That Girl From Nowhere (39 page)

‘Easier in what way?’ I ask. I want her to admit it, to spell it out so she can hear how awful it sounds for me, the one who is on the receiving end of this type of thought process, even from her – my mother.

‘People will accept you.’

‘Do you mean the people who look like you will think I’m all right and safe to be around because I’ve got Seth with me?’

Mum’s face tightens, the muscles seem to sew themselves together in quiet disapproval, even though that is exactly what she’s saying. ‘That is not what I meant.’

‘That’s what you said, though.’

‘You’re being wilfully difficult.’

‘That’s what you were saying, though, Mum. And what about black people, will they accept me because I’m with Seth instead of Tyler? Aren’t they people whose opinions should count if I’m taking comments on who I should be sleeping with? Shouldn’t I worry about what they think, too? And what about nice Mrs Khan from the Middle East, who lives upstairs? Or what about lovely Mr Suki who runs that Japanese restaurant in the Lanes? Should I worry about who they think I should be taking to my bed?’

‘Don’t be crude,’ she says.

‘Mum, don’t you see how ridiculous it is for me to care what other people think about who I’m with?’

Another tightening of her facial muscles. ‘I’m other people, am I? That’s how you see me now you’ve been secretly seeing those people.’

That’s not going to work at the moment. She won’t distract me by marking out my wrongdoings like lines in the sand. ‘I’m really sorry to tell you this, Mum, but you’re racist.’

I think for a minute she’s going to throw her cycle helmet at me. Bop me right in the face with it in response to what I have said. Instead, her upper lip curls back, exposing the pink of her gums and the grey-white of her ex-smoker’s teeth as she snarls: ‘How dare you! How dare you! How can I be racist?’

‘Really easily. It’s not like you do it on purpose, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t true.’

‘You dare!’ Her snarl continues until it has taken over her face.

‘I dare because you spent the whole of my childhood apologising for me. Who does that? Who can’t see how they are damaging their child by making their very existence something to be sorry for? Dad never did that.’

‘Your father was not perfect, Clemency. In your head he was this perfect being but he was not.’

‘I know he wasn’t. And he made mistakes, and he upset me, but he loved me no matter what. He didn’t say sorry to other people all the time because I wasn’t blood and he couldn’t pretend I was. You did.’

‘I am
not
racist. You take that back.’

‘No.’

‘Take it back, Clemency.’

‘No, I won’t, actually. Not until you take it back.’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘All of it, Mum. You take it all back and I’ll take back what I said. You acknowledge what you were like when I was growing up and I’ll take it back.’

I don’t know where this has come from. Maybe I’ve reached my limit. Maybe it’s got to that point where the pressure is so much, so heavy, pressing down so relentlessly on my head, my shoulders, every part of my being, that I cannot be who I was any more. The old me, the one who had to be so appreciative and scared and unable to speak for fear of being branded ungrateful and told I should be happy that I even got the chance at life, has cracked. And the other me, the one who was submerged under the waves of gratitude and desperation to make everyone happy, is spurting out through the cracks.

‘I didn’t do anything wrong. And I am not a racist.’

‘Well, that’s fine, then. If you didn’t do anything wrong, then that’s fine. But, Mum, be honest with yourself about why you called Seth – someone you never really liked. Be honest, accept that it’s because he only became good enough in your eyes when the alternative was me being with a black man.’

‘That is not true!’

‘Yes, it is. You know it is. Just be honest with yourself and with me for once in your life.’

She is silent, her sneer replaced by the defiance she has whenever she is dealing with me. It’s only me who encounters defiance, her obstinacy and determination to get what she wants at all costs. With everyone else she is conciliatory, apologetic. After all, she is the woman who couldn’t get it right and couldn’t have a baby the ‘natural way’, and then when she managed to get a baby by other means, it didn’t look right. It didn’t blend in so her family always stood out. The shame of that, of not being like everyone else, was a millstone around her neck and she could never apologise enough, do enough to make it right. But with me, she was always strong, stubborn and ultimately a parent. A hardline one, but still a parent.

‘Maybe I simply didn’t like Tyler,’ she states.

‘You didn’t even know him, Mum. You met him for all of five minutes and he was nothing but genuinely welcoming and friendly towards you.’

‘That doesn’t make me racist,’ she says. ‘It just makes me picky about who my daughter spends her time with.’

‘But it’s not up to you. I’m not an extension of you. If I want to sleep with half of Brighton that’s my business. And I like Tyler. He’s a great person.’

‘He’s not right for you!’ Tears seep into her tone.

‘Why not?’

‘I am not a racist,’ she replies.

I shrug. ‘If you say so.’

‘I am NOT!’ I don’t remember the last time she shouted at me. She’s hardly ever needed to. Quiet words and disapproving looks have always worked on me. I am stultified by her shouting, genuinely frightened because she never loses control like this with me. ‘I AM NOT, NOT, NOT A RACIST!’ she continues to shout. Her face is puce with rage, every line heightened. ‘HOW CAN I BE WHEN MY OWN CHILD IS HALF BLACK!’

Mum slams her hand, with its beautifully manicured nails over her mouth. But it’s too late to trap the words that have escaped. She is not talking about me, of course. And she can’t even pretend that she is because I am not ‘half black’. Mum had a child, a ‘real’ child that is biologically hers.

For the second time in five minutes I look properly, carefully, at my mother. I see her now. I see her in sharp focus: the hidden facets of her personality, those parts of her blurred under the things she does, the way she speaks, how she relates to me, are suddenly vivid, clear, apparent. Now I know why she is the way she is.

I wonder if she is finally seeing me or if she has always and will always see her other child, the one that I am the replacement for, whenever she looks at me.

There’s a point when it’s enough. When what you feel is too much, there is too much inside for you to handle any more. I am there. I am at that point. Like the banks of a swollen river, I am too full: another deluge and it will be too much; another drop and I will spill over and out, my being trampled and drowned as everything inside begins to disappear, the less secure bits washed away, the rest submerged. Drowned.

This is the final drop and I am drowning. Among everything, everything that my mother and I went through, I always knew it would be all right because she had chosen me. Out of everyone else, she chose me. But now I know it was only because I was a reminder, a replacement for her other child. And I know, from the look on her face, that her first child, her ‘real’ child, didn’t die, she had them adopted.

I take huge breaths, my chest expands to the limits of my ribcage and then rapidly contracts as I drown, submerged under the torrent of my tears. I can’t even raise an arm, pretend I am waving not drowning. More than anything, I want to make believe that she hasn’t told me that I am a replacement for the one she really wanted. That like everyone else, I wasn’t ‘real’ to her. I drop my face into my hands, try to contain the tears.

‘Oh, Clemency, love,’ she says. I feel her come towards me, her arms out ready to offer comfort and love. Ready to be my mother.

Is that even my name or is it the other one’s name?
I wonder as I shrink away from her, prevent her from touching me.

‘Clemency, I’m sorry, I never meant to tell you. I was so young—’

‘I’m going to the toilet,’ I say to her as I try to stem the flow of tears. ‘I’d like you not to be here when I get back.’

‘Clemency—’

‘Just go, OK? We can talk another time, but just go.
Please.
’

‘I love you, Clemency,’ she says. ‘With all of my heart. From the moment I saw you, I fell in love with you.’

I nod to appease her, to get her to leave. ‘I know,’ I say. ‘I know.’ It’s all very well loving someone, but does it matter if they’re merely a replacement? Does it count if they’re second best, not really what you actually wanted?

I am my mother’s daughter. I am pretending that the conversation we had last night didn’t happen. I have slept top to toe in the same bed as Seth, like I do every night. And this morning I am up making breakfast for everyone. Toast, cereal, tea, milk, coffee, jam, Marmite, marmalade, butter – all in the middle of the table for when everyone arrives.

Surprisingly since she’s almost always up at first light, Mum, not Sienna, appears first. I set the marmalade jar down beside the butter dish, look up at her and switch on my smile. ‘Morning,’ I say.

She probably hasn’t slept very well, but I can’t see for myself because I don’t look at her for too long. I can only do this if I don’t look at her for too long. I can only sleep in the same bed as Seth if I don’t dwell on our past for too long. I can only be in the same city as Nancy if I don’t remember all the things she has done and will do in years to come for too long.

I go to the toaster, take out the latest pieces to pop up.

‘Clemency,’ Mum says.

She’s meant to tell me everything right now. My mother is supposed to unburden herself and let me into the secrets of her past: what she did, why she did, how she did. I am supposed to listen and let her explain the unvarnished truth of who she is, what she is capable of doing. She did this thing that was done to me. I cannot listen to that. I cannot stand to hear that she did it to someone else for their own good. I’d love to have the luxury of being unconnected, unaffected by the choices she made back then that kept her making certain choices all of my life. I would love to be able to sit here and be as unconditionally sympathetic as any stranger who hasn’t been shaped by Mum’s choices can be.

‘Yes, Mum?’ I say. ‘Is everything OK?’

She says nothing, so I have to turn to face her. And then I switch on another smile. Grin at her because I am her daughter. I don’t have a handbag to root through, but I know how to pretend, how to forget and act like something isn’t happening. ‘Not fancying toast this morning?’ I ask. ‘Do you want scrambled eggs instead?’

She wraps her pink dressing gown around herself, pulls out a chair. ‘No, no, toast will be fine.’

‘Great,’ I say.

I’ve brought her flowers and fruit and magazines.

I chose pink carnations, plump, green-flesh white grapes and a selection of magazines filled with fictional stories, and was reminded as I vacillated over every decision that I don’t know this woman. Despite the time I spent with her, she is a virtual stranger and I have no idea if any of these are to her taste.

My grandmother by birth is propped up in her bed, frail and unhappy. Dad felt how she looks: frustrated, angry, defeated. We’re alone, as she’s requested. My other mother looked unsure, uncertain that I should be left alone with this woman. She flitted from fixing the pillows behind my grandmother, filling the water jug, fixing the cushions behind me on the seat, arranging the flowers I brought in a vase – constantly leaving and returning, fussing and fixing, until there was nothing left for her to do. She’s worried about secrets being shared, created; concerned that I will find out something I shouldn’t from a woman who obviously has form for twisting the truth. It probably never occurs to her that me being a virtual stranger to both of them would lead my grandmother to make the request she has.

Dad’s parents died when I was a baby; Mum’s parents never really took to me. It was nothing very personal – they never really took to Nancy, either, when they were alive. They sent Christmas presents – birthday presents were an indulgence that no one should have simply for being born – and they tolerated us if we showed up for a few hours’ visit. Although, admittedly, they showed that blood did in fact influence how much they didn’t take to me by not leaving me anything in their wills. Nancy got some jewellery and some Premium Bonds. I got nothing, as Nancy reminded me at various points over our teenage years, because I was not real.

I wonder if this woman realises that I don’t want anything from her, that I don’t expect anything from her will, but she will still be leaving me something no one else in her family will have – the memory of witnessing her death because I am not real, having not grown up in this house with the rest of her real family. That’s why she’s asking, of course. Because, to her, I am not real enough to be considered part of the family she would not ask this of.

‘How do you want me to do it?’ I say. No polite small talk or meaningless words. She doesn’t deserve to have a slow, lingering death if she’d rather it was over now, and the irony of her condition means that what is killing her is preventing her from killing herself.

Her tremors are pronounced today: she is sitting still, her frustration evident, but her body shakes uncontrollably. Her eyes, though, can stay focused on me. I have pulled one of the chairs from by the window closer so she can look at me without having to turn her head. Something like a smile comes through the strained lines of her face. ‘You … you will help me?’

‘I don’t want to,’ I state. ‘But, yes.’ I sigh; push breath out loudly, resignedly. This is wrong. It’s the wrong thing to do. ‘Yes, I will do it.’

My grandmother by blood is suddenly lighter, freer in how she holds herself. For her, this is the right thing, what she wants.

‘You have to speak to your doctor and your nurse, though,’ I say. ‘Tell them this is what you want, make them understand that you’ve thought this through and it’s your choice. And then I’ll help you.’