If You Only Knew Page 12

  Had I known just how obsessive she is, I might not have made that first trip to the street, back when Miles and I were living in our first flat in Clapham. That Saturday morning, I had no plans for the day. Miles was doing a double shift at the hospital and I had the day to myself. It was a gorgeous day with not a cloud in sight. I needed to leave the tiny flat, get some air. But instead of going for a walk, I got in the car. I told myself that I didn’t know where I was going, but that wasn’t true. I knew exactly where I was headed, a place that I had looked at on a map many times. An address I’d committed to memory so that I no longer needed to take out Ellen’s driving licence to check the details.

  For years I’d been resisting the urge to make the trip. I forced myself to push the baby out of my mind. I focused on my studies, on getting the necessary grades, on securing the right internship. I was too busy to think about her. And yet I could never get her sweet face out of my mind. The image haunted me. A desire to see her grew deep inside, one that I could not explain. Instead of fading over time, it grew stronger than me, and I was unable to repress it, like I managed to stifle so many emotions that were inconvenient.

  Again and again, I almost turned back. As the car inched forward in the afternoon traffic, I kept telling myself that they might have decided to remain in the US. Even if they had moved back to England, what were the odds they were still living in that house? I argued with myself that if Ellen recognised me, I could get into serious trouble.

  But still, I kept driving, as if pulled by a magnetic force, until I found the right street, lined with big houses and manicured front gardens, with expensive cars parked outside.

  I almost drove past Ellen’s house without even realising. It was just like all the other houses in the street. Colourful flowers bloomed in pots outside the bright red door and ivy climbed up the brick walls, almost covering the iron house number. Looking at the large structure, I wondered if they’d had any more children.

  The next time I had a few hours to myself, I got in the car and headed towards Richmond. I drove with determination until I got to the now familiar turning and then up the street where the house was. I drove at a slow pace, scanning the house, and turned around in the spacious area at the end of the street and left. I made the trip again and again, whenever I had the opportunity.

  It was a few months later, during one such trip, that I saw her. She came jumping out of the house as I was driving by, her red hair flying everywhere. My heart skipped a beat. I tried not to stare, but looked at her from the corner of my eyes, yearning to take in every single detail. The white knee socks and the shiny patent black shoes. The light blue dress with a white Peter Pan collar. Most of all, I wanted to get a good look at her face. I wanted to know what she looked like now. But she turned around too quickly, looking up at the house where her mother was standing. Ellen looked past her daughter at the unfamiliar car and I kept on driving.

  Ellen is staring into her wineglass, some unsaid anxiety eating at her.

  “She’s a teenager,” I tell her, squeezing her hand.

  She bites her lip, twirling the stem until the golden liquid swirls around the glass causing some bubbles to rise to the surface.

  “Ellen, is something wrong?” I ask, suddenly worried that there is more to her questioning than her harmless worrying.

  She shrugs and takes another sip of her wine. Her glass is quickly emptying and overcome by a sense of protection, I instinctively move the wine bottle slightly further away from her.

  “I’m scared of losing her,” she finally says, bringing the glass to her mouth again automatically.

  “What does that mean? How could you lose Maya?”

  When she doesn’t respond, I feel a fluttering of panic. “Ellen, what’s wrong? Why are you talking about losing Maya? Where would she go?”

  “I’ve always worried that one day Maya will want to track down her birth mother and that I will be cast aside.”

  “Oh Ellen, you need to stop with these negative thoughts.”

  Ellen’s eyes are downcast and she’s back to twirling the wine glass in her hand, round and round and round until a fat drop streams down the side of it. She finally looks up and I see that her eyes are glistening with the threat of tears. “What if she finds her birth mother and they hit it off?”

  “Oh, come on, that’s never going to happen.” As I say the words I secretly hope that Maya wants to find me, even though I could never allow that to happen. “Even if she did find this woman and they do forge a relationship, you’ll still be her mother.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  I want to reassure Ellen, tell her that I have gone to extremes to make sure that the child I gave away would never track me down. That this is what I’ve promised myself. That even though there are many times when I want to tell Maya who I really am, I never will because I cannot have the past catch up with me. I’ve got too much to lose. The life I’ve built for myself could be gone in an instant if my secret was uncovered.

  “Maybe her birth mother doesn’t want to be found,” I say. “Perhaps she’s moved on and doesn’t want to dwell on the past.”

  But Ellen is not convinced. “Who wouldn’t want to meet their own child? What if she’s always regretted giving Maya away? If she’s been waiting for her daughter to get in touch?”

  “Ellen, I think you might be imagining problems that don’t exist?”

  And yet, even as I try to reassure her, I know there’s truth in her fears. After all, I fought hard to move close by. I still remember the day Miles put down his toothbrush and asked me where I wanted to make our permanent home. I knew exactly where I wanted to live and was more than happy to show him. We got into the car and I drove us straight to the area that was always on my mind.

  It took us two years to get the funds together to buy a house. Twice a house on that street came on the market and we had to pass. Each time I tried to convince Miles to take on a bigger mortgage than was prudent. “I love this area,” I’d begged. But he remained firm, telling me how irresponsible we’d be to stretch ourselves so thin financially.

  We might not have been able to afford it had it not been for Miles inheriting money following the death of both his parents, months from one another. His father was first to pass away. The suddenness of his death following a severe stroke rattled Miles. The situation was made worse by his mother’s frail state. She had suffered from dementia for several years; her mental state deteriorating even more after Miles’ brother was killed while serving in Afghanistan, until she could barely recognise her own son, her only remaining child. His father had been her caregiver, preferring to keep her in the house they had so many joyful memories of, hoping that the familiar settings might one day help her remember, even if only for a moment. Now we needed to find a place for her, somewhere she’d be taken care of, where she would be kept comfortable and safe. It killed Miles to see how fast she deteriorated after his father was gone. “I’m a doctor and I can’t do anything to cure her,” he said over and over. We tried to visit as often as we could, but each visit would depress Miles further. “She doesn’t even know who she is. What sort of life is this?” he said one day as we were driving back from the nursing home.

  Despite the sheer grief, there was some relief when she overdosed on her medication, only hours after we’d last visited her. She was in peace now, I told Miles as he wept the evening we received the news.

  A few weeks later, when the rush of daily life started taking the place of the sorrow that filled our hearts, Miles raised the subject of his inheritance. “We should buy a house.”

  But none of the homes close to the McBride’s were for sale. Miles started getting impatient. “Why are you so obsessed with that one street?” he asked in exasperation. Our agent kept pushing other options, and Miles was insisting we make a purchase. “I feel we owe it to my parents to buy a house.” I was reluctant. I’d dreamed about living on that street for so long now and refused to consider anywhere else. But I final
ly had to agree that we couldn’t wait forever, especially since we had just found out I was pregnant.

  And then, just like a miracle, on the day when we were about to make an offer on another property, the agent called. “A house is coming on the market in the street you love. Do you want to see it?”

  I was running out before I even hung up the phone. Miles couldn’t make it, and warned me not to get too excited. “We’re on the verge of making an offer. Why change course now?” He made perfect sense. Except I knew I could not pass on this opportunity to live so close to her.

  The house was perfect, as I knew it would be. It was large and airy, with a sweeping staircase and a big garden. The kitchen needed to be modernised and there was some painting that needed to be done, but I didn’t care about the cosmetics. The asking price was right too, less expensive than the one we were thinking of buying. “Nasty divorce,” the agent whispered, even though we were alone in the house.

  Standing in the doorway, I looked around the spacious hall. It couldn’t have been a coincidence that it came on the market just as we were ready to make a purchase. I knew this was the house I wanted to live in, the one I wanted to turn into a home, where I wanted to raise my new child. I called Miles. “I love it. Please come and see it and let’s make an offer quickly before anyone else pounces.”

  “Why are you so adamant to live there? What is it about that street? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  I laughed nervously and shrugged off his questions. “Of course not. I just like it.”

  Reluctantly Miles agreed to see the house that evening and I went back with him, knowing that he might need some convincing. “Isn’t it perfect?” I gushed.

  He was noncommittal, walking around the rooms pointing at the work that was required. The paint was peeling and the garden was overgrown. But even he could spot a good deal. “The sellers are very motivated,” our agent said.

  “Please, I love this house,” It was one of the few times I wouldn’t let him have his way.

  His eyes were kind as he looked at me for a long time before nodding. “Ok,” he said. “Let’s make an offer.” I jumped up and hugged him tightly, kissing him on the lips, oblivious of the agent still in the room.

  Just three months after I first saw the house, it was ready to move in to. We had dug into our savings to get it exactly the way we wanted it. It was perfect. New furniture was delivered and we packed up our small flat and hauled our multiple boxes to the new place. And then an angel by the name of Ellen came to help me unpack.

  Over the years I’d grown to know her better. Ellen has the uncanny ability to always be there when I need her. I will always be grateful that she dropped everything to stay with me the first time Julian had a fever while Miles was away at a conference. The first time she popped over after I got home from work took me by surprise. I didn’t know what to make out of it and had feared that she had figured out who I was. But I’ve started to look forward to her impromptu visits. Beside the company, it gives me the opportunity to find out more about Maya.

  She’s still twirling her wine glass, stopping every now and then to take a sip. “Every time I see a woman looking at Maya, I think it’s her, coming back to take her away.”

  She pauses and inhales deeply. “I think Maya is actively looking for her birth mother,” she finally says.

  The need to know more bubbles inside me, making my heart beat faster. I grip the counter edge as I try to stop myself leaning in too close to Ellen. “How do you know? Has she told you?”

  Ellen continues toying with her wine glass, taking small sips every few seconds. I’m holding my breath, waiting for her to answer my question, to tell me what has fuelled this suspicion.

  But she doesn’t. We sit in silence, me replaying Maya’s questions about tracking down Chloe’s birth parents in my head, and fighting the urge to confide in Ellen.

  “What’s been happening?” I probe instead.

  Ellen’s eyes fill with tears and she purses her lips, “She’s been researching online for a while now.”

  “How do you know?” Fearing that Ellen will see my flushed face, I stand up, busying myself filling a glass of water. I take it down in one gulp. The cold liquid steadies me for a second. Then panic bubbles up again and I take deep breaths to try and control my escalating anxiety as the fear of being found out for who I am intensifies. It was crazy to walk in to this, yet I did it consciously and I use that prop as I struggle to remain calm.

  Ellen’s hand is shaking as she grips her wine glass. Reaching over, I take the glass away, clasping her hand tightly. “Ellen, what’s happening?” My overarching need to extract more details is intensifying and Ellen looks like she’ll collapse under the pressure any moment.

  “How do you know that Maya’s been searching for her birth parents?” I dig when she doesn’t respond. “Tell me; maybe I can help.”

  “I was using the computer and saw her browsing history,” Ellen says in a small voice. “She was searching for ways adoptees can contact their birth parents.”

  My heart skips a beat and I turn around so that Ellen cannot see my face, fiddling around with another glass of water. Conflicting emotions rage inside me. The weird pleasure in her wanting to find me is overshadowed by my fear of what Maya will discover, and Ellen, and Miles. That she will find out about my link to John Larkin, uncover the secret I’ve been guarding right in front of her. “Has she mentioned her biological parents?”

  “No.” Her voice is so small that I have to strain to hear her. Then she looks up and stares me right in the eyes. “Has she said anything to you?”

  “No, why would she tell me?”

  “She spends so much time here. And she looks up to you, is always going on about how you manage to balance your career with two kids. Thought maybe she’d tell you what’s on her mind.”

  I shake my head, glad it’s the truth. “She has mentioned her biological parents a couple of times, but not recently.” And it always seemed very superficial, just mentions in passing.

  “Maybe she was just exploring the possibility and isn’t really thinking about doing anything,” I add. “You know, like when I look at a Chanel handbag online. I’m never going to buy it, but I still catch myself looking.” I’m trying to relieve the tension, lighten the moment.

  Ellen gives me a watery smile, but I can tell that she doesn’t really believe me. “This was not a one-time search.” She lowers her eyes, but not before I can see the complete and utter devastation behind them, the fear of being replaced.

  When she looks up, her eyes shine with the tears she’s been holding back. “The thing is, she has the right to know. I can’t stop her.”

  Part of me is desperate to change the conversation. But this is the opportunity to find out what Ellen knows. “Do you know anything about the biological parents?” I look at her expectantly, then away, fearful that she can see through me. My heart is beating wildly, and I channel my court professional self as I wait for her to answer.

  “Just that she was twenty-one and in college. She didn’t want to meet us and we didn’t ask any questions, risk jinxing everything. It felt like the stars had aligned perfectly with Tom getting that job in New York and us starting to pursue adoption there. We could barely believe it when our lawyer told us about the birth mother.”

  I catch my breath to stop myself from sighing in relief. Taking small sips of water, I hide my face behind the large tumbler.

  After a pause Ellen continues. “I never told you about the girl at the hospital,” she says, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up again in fear. Putting the glass down, I don’t even bother to look where it lands on the coaster as I stare intently at her, willing her to continue but not wanting to say anything lest my voice betrays my fears. I know exactly what she’s going to say, but wait patiently until she continues.

  “I was looking at Maya through the window. They hadn’t let us hold her yet, just pointed at her in the nursery. I was standing there
, mesmerised that this was my little girl. That I was finally a mother.” Ellen takes a deep breath before continuing. “And this girl came and stood next to me.”

  Every detail of the short encounter bears down on my memory. Ellen had barely looked at me, her eyes riveted on the baby. But maybe she remembers more than I hope, just like Miles remembers how I looked that night on campus.

  “She stood next to me, staring through the window,” Ellen continues. “She told me her sister was having a baby. I dropped my purse and she bent down to help me pick up my things and I saw the hospital bracelet on her right hand.”

  My eyes are wide open. Ellen stops. My head is about to explode until I remember to breathe again.

  “I’ve always thought it was Maya’s birth mother, coming to take a last look at her baby. And what was even stranger is that she sounded English.”

  Chapter 15

  “Are you ok?” Miles asks, a worried look on his face, as he bends to pick up the sharp pieces of the plate I had just dropped.

  Nodding, I squat next to him, gingerly picking up a shard of shattered porcelain. “I’m fine, just got startled. Why don’t you get the door while I clean this up?”

  Miles sits back on his heels, looking at me. For a moment I think he’s going to assault me with questions, but then he stands up and walks out of the kitchen. “Hello, thank you so much for coming at such short notice,” I hear him say to the babysitter.

  This Monday morning is more frantic than usual. Leah woke up with a fever, her skin scalding hot to the touch. I longed to stay home, nurse my daughter back to health, make sure she has everything she needs. But I cannot miss work. Knowing Maya would be at school, I’d quickly called a replacement.

  All weekend I haven’t slept for worry, perturbed by Ellen’s revelation. Even though she doesn’t remember what the girl at the hospital looked like, I’m terrified that one day something will jog her memory and she’ll realise it was me. I might have changed my name, dyed my hair, worn glasses, but I couldn’t change my features.