Kitabı oxu: «Not My Daughter»

This book is dedicated to my twin sis, CS Quinn – an

amazing author and fantastic human being.

Contents

Cover

Praise

A note from your author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Lorna – Once upon a time …

Lorna – Sixteen years later

Once upon a time …

Lorna

Once upon a time …

Lorna

Lorna

Lorna

Once upon a time …

Lorna

Once upon a time …

Lorna

Once upon a time …

Lorna

Once upon a time …

Liberty

Once upon a time …

Liberty

Lorna

Once upon a time …

Liberty

Lorna

Once upon a time …

Liberty

Lorna

Liberty

Lorna

Liberty

Lorna

Liberty

Lorna

Liberty

Once upon a time …

Liberty

Lorna

Liberty

Once upon a time …

Lorna

Liberty

Once upon a time …

Liberty

Once upon a time …

Liberty

Once upon a time …

Lorna

Lorna

Once upon a time …

Liberty

Once upon a time …

Lorna

Lorna

Happily ever after …

Acknowledgements

Extract

About the Publisher

Lorna – Once upon a time …

There was once a woman who had long in vain wished for a child.

– RAPUNZEL

‘Lorna Miller?’

I want to stand up, but I can’t move.

My sister Dee gives my shoulder an urgent shake.

‘Come on, Lorna,’ she hisses. ‘You’re here now. Too late to back out.’

‘Ms Miller?’ The registrar calls again, looking over the room of couples and their new-born bundles. It’s very beige in here. I suppose people don’t want too many stimulating colours when they’re registering births. It might wake the babies.

My bony legs, bare in denim cut-offs, stick to the fake leather seating. Like they’re glued.

It’s warm today. Warmer, I’m told, than usual for the UK this time of year. And it’s spring here. A time of new beginnings.

Dee loses her patience. ‘Miller,’ she says, standing. ‘Lorna Miller. That’s us.’

‘You’re Lorna Miller?’ the registrar asks.

‘No,’ says Dee, placing a hand on my shaking shoulder. ‘She is. I’m her sister.’

Everything feels weird and slow. I’m under warm water and all I can feel is baby Reign’s warmth against my chest and the weight of Dee’s chubby hand.

Dee’s voice becomes urgent. ‘Come on, Lorna.’ She reaches to take the baby.

‘NO.’ My arms lock in one tight muscle and the whole room widens its eyes. ‘Just … give me a second.’

In one swift ‘pulling off a Band-Aid’ movement I get to my feet.

The registrar smiles. ‘It’s okay. Registering a birth isn’t an interrogation. Just a bit of form-filling.’

Dee puts an iron-bar arm around my shoulder. I feel like I’m on a rollercoaster – the part where the ride starts and you can’t get off.

The registrar leads us into his office. There is a UNISON mug on his desk and a half-eaten Trio bar beside it. Two segments left. Trio bars are a peculiarly British sort of candy; too teeny-tiny to ever be popular in the States. I feel homesick, suddenly, for giant Charleston Chew bars.

‘The father couldn’t be here today?’ the registrar asks. ‘Or …’

‘There’s no father,’ says Dee.

My hands make fists around the baby.

There are chairs either side of the desk – sort of like a police interview room. The window overlooks a half-empty parking lot and a green fir tree.

I drop into the chair, feeling baby Reign against my chest, our heartbeats finding each other – hers like a fluttering leaf, mine like a tribal drum.

‘So you have your forms with you?’ the registrar asks.

‘Here.’ Dee shoves our envelope to the registrar like it’s a biting animal. Her hand drops on my shoulder and I feel she’s shaking too.

The registrar opens the folder and flicks through. He makes a clucking sound. ‘You’ve cut this very fine. If you’d left it any later …’

I nod, but my throat is too tight to reply.

Then the corners of the registrar’s mouth drop down. ‘You’re only seventeen. You have some support here, do you? Your mother?’

‘She’s in the States,’ I say. ‘And she’s not much of a support wherever she is.’

Dee manages something like a laugh, but her hand is still tight on my shoulder.

There is a pause, then the registrar says, ‘You had a home birth?’

I nod, my voice leaving me again.

He squints at the form. ‘And your sister …’

‘She … uh … witnessed the birth.’

‘Yes,’ says Dee.

‘It was just the two of you at the birth? The father—’

‘He’s not in the picture,’ says Dee.

The registrar hesitates for a moment, and I can tell he wants to ask something else.

This is it. The part where I break down and lose this baby …

I risk a glance at Dee. She won’t meet my eye.

And then it happens.

The registrar writes my name in neat black ink.

Mother: Lorna Miller.

I feel Reign’s warm body in my arms and dampness from Dee’s palm.

The registrar’s pen moves to the next box.

Father: unknown.

It was that easy. Who’d have guessed it would be so easy?

‘You’re entitled to benefits,’ says the registrar. ‘Worth looking into. There’s no shame in getting benefits. Especially at your age.’

‘It wouldn’t feel right,’ I say. ‘I’m not from here originally. I grew up in the States.’

‘What about healthcare?’ Dee asks. ‘My sister … she had cancer, sir.’

I make urgent eyes – what are you doing? Dee makes apologetic I had to ask eyes back.

‘You’ll be entitled to free healthcare,’ says the registrar. ‘What kind of cancer did you have?’

‘Bowel,’ I say, just as Dee says, ‘Breast.’

We look at each other.

Dee clears her throat. ‘Um … she had both.’

‘I’m fine now,’ I insist. ‘Really. Not worth talking about.’

The registrar glances at me for a moment, then moves to the next box.

‘What’s the baby’s name?’ he asks.

There’s a long silence. Too long. My mind is wrestling with itself. Trying to pin down thoughts.

I can’t call her Reign. It’s too distinctive. Why didn’t I think of this before?

‘Liberty,’ I decide. ‘Like the Statue of Liberty. Freedom.’ And then more words tumble out. ‘She’ll have a middle name too. Liberty Annalise.’

Dee’s hand clenches my shoulder, her nails digging in. ‘Are you sure you want that name? Annalise? I mean, really?’

I nod.

The registrar looks between us. Then he hands me a pen to write the names. Next comes the hard thunk of an official stamp.

As we walk out of the registrar’s office, I kiss the baby’s soft head over and over again.

Liberty Annalise Miller.

It’s official.

Dee won’t look at me.

That afternoon, I buy a heavy-duty safe with one-inch-thick steel sides. It costs £150 and takes twenty minutes to carry upstairs.

I put Liberty’s birth certificate inside the safe, along with all my medical records and lock it up tight.

The documents are still in there now.

Lorna – Sixteen years later

‘Well, well,’ said the old woman, peering out with a crafty look. ‘Haven’t you got a sweet tooth?’

– HANSEL AND GRETEL

Why isn’t Liberty home?

I’m in my workshop, legs crossed in paint-stained yoga pants, gluing tiny hairs into a foam-filled werewolf head.

Yoga pants? Leggings, Lorna. Leggings. You’ve been in this country seventeen years now. Butt is bum. A knob isn’t always a door handle. And never say ‘move your fanny’ unless you want to cause offence.

The workshop door is open and I can see our front gate, thick as a fist, the wood warm in the sun.

Warm.

Not hot. It’s never hot hot in this country.

I grew up under scorching California sun, but I’ve learned to love these softer British summers. Diet summer. Summer lite.

You know Liberty will be late today. All the students will be talking about their mock-exam results.

These werewolf hairs are a bad job to do while I’m waiting for Liberty. Way too fiddly. But filming starts next week and this guy needs to be ready. It’s ironic that I make monsters for movies, given my past. As ironic as my occasional bacon sandwich with Liberty’s vegan spread. But life never goes like a fairy tale, right? Maybe these teeth could do with more saliva.

I tap my laptop. The screen shows me the photoshop version of Michael, my nickname for this flesh-ripping, vicious beast. A moment later, the screen turns sleeping black and shows me something even tougher than the werewolf.

Me.

Once upon a time, I was skinny, sickly and quiet.

Not anymore.

My eyes, which my sister used to call cornflower blue, are now steel grey, like the weights I lift. Long hair – once short and naive sandy brown – dyed jet black. Arms no longer bony rods but toned and strong and covered in sleeve tattoos. I’m gym-fit and sturdy. Not the frail cancer survivor I was once upon a time.

Of course, I’m like every other tough-looking woman – soft as a marshmallow in the middle. Someone hurt me once. So I got strong. No choice really. It was either that or fade away.

As I reach for silicon glue, I hear footsteps outside the gate.

Please let this be Liberty …

But it’s not my daughter. I know this because Skywalker, our German Shepherd, watches the gate like a mafia boss, body stiff, ears pricked. Skywalker doesn’t do the guard-dog stuff when Liberty comes home; he gets excited, leaping up and down, pawing at wood.

So this must be Nick.

The lock buzzes and my eight-foot wooden gate swings open, making a big, light hole in the safe little world of our house and grounds.

I call out from my workshop, ‘Hey, future husband.’

Nick sidesteps through the gate in his gym gear, biceps bulging with hessian bags of shopping.

‘Hello, future wife.’ Nick bounds into the workshop and kisses my hair. ‘I found everything. Everything on the list. Even cashew nut cheese. I have a good feeling, Lorn. A really good feeling.’ Nick has a Yorkshire accent, which makes his boyish optimism sound even more naive.

Should I tell Nick that my teenage daughter might hate him less if he didn’t try so hard?

No. Nick is who he is. The man I love. Not with obsessive, fake teenage love. Real, sincere, honest love. It happened slowly, like real feelings should. Not overnight, like …

Michael.

Don’t think of him today.

I look around the workshop, mentally naming objects to switch my mind off bad thoughts.

Silicone glue. Silicone paint. Mould. Plaster of Paris. Movie script.

Skywalker trots into the workshop, sniffing the shopping bags.

‘Hey, pup.’ Nick reaches to pet him, but Skywalker barks and runs off.

I give Nick a sympathetic smile. ‘Baby steps, right? Listen, let’s start dinner. I need a distraction.’

‘She’ll be home any minute,’ says Nick. ‘When I was sixteen—’

‘I know. You were hiking alone in the Peak District.’ I lift the shopping bags of sourdough bread, tofu and asparagus. ‘How did that girl of mine get to like all this fancy food? When I was a teenager, all I ate was hot dogs and noodles.’

‘It’s great Libs eats mindfully,’ says Nick. ‘I’m proud of her.’

I bristle at the word ‘proud’ because I know Liberty would. It’s hard, this stepfamily stuff, and somehow Nick always manages to say the wrong thing.

I kiss his cheek. ‘Thanks for getting the groceries, honey.’

‘Anything to get into Liberty’s good books. Do you think she’ll get the results she wants today?’

‘Oh, sure. I never worry about Liberty in the smarts department. She’s so clever.’

Like her father.

I shake the thought away.

‘Anyway, they’re only mock exams,’ I continue. ‘No big deal.’

‘Well, she’s had plenty of time to study,’ says Nick.

‘Oh, yeah,’ I laugh. ‘I never let her out.’

I mean this as a joke, but it comes out sort of sinister.

‘Don’t you think it’s time to let Liberty out in the evenings?’ Nick asks. ‘She’s old enough. I was working at her age.’

‘We have different parenting styles, Nick. I parent Liberty my way, you parent Darcy yours.’

‘We’re supposed to be a team. Teams work together. We have two kids between us. We should parent them both together. Like a family. And we do parent Darcy together. It’s just Liberty—’

‘Look, I know the principle is a good one. But the kids are different ages.’

‘Why can’t I be a dad to Liberty? You’re amazing with Darcy. Better than her own mother sometimes …’

‘God, don’t say that, Nick. Darcy’s mom is doing her best. It’s a tough job raising a little girl with special needs.’

‘Yeah, okay. But you have to admit, Michelle doesn’t get Darcy like you do. The special needs thing doesn’t fit with her image.’ He makes a face. ‘You’re different. You don’t care if Darcy screams her head off in public. And Darcy loves you for that, Lorna. She feels safer here than she does at Michelle’s house. If you can parent her, why can’t I try with Libs?’

‘Liberty’s sixteen.’

‘Exactly. Sixteen. Don’t you think it’s time to loosen the reins and let her live a little?’

‘Sleeping Beauty had a really bad year when she was sixteen.’

I head into the house with the groceries, throwing a backwards glance at the gate, willing Liberty to buzz herself in.

She doesn’t.

I hate this part of the day.

‘She’ll be back any minute. Okay?’ Nick gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. ‘You worry way too much.’

I nod, but I’m not reassured.

Inside, I dump groceries on the counter and watch the front gate through the kitchen window.

I never thought I’d live in a house like this – a little piece of English history. Growing up in America, my mother called the many different 1950s homes we lived in ‘antique’. Around here, most of the homes are four hundred years old.

‘Okay, so how do we cook this stuff?’ says Nick, looking at the ingredients.

‘Um …’ I glance at the kitchen window. ‘Not sure.’

‘Just playing devil’s advocate,’ says Nick, ‘but what if Liberty gets bad grades in these mock exams? What’s the plan? I mean, we can’t ground her, can we? Since you don’t let her out of an evening.’

‘Just as long as she tried her best.’ I glance at the clock. ‘I’m going to give her until 4.30 p.m. Then I’m calling the police.’

Nick laughs. ‘They’re going to lock you up for wasting police time. You’re always overreacting. Liberty will be with her friends, probably writing songs or something. She’s okay. Don’t you remember being sixteen?’

‘Yes, I do,’ I say. ‘But mostly I try and forget.’

Once upon a time …

The prince approached her, took her by the hand, and danced with her. Furthermore, he would dance with no one else. He never let go of her hand and said that she, above all others, was his dance partner.

– CINDERELLA

The year was 1996. The band were Crimson. The lead singer was Michael Reyji Ray.

I’d never known a high like it. The heat, the noise, the rush.

A multicoloured sea of arms waved in the air, Celtic armband tattoos and wrists jangling with thin Indian bangles and knotted cotton friendship bracelets.

Michael, Michael, Michael …

The girls wore light summer dresses with spaghetti straps and DM boots. The boys wore Michael Reyji Ray ‘Psycho-Delia’ T-shirts, ripped jeans and Vans trainers.

The stadium smelt of beer, incense and CK One perfume.

‘There are no strangers here,’ Michael boomed into a golden microphone. ‘Only friends you haven’t met.’

For 13,000 teenagers, Michael Reyji Ray was God that night. We worshipped him.

The world had never felt so real. So awake. I heard the roar of the crowd, felt tribal drum music under my feet, saw colours everywhere. Rainbow flags fluttering on parachute silk.

Michael had short, bleached white hair and wore a black T-shirt, jeans and Ray-Ban sunglasses. His feet were bare, despite the cold night, because, he told us, he wanted to feel the beating heart of the earth.

To me, this statement was beautiful and artistic.

‘He thinks he’s Jesus,’ Dee croaked as Michael spread his arms on stage. She had a cold that night and was a begrudging chaperone.

‘Music has power,’ Michael boomed. ‘And tonight, we’re going to change the world.’

‘Oh, wow.’ I grabbed Dee’s arm, blinking back tears as we jostled against the cattle bars. ‘He is incredible. And he’s looking right at me, Dee – do you see it? Tonight is destiny. Michael Reyji Ray saved my life, Dee, I swear to God. It was his music that got me through cancer.’

My sister was less than impressed. ‘He doesn’t even write his own music – the rest of the band are the talent.’

‘He writes all the lyrics and they’re the amazing part,’ I gushed. ‘It was destiny I found that first Crimson album, Dee. I swear to you. And now I’m so close to him.’

On stage, Michael downed a beer. I took a large gulp from my own bottle.

‘Lorna, go easy on that stuff,’ said Dee, taking a bite from her hot dog and adding a chewed, ‘You’re not out of the woods yet.’

‘I am,’ I insisted. ‘It’s six months today since they gave me the teen-cancer-girl all-clear. Exactly today. Profound, right? On the very day I see Michael sing live for the first time.’

As the night went on, I danced and screamed like a lunatic, downing beer, singing, holding up a light to the slow songs and putting my arms around complete strangers while my big sister looked on pityingly.

Dee didn’t get it. She wasn’t a Ray-ite. She didn’t get the depth and meaning and poetry of Michael’s lyrics. Those of us who did swayed and cheered and sang together.

It was beautiful. I felt like Michael was looking right at me, singing the words to me.

Live your life, little one. You’re a survivor …

When the concert finished and the crowds emptied, I needed to stay and get near the stage. It felt special – the spot where Michael had stood. I climbed right over the cattle bars at the front, watching the empty stage with big moony eyes.

Eventually a female security guard approached.

‘Girls,’ said the security guard. ‘Time to leave.’

‘We should go home,’ said Dee from the other side of the cattle bars. ‘Lorna, it’s cold. I have an excess fifty pounds to keep me warm. You’re skinny as a twig right now and still in recovery.’

‘You go home. Go. I’ll catch a cab later. I’m gonna hang out and wait for Michael and the band to leave.’

‘I can’t let you—’

‘Dee, he’s in this venue somewhere. I might meet him. Michael Reyji Ray.’

‘Never meet your idols, Lorna,’ said Dee. ‘I bet he’s even shorter than he looks on stage.’

‘I have to try.’

Dee shakes her head. ‘Come on, Lorna. I can’t stay out late. I’m teaching kids tomorrow.’

‘Then go.’

‘As if I’d leave my little sister. Come on. We need to get back.’

I pulled my trump card then. ‘Dee, meeting Michael Reyji Ray was on my list. The one I wrote in the hospital. Things to do before I die …’

Dee’s face faltered. ‘I’m responsible for a whole class of middle graders. I need to sleep—’

‘I’m telling you to go. I’ll be fine. There are no strangers here, right? Only friends I haven’t met. Come on, Dee, I’m sixteen. You moved out of home at sixteen.’

Dee sighed. ‘Okay, fine. Fine. But if you’re not back by 1 a.m. I’m calling the police.’

‘You’re the best big sister in the world. Always have been.’

‘Okay, okay. Stay out of trouble, little sis, and look after yourself. Take care of your body. Remember how lucky you are to be alive. You’re still crazy thin.’ She managed a tired smile. ‘Even so, you look a darn sight better than I did at your age.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’re the most beautiful person I ever met.’ And I meant it. My big sister always looked like an angel to me with her cuddly, curvy body and warm, smiling eyes.

Dee laughed. ‘And you’re my best little cheerleader. Enjoy yourself. Okay? You deserve a good time after everything you’ve been through.’

I know Dee still feels guilty about that night. If she’d have stayed with me, Michael might never have happened.

But it’s not her fault.

Men like Michael are predators. They’re experts at luring you in.