All of Me (30 page)

The nurse hadn’t left their side. She was smiling. There was no more perfect vision in the world than a mother and her newborn child. They’d been together for less than a minute but the new mum was already showing the instincts of a mother of five.

‘Do you have a name for her?’ the nurse asked.

‘Oh yes,’ Dawn said, pulling her robe gently over her daughter’s back. ‘This is Skye.’

‘That’s lovely.’

‘She is, isn’t she?’

It was a wrench to hand Skye back to the nurse but the baby had to be weighed, measured and subjected to all sorts of other tests. Dawn followed it all while the assistant surgeon completed her sewing.

I can wait a few minutes. Soon I’ll be able to hold her forever.

Just thinking that made Dawn want to burst with joy.

It seemed to take an eternity but eventually the nurse started walking back over. Skye was dressed this time, in a little white outfit. It was all Dawn could do not to cry as her baby was handed back. As far as she was concerned, at that moment she had the whole world in her hands.

With so many emotions surging through her, Dawn only vaguely acknowledged the comings and goings of all the gowned doctors and anaesthetists who’d populated the operating theatre just half an hour earlier. It even took a few seconds for one of the nurses’ next words to sink in.

‘We’re just going to take Skye for a few more tests.’

Dawn was in a hospital. She knew her baby was in safe hands. Even so, it seemed like hours until Skye was returned with a clear bill of health. As Dawn hugged her child to her chest, she could not have been happier. Then she noticed the suited strangers standing next to her. One of them was starting to speak.

‘Miss Noble, we’re from social services. We have a court order, to remove your daughter from your care, effective immediately.’

They went on but Dawn’s head was spinning too fast to take it in.

‘Take my daughter? Why?’

Was this a dream? Was someone playing a trick on her? Was Lorraine going to step out in a minute with
Candid Camera?

The nurse had come back. She looked devastated. That’s when Dawn knew the strangers were deadly serious. Without a second thought she clutched Skye tighter and turned her body as far as her epidural would allow. They weren’t taking her daughter anywhere!

‘Come on, Kim,’ the nurse said, ‘you have to hand her over.’

‘No! No, no, no! She’s mine. She’s my baby!’

Two other nurses arrived, each looking as glum as the first. What they were being asked to do was completely unnatural, an abhorrence of the natural order of things. But the law was the law.

There was nothing Dawn could do. She had just had an operation. She could barely move, let alone fight. But she could scream.

‘They’re taking my baby! Give me back my baby! Skye! Skye!’

Skye was born at ten o’clock on 18 August 1997. Twenty-four hours
later she had left the hospital, en route to unknown foster parents. As for Dawn – she would never see her daughter again.

H
ow could I have a baby? It was the most ludicrous, implausible idea I’d ever heard – and I’d had a lot of wild accusations hurled at me over the years.

I may have done a lot of stupid things when I’ve been drunk but I think I would have noticed if I’d given birth.

It was so ridiculous. I hadn’t even been pregnant. Did I look like the Virgin Mary? A woman would notice these things.

Absolutely ridiculous.

I’d never felt more frustrated or more alone. Normally I would have jumped straight on the phone to the Portman. But what was the point of that? Valerie had probably put him up to it anyway – after all, she’d been spouting the same old guff for ages. I remembered our last conversation:

Valerie: ‘Do you accept you have a daughter?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I haven’t got a daughter. I would know if I’d had a baby.’

‘What do you think the scars are on your tummy?’

‘I had an accident.’

The words tripped naturally off my tongue.

‘It must feel much easier to think that,’ Valerie said carefully. ‘It’s so much harder to have a look and see they are actually scars from a caesarean section.’

These pie-in-the-sky theories were a joke. It’s true I couldn’t remember the accident but there had to be another explanation.

I did not have a child.

‘You know that until you accept what I’ve been telling you, until you accept that you have a child, the social services will never let you have her back?’

I shrugged.

I don’t have a child. I don’t need anyone back.

One of the things Valerie and Dr Hale used to try to convince me of their multiple-personality theory was my time management. It was their claim that I was only ever ‘out’ for a certain portion of any given day. Sometimes, they reckoned, I didn’t come out at all. That was why, they concluded, I often couldn’t remember doing things, travelling to places, being with people or so much else.

My answer was always the same: ‘if you drank as much as me, you’d struggle to remember everything as well!’

Even so, away from their offices even I was beginning to question some of the places I found myself. Despite the therapy, nothing had changed. I still found myself literally appearing in various locations, with no idea of how it had occurred or why. Usually I could put two and two together. Usually, but not always …

I remember being in a strange room – nothing new there, so I ran through the usual checklist.

What can I see? People standing around. Not dressed as nurses but they definitely work here. Quite a big room, nicely lit and with comfortable furniture.

And a little baby on the rug!

I was so used to deducing where I was that I didn’t always take in the important details first. You’d think the baby would be the first thing I spotted. I guessed it was a girl as she was dressed in pink. She was sitting in a little inflatable ring to keep her upright. She looked really cute – but where were the parents?

One of the people in the room came over.

‘Do you want to hold her?’

Won’t her parents mind?

‘Yes, please.’

The woman scooped the little pink bundle up and handed her over. I was completely nervous but somehow I seemed to know exactly how to tuck her into the hook of my arm. An unusual, content warmth washed over me. It was like I’d known this little creature forever.

‘She’s lovely,’ I said. ‘What’s her name?’

‘This is Aimee.’

Aimee? That’s what Valerie and Dr Hale said my so-called daughter was called. Was this something to do with her? Bliss turned to rage. I’d been conned.

What are they trying to do here?

Whatever I thought of some of Valerie and Dr Hale’s methods, I couldn’t deny they were looking out for me. I didn’t know how it had happened – or, more importantly, who was paying for it – but their campaign to find me a permanent therapist eventually paid off. Dr Evelyn Laine, another trauma therapist, was also undertaking research into the severity of the aftereffects of trauma. Whether I accepted I needed her or not at the time, to this day I still see her every week.

As part of my treatment, Dr Laine also introduced me to a psychological researcher called Professor John Morton. I shook his hand and waited to be patronised.

He didn’t do that.

Instead he asked if I’d be interested in taking part in a project he was researching. All I would have to do was have my regular sessions with Dr Laine, then afterwards pop over to his office for a debrief. He also wanted to run a few tests on me, if I didn’t mind.

It was so refreshing to find someone who actually asked permission rather than just subjecting me to the sorts of procedures I’d endured at Warlingham and Mayday that I couldn’t say no. Basically after every session with Dr Laine, Professor Morton would have some task or other. Sometimes I would have to learn a list of words, or sentences. Other times I did intelligence tests, solved puzzles, looked at pictures, tried to remember things from the past. Week after week, month after month, even year after year this went on and, I have to admit, it was such a nice change from hearing all that nonsense about multiple personalities.

In between, there’s not really much I can say. I didn’t work – although I wouldn’t have been surprised to find myself in a new job one day, as usually happened – so money was tight, but I did recall spending a fair amount of time socialising, shopping and drinking – your average pastimes, I suppose. And I also seemed to devote an inordinate amount of time babysitting that little Aimee girl. Don’t ask me why, but her mother was always dumping her at my house. It was nice watching her grow up from a toddler to a little girl, especially when she learnt to say my name, but having her around was really restrictive.

Dr Hale and Valerie might have disappeared from the scene but Dr Laine and Professor Morton were obviously working from the same script. It wasn’t the only thing we spoke about – having the same conversation for three or four years would be too much – but rarely did sessions pass without their insinuating to some extent that I’d been away and another personality had done this or that. Every single time I laughed them off, or agreed sarcastically or had an argument for the sake of it, just to see how far I could push it.

Nothing ever fazed them. No matter how angry or sceptical or rude or patronising I sounded, they still pressed ahead, gently pointing out their latest piece of evidence proving I was living a shared existence.

It didn’t matter that so much of what they said made logical sense – or that I couldn’t find any more plausible alternatives. I didn’t have multiple personalities, I just didn’t – and that was that.

And then one day, several years after our first meeting, I walked out of Professor Morton’s room and thought,
What if he’s right? What if there are multiple personalities living in this same body?

Suddenly, for the first time in my life, the whole world began to make perfect sense to me.

PART TWO

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Pandora’s box

Bonny studied the picture on her screen.

This has to be some kind of joke.

The cursor hovered over the image as Bonny’s hand rested gently on the mouse, index finger poised. A mixture of trepidation and intrigue.

One click.

That’s all it would take.

One click, then she’d know the answers: why she was staring at a photograph of herself. Why it was on an online dating site.

And why her name was ‘Abi’.

One click.

Bonny fought the urge to run. Turn off the computer, walk away, and never be troubled again.

That ship had sailed. It was too late. She had already seen too much.

Bonny felt ill. Her stomach was churning, crippled with nerves. Trepidation had turned to dread. Intrigue to panic.

In her heart, Bonny already knew the answer.

Oh God,
she thought.
It’s happening again!

And then, sick with nerves, she clicked on the image.

I
magine the moment when you realise that the six-year-old girl you have known all her life is actually your own daughter. What do you say? There’s nothing to prepare you for that. I’d known Aimee since she was four months old. She was always in my house. In fact, usually I was the only person with her. The clues were all there.

But I never connected the dots. I always came up with a justification for it. There was always some logical reason why I was in charge of a friend’s little girl – even though I’d never actually met that friend.