been best for her to stay missing after all?