Being Lara (28 page)

“Everybody leaves, Tyler.”

“You can't keep using the ‘abandoned child' card; lots of kids get adopted and they don't act like you! Look at Sandi!”

“You know nothing about me!”

“I know enough.”

A long silence passed between them, when all she wanted was for him to put his arms around her so that he could kiss her crap away and promise her everything was going to be all right. But she knew that to be a promise he wouldn't be able to keep.

“I need this break so that I can concentrate on… I need to concentrate on being Lara.”

Tyler sat down and flopped back onto the sofa like a discarded dolly, the look on his face threatening to soften her resolve.

“How long do you need, Lara?” he said quietly, his voice breaking.

“As long as it takes,” she replied, knowing he'd soon get bored and find someone else. Which was all right. She was effectively setting him free to do what was best for
him,
making it as painless as possible for the both of them.

“Tell you what,” he said, standing up.

She looked up at him, not sure what he was about to say. A part of her hoped he would fight a little bit for her.

“You take all the time you need, Lara. I'm done with all this. This is finished. We are finished.”

She suddenly wasn't breathing, her eyes following Tyler Jonsson as he strode out the door, leaving her standing. Watchful. Empty.

And he was gone.

Pat and Yomi

Pat

T
he arrival of this woman, Yumi, Yami, or whatever her name was, had affected Pat in ways she hadn't anticipated.

For twenty-seven years, Pat had been allowed to experience an easy transition from pop star to all-baking, all-sewing mum, in a somewhat perfect straight line, no twists or turns. Just a lovely life that included her husband, little girl, and small extended family, and along the way she even found her calling, so to speak. Her identity was no longer bound up in whether she'd score a number one hit, but in the well-being and laughter of a child named Lara.

Pat had always known Lara was “the one.”

She'd known ever since clapping eyes on her at the Motherless Children's Home all those years ago. Initially she was fearful that Barry might not agree to the adoption, even though he'd never refused her anything in the past. But any fear evaporated that moment in Heathrow when she'd seen the obvious bond between them. Those few precious days in Nigeria and a six-and-a-half-hour journey had connected Barry and Lara in a way Pat knew she'd never be able to penetrate. Since Pat had not had such a relationship with her own father, it at first seemed a bit unfamiliar to her—unfair, perhaps. But as time went on, she began to see what a blessing and an aid it was to Lara's transition into the British way of life. Their family was complete. Perfect even, despite her brother-in-law Brian's reservations about “plucking a child out of one culture to another,” despite the odd stares as the three of them traveled to someplace new, despite those radical Public Enemy tapes she'd found stuffed down the side of Lara's bed all those years ago.

And despite a small, tiny blip a few years back, when Lara was ten or eleven or twelve—Pat had blocked it out really—when a nosy do-gooder named Rosie had attempted to question the very essence of who they were as a family.

Instantly reminded of that frightening time because of how she now felt, Pat sat down at the table, transporting herself back to
then
.

Pat had always wondered why each and every sock she pulled out of the washing machine was odd—blue with gray spots, one plain yellow; one white sock, one green one. A diverse collage, a fact that wasn't lost on Pat as she unloaded the contents of the washing machine into the plastic basket. She wondered whether her daughter loaded the basket with dirty odd socks purposely or whether some mythical sock fairy just magicked each sock away.

The latter story would probably be the topic of fierce debate as soon as Barry returned with Lara from school. Or they could discuss other topics, such as Lara's new best friend or (much to Lara's horror) maths homework. Pat as usual couldn't wait for her to walk through the door. Her day, however busy, frantic, calm, or productive, always produced a staunch longing for the arrival of her family.

So the doorbell ringing at 2:30 startled her. They rarely received visitors who weren't prearranged, and the afternoon post had already been.

Pat was unsurprisingly confused as she tentatively opened the front door to a woman dressed in a crumpled trouser suit, with short but
slightly messy hair. A woman who, as Pat's mother may have put it, must have “gotten dressed in the dark.”

“Mrs. Reid?” said the woman.

“Yes?” replied Pat suspiciously, as something about this woman didn't sit right with her, and it wasn't just her unkempt appearance. It was her whole demeanor, and Pat just wasn't used to experiencing an instant dislike to someone on contact. She wasn't like her brothers. She even liked the insurance man who came round every month to collect his money and when she and Barry were a bit short would say irritatingly, “But you're a pop star, luv—all pop stars are rich!?”

“I'm Rosie O'Day and I'm from social services,” said the woman with the short hair.

Pat actually felt her heart sink to the floor, was sure she could see it lying helplessly on her hallway carpet, bleeding profusely as the quick realization began to hit her.

“Are we in trouble?” asked Pat without thinking, wondering if her words echoed with guilt. The last time she'd uttered such a sentence was as a six-year-old, late back from collecting conkers with her brothers over on Lakeview Common. Her mother's frantic worry was overshadowed by a fierce wallop for each of them and the immortal sentence: “You wait till you have children, then you'll know why I'm bloody well angry! It's not easy being a flipping parent!”

Pat let the woman in.

Two teacups, Pat's best teapot, and an uneaten plate of biscuits later and it was now four o'clock.

Predictably, Lara rushed for the plate of biscuits and appeared to be surprised at not being met with a stern “not now, you'll spoil your tea!” Instead Pat watched the little girl she loved sit and gobble down two chocolate biscuits, perhaps with a look of surprise at being able to get away with it, capitalizing on Pat's lethargic response.

But Pat just stared at her, heart swelling with love. She suspected the love had actually begun long before the little girl was pushed into
the world by her birth mother, that at the very moment of birth, Pat felt a tug in her heart, a heart that had experienced its own past of pain and loss, only to be robust and ready enough to receive the love of this wonderful child.

And someone was going to imply that was
wrong
?

The mere thought repulsed Pat as she watched her little sweet pea (who, with long limbs and beautifully defined features, was no longer a “little” girl anymore) tuck into the chocolate biscuits. She wanted to catch hold of her daughter, grab three passports, and just disappear. But this wasn't an action movie. And as Barry had said on the phone after she'd frantically phoned him earlier, the adoption had been legal and aboveboard. They had papers, documents from officials.

Pat turned away and felt a warm droplet race down her face. The fear that someone could actually take Lara from them had yet to subside, but a deeper fear languished in the back of her throat—the assumption that they, she and Barry, weren't good enough for Lara because of their skin color.

As white people, we're not the “right” parents to bring up a black child?

What?? Who made the rules? How could love be determined by color?

Endless questions.

Pat gripped the handle of the kitchen door, thinking she had to be in a dream. A nightmare. She'd always wanted an open plan kitchen but Barry had said it was hardly en vogue and would never “catch on.” Barry, with his off-the-cuff phrases; Barry, the man she loved, the best father she had ever come across. A thousand times better than the man who had fathered Pat and yet still, in the eyes of some, he was still not “good enough.”

Because he is white.

Pat wondered who had called social services with their “concern that a colored child was living in a white household.” Whose business was it anyway?

WHOSE FUCKING BUSINESS WAS IT ANYWAY?

Pat's thoughts spun to now. Different time, same feeling of helplessness. Same level of anger boiling beneath the surface and threatening to spill out into a sea of expletives Pat wasn't used to uttering. She quickly reminded herself that apart from that small blip, life with Lara had been absolutely perfect.

She'd never said such a thing out loud because it sounded conceited, and where she was from that just wasn't the done thing. But it really had been. Or at least, this was how she'd
perceived
it to be.

Now this—Yumi's arrival—and everything was about to change. Maria would probably call it a “balancing out” of life events or something.
Because to have such perfection was unrealistic and something would have to give.
Apparently.

Maria and her “theories.”

As Pat ironed Barry's shirt, her lips tensed as she wondered what Lara was doing at that precise moment. Her sweet pea. A child who'd never disappointed her. Pat's only real complaint was the child's inability to even boil an egg! It was a running joke in the family, with Pat never voicing how much this pained her since it put paid to any dream she'd harbored of opening a cake shop with her daughter one day in the future. Pat's fondest memories were of those moments together baking cakes—just like she'd done with her own mother. But Lara was more into fashion and sparkly things, and over time, Pat had come to accept that. Oh well.

As a teenager Lara had experienced the normal ups and downs, staying up in her room, displaying slight moodiness at times, but she'd never given them any trouble with boys, fighting, or bad grades. She always seemed happy at school with no real problems—in fact she was the model child—and for the first time, Pat felt their relationship was about to be changed by a woman she'd assumed would never be part of their lives again. She hated this woman Yumi and everything she stood for. What type of woman abandons her child like that? Pat wished she'd just get back on a plane and basically disappear again like she had for almost thirty years. Why couldn't she just leave them all alone?

Pat knew her thoughts were wrong, bad in every sense of the word, but she just couldn't help it. Lara was theirs. Pat had been the one to soothe her to sleep after a nightmare at three o'clock in the morning; Barry was the one who'd walked her to school and back, every day for six years. Pat was the one who'd rubbed antiseptic on every playground cut and graze, read to her every night until she was seven years old and “could do it myself, thank you, Mum.” Pat was just so tired of being the charitable one, and she most definitely regretted the day she'd dutifully left their address with Kayo. They should really have just disappeared, fake address floating in their wake. Or they should have moved. The property boom definitely would have afforded them a bigger house, but she'd loved their home in Entwistle Way and still did. It was the first house they'd bought with the proceeds of a short-lived singing career and where they'd decided to stay until their last days, when Lara could then decide what to do with it.

Tonight as every night since Lara's thirtieth birthday party, Pat would try not to cry herself to sleep. It wouldn't be easy, especially as she'd also try to hide it from Barry. She didn't want him worrying, since he was already looking worse for wear. Lines were etched around his eyes deeper than usual, and color was drained from his cheeks. He'd already had a heart scare once before. He didn't need this added stress.

No, nothing had felt easy or perfect since the night of Lara's thirtieth birthday party, and Pat was fearful of the future, hoping against hope that their little girl wasn't about to leave them.

Yomi

Yomi's fears were solely related to connecting with and getting to know Lara.

And now she was becoming more fearful because her six-month visa had already lost two weeks from its date stamp and was running out fast, as were the funds put by for the trip. This meant less time to spend with Omolara and to convince her of the truth—and the thought of returning to Nigeria without progress would be almost worse than not coming at all.

Yomi had stupidly assumed the transition from stranger to mother/daughter would have been much smoother than this, a tearful and joyous reunion sprinkled with tireless embraces, tears, and a face aching with loving emotion. Instead, she'd walked in on a family who clearly resented her mere presence, her mere existence. To them she was a troublesome cockroach to be eliminated, her voice like a tiresome bleating of a goat.

An irritation.

But that was okay with Yomi. She'd traveled thousands of miles for a reason, and she wasn't about to, as the British say, throw in the towel. She'd traveled this journey not only in miles, but in so much more.