Текст книги "Someone Else's Life"

Автор книги: Katie Dale

Соавторы: Katie Dale,Katie Dale
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Chapter Five

The little glow-in-the-dark stars swim above me as

stare at the ceiling of Nana’s spare room, my head buzzing.

Images of Sarah, Nana and Mum swirl wildly against the

blank faces of my real mother—Holly—and Mum’s dead

baby, the events of that fateful night whirling like

tornado in my mind, questions battering like hailstones,

puncturing and destroying all the truths I’ve ever known,

leaving

void as black and as vast as the night sky, but

with precious few stars to guide me.

My future.

person cannot exist without

past. Someone

famous said that. But what if your entire existence is lie?

It’s like I’ve been wearing stilettos all my life, leaving

footprints everywhere

go, and then one day someone

says, “Hey! Those shoes don’t belong to you!” and they

take them away. And look back, and all have left are the

old footprints, which don’t even fit my feet anymore, so

can’t go back, but

haven’t got any new shoes to go

forward in, so I’m stuck. Frozen in that place. Not even

existing.

sigh and reach into my purse, pulling out the list

I’ve kept with me ever since decided to take the test:

If Positive– Fight HD by:

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Eating nutritiously– strong body is healthy body

Exercising regularly– ditto

Taking vitamins, fish oils, etc.– if there’s ANY chance they could help, it’s worth it

Keeping my mind sharp– learn Italian, play chess, go on “Mastermind.”

Taking part in clinical trials and research

If Negative

The page beneath is blank—I couldn’t bear to hope,

to imagine the endless daunting possibilities

And now?

sigh. Now my past and future are blank.

heave myself out of bed, grab my dressing gown,

and pad into the lounge, curling up on the sofa and flicking

blindly through the muted TV channels. The clock on the

wall ticks endlessly, each second throbbing against my

skull as the minutes crawl by. glance up at it, and without

warning, the family portraits beam down at me: black-

and-white photos of Nana and Granddad when they were

young; their wedding day; Mum as

baby, with

Granddad—so smart and proud in his police uniform—

just months before an armed burglar blasted him and his

genetic secret into an early grave.

There are lots of Mum as

girl, then with Dad:

laughing as they cut their wedding cake; suntanned and

windswept on beach somewhere; Mum on park swing

grinning at the camera, her arms wrapped tightly round

small dark-haired toddler.

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stare at them incredulously—how did never see

it? We look nothing alike, it’s blindingly obvious. Nana and

Mum have the same chestnut hair, the same hazel eyes,

but I’ve got black hair, and my eyes are green. It’s not even

as if Dad was dark—he was blond! How could have been

so blind? I’d never thought, never guessed, never

imagined

The faces smile blurrily back at me, but it’s not real,

it’s not my family. Not anymore. The pieces are broken,

and they can’t be patched over with cuddles and cocoa

and bloody Cary Grant. The lies glare through, like cracks

in stained-glass window, ruining everything.

“You’re so like her, you know.”

look up quickly, blinking away the tears. Nana is

standing in the doorway, her snowy hair crumpled from

her pillow.

“The number of mornings I’d get up to find her

curled like you are on the sofa with

mug of hot

chocolate.” She smiles. “Couldn’t sleep?”

shake my head, and she sits down next to me,

following my gaze.

“She was so proud of you.” She beams, her face

crinkling like tissue paper. “She loved you so much, from

the moment she first held you.” She strokes my hair

behind my ear the way Mum used to, and my chest hurts.

“You were the best thing that ever happened to her, Rosie.

gift of hope, of happiness—just when she needed it

most.”

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swallow hard, her words echoing Sarah’s: You

saved her that night– you saved each other …

Nana squeezes my hand. “You brought so much joy

to her life, through everything …” Her voice cracks, but

still she smiles, the light from the silent TV catching every

wrinkle on her face. “I honestly don’t know what she’d

have done without you. Our gift. Our miracle.” She

clutches my hand tightly. “My precious granddaughter.”

Her face splinters as

blink fiercely, fighting the

tears.

I’m not her granddaughter

Not any relation at

all

My eyes flick back to the family photos.

We’re the only ones left

realize suddenly. I’m all

she’s got left—and I’m not even hers

“So.” Nana smiles, her eyes watery. “What’s next for

the bright and beautiful Rosie Kenning?”

look at her, my mind an utter blank.

Where do go from here? How do even start?

“What about Sixth Form?” Nana suggests. “You

could pick up where you left off, and you’d be back with all

your old friends—”

“They’ve got their

levels this year,”

say

miserably. “They’ll be gone by June.”

Everyone’ll be gone. Off to uni, or jobs, or taking gap

years. There’s only me left behind. Me and Nana. Nana

have to lie to—or break her heart.

“Well, how about traveling?” she suggests. “You’ve

always wanted to travel, why not go now?”

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look at her, surprised.

She smiles. “What’s stopping you?”

“I—I can’t,”

protest. “I couldn’t leave you, not

now …”

“Nonsense!” She laughs. “I’m quite capable of

looking after myself, thank you very much. And you can

afford it—you know Trudie put that money aside for you.”

“What? No, Nana. can’t. That’s for the future.”

“The future starts today, Rosie,” Nana says firmly.

“If Trudie’s taught us anything, it’s that life’s too short to

put things off. We mustn’t waste

single precious

moment.”

“Nana—”

“Rosie,” she interrupts, her eyes serious. “You’ve

put your life on hold for far too long. You’re nearly

eighteen.” She squeezes my hand. “Have you thought any

more about taking the test?”

“What?” look up, surprised.

“The predictive test—for Huntington’s. You can’t let

it overshadow your life, Rosie—”

The doorbell rings.

“I’ll get it!” say quickly, jumping to my feet and

darting past her, my head throbbing as the walls of lies

close in.

How can tell her? How can possibly tell her don’t

need the test results anymore, because

know it’ll be

negative because Trudie wasn’t my mother—I’m not her

granddaughter after all—I’m just some stranger an

imposter

fraud

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can’t tell anyone, realize with jolt. I’ll have to lie,

have to live with this secret—this terrible, awful secret—

for the rest of my life

open the front door to find Andy shivering in the

cold morning sunlight. stare at him in surprise.

“Reckon I’m the last person you want to see right

now, huh?” He looks at me nervously. “I’m really sorry—

about yesterday.”

shrug. “Forget it.”

“And about your mum—having Huntington’s—

about thinking …” He shakes his head. “I’m so sorry. No

wonder you couldn’t come traveling, couldn’t call

should’ve waited, should’ve stayed, should’ve been there

for you.” He looks at me, his eyes pained. “I’m so sorry,

Rosie.”

shake my head. “It’s okay.”

“I looked up Huntington’s online—I haven’t slept.

Have you been tested? Do you have it too?”

“Rosie?” Nana calls from the lounge. “Rosie, who is

it?”

“It’s just Andy, Nana! We’ll be in in minute!” call

back, pulling the front door closed behind me.

“Well?” he asks urgently. “Have you had the test?”

“Andy, …” hesitate as his blue eyes pierce mine.

“Yes.”

sigh, already weary of lying. All that sneaking

around, going to the clinic for counseling, taking the test

without anyone knowing, any pressure, anyone to talk me

out of it

and all along I’d only had to ask Sarah.

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He looks at me fearfully, his voice whisper. “Have

you got the result?”

shake my head. “My appointment’s tomorrow,

but—”

“I’ll come with you.”

“What?”

“I’ll come with you. I’ll drive you there.”

“No, Andy, thanks, but—”

“Please, Rosie,” he says earnestly, his eyes clear,

intense. “Let me go with you. Let me be there for you this

time.” He takes my hand in his. So soft, so warm. “Please,

Rose,” he begs. “I feel like such shit.”

squeeze his hand. “You’re not,”

whisper. “You

didn’t know.”

“But

do now.” He gazes down at me. “I’m here

now.”

My chest aches as look up at him.

It couldn’t hurt, could it? To go to the clinic, to get

my results—though already know what they’ll be. It’d

put Nana’s mind at rest, after all, and it would mean one

less lie to tell

And it couldn’t hurt to double-check, to be

sure

“Okay,” whisper.

Andy’s face lights up, and he pulls me suddenly into

tight hug. let myself relax in his strong arms, my face

buried against his chest, inhaling that familiar warm

musky Andy smell.

No, it couldn’t hurt.

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The clinic waiting room is daffodil-yellow and filled

with bright posters and big, leafy potted plants, the coffee

tables strewn with glossy magazines covered with

beautiful smiley women—every trick and tactic possible

to lift the spirits and thoughts of its occupants.

They needn’t have bothered. I’ve probably leafed

through every one of these magazines—and never read

single word. No distraction works when you’re waiting to

discover your fate. Not really.

When mum was first diagnosed did what Andy did

and looked Huntington’s up online. I’d never heard of it

before, so was amazed at how many sites there were

offering information and advice.

Essentially,

gathered, Huntington’s is

genetic

mutation that causes

progressive degeneration of your

brain cells—something along the lines of the physical

effects of Parkinson’s plus the mental deterioration of

Alzheimer’s—slowly stripping you of your ability to walk,

talk and reason. Most people develop symptoms between

the ages of thirty and forty-five, but there’re also juvenile

and late-onset forms. Mum had the latter.

was surprised to read that there are currently

about 6,700 reported cases in England and Wales, and

around 30,000 in the United States, though most of the

websites

looked at seemed to think that there are

probably twice as many cases as the “official” numbers

reported, because people often hide the condition due to

stigma, insurance or family issues, or just decide not to be

tested. Once the symptoms start it usually takes ten to

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twenty years to kill you—although the suicide rate is

scarily high—and children of parents with HD have fifty-

percent chance of inheriting it. Oh, and there’s no cure.

Basically, it’s the worst thing could possibly have

imagined.

The more

read, the more surreal it felt—the

discovery of the disease, its progression

None of this

could really be happening to my mum, could it? But when

got to the symptoms, several seemed to jump out at me:

involuntary movements (chorea), slurred speech, mood

swings, outbursts of anger, difficulty multitasking,

forgetfulness, clumsiness, slow reactions, weight loss,

depression, paranoia

Suddenly the last few years

seemed littered with signs, each screaming out at me that

there was something wrong.

But they’d all seemed so trivial, so unimportant at

the time. Mum had always been flighty, forgetful, easily

flustered—she couldn’t cope if changed my plans at the

last minute or asked her to do several things at once, like

test me on my revision while she cooked dinner or

washed laundry. remember got so cross with her for

dyeing my school shirt pink once, then she’d blamed me—

said I’d been distracting her—and we’d had

huge row

and I’d stomped up to my room, slamming my door

behind me.

But that was normal, wasn’t it? Teenagers are

supposed to argue with their mothers, aren’t they? Bex

certainly did—she had screaming rows with her mum.

Fortunately, my mum always calmed down really

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quickly—way before me. She’d just get very upset, have

huge outburst, and then it would be over. Friends again.

just thought she was going through the menopause.

But after her diagnosis suddenly had to reassess

every argument, every fight we’d ever had, trying to

untangle Mum from the disease, the terrible things I’d said

echoing guiltily in my ears.

Even the physical signs, like the chorea, I’d never

noticed.

thought nothing of the familiar jingle of

bracelets announcing her approach, used to nag at her for

fidgeting while watching TV

and even as far back as my

childhood, there were little things. Like, Mum was never

any good at Snap. Her reactions just weren’t quick enough,

and I’d always beat her, hands down. It was one of my

favorite games—because always won.

And now

look around the waiting room guiltily,

wondering who’s affected, what stage they’re at. Half the

people in this room will have the disease, statistically.

But not me.

I’d decided months ago that needed to know, once

and for all. I’d had bad day with Mum, lost my temper,

and dropped bowl of pasta, smashing, to the floor. And

then

panicked.

started analyzing everything

did,

scouring myself for symptoms. It drove me crazy. So rang

the clinic and booked my first counseling session. You’re

usually supposed to be eighteen, but as was only few

months off they let me in

bit early, so long as the

counseling went well. They had to be convinced that was

psychologically ready, that

knew what

was letting

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myself in for, whatever the result. Because there is no

going back. There’s no cure. There’s just knowing or not

knowing. Having it or not. Fifty-fifty.

Unless, of course, you suddenly find out that you’re

not actually related to anyone with Huntington’s after all.

They didn’t cover that in our sessions.

“Rosalind Kenning?” The nurse looks up from her

clipboard.

Andy squeezes my hand, and we follow her in.

“Nice to see you, Rosie,” Dan, my genetic counselor

says. “And you’ve brought friend. Good.”

introduce Andy, and he sits next to me, gripping

my hand tightly. I’ve never seen him so nervous.

“Now, we’ve had your result back,” Dan begins.

“And it’s good news Rosie.” His face breaks into

wide

smile. “You do not have the gene that causes

Huntington’s!”

exhale deeply. hadn’t even realized was holding

my breath.

“Are you sure?” Andy asks anxiously.

“Positive. By analyzing the number of CAG repeats

on her chromosome four—fifteen and seventeen—we can

determine that Rosie has definitely not inherited the gene.

If she had, one of her counts would be somewhere up

around forty. Rosie is well below that. She’s completely

unaffected.”

“Oh, God!” Andy grabs me in tight hug. “Oh, thank

God!”

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let him hug me, my body limp and numb in his

arms.

Fifteen and seventeen

Mum’s were forty– five and

nineteen– don’t share either of them …

knew. Of course knew, but now

it’s real.

don’t have Huntington’s.

never will have

Huntington’s. Everything dreaded and feared will never

come true. It’ll never happen to me like it happened to

Mum.

Because she wasn’t my mother.

Hot tears trickle down my cheeks.

“Hey.” Andy pulls back gently and wipes my eyes.

“Are you okay?”

nod and look away, swallowing hard.

“Rosie, this is fantastic!” Andy grins.

force tight smile.

Yep. Fantastic.

“It’s normal to experience

sense of shock,” Dan

says gently. “With the relief can come sense of disbelief,

and even guilt. It’s perfectly normal, Rosie.”

smile at him, the tears still streaming down my

cheeks.

She was right. Sarah was right. There’s no going

back. You either spend your life wondering, worrying,

pretending

or you find out for sure.

And now know.

For sure.

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stare at the little plastic wand, waiting for my fate

to be decided—revealed, really. It’s already decided, after

all. Positive or negative. This is just proof. Scientific

confirmation of what already is—or isn’t.

Despite everything, can’t help praying, can’t help

hoping that somehow it’s all been

coincidence—a bad

case of food poisoning,

belated growth spurt,

late

period

squeeze my eyes shut, wishing, hoping, praying

hold my breath as force one eyelid open.

My heart stops and

snap my eye shut again

quickly, as if I’ll get second chance

bite my lip and open my eyes.

But it’s still the same. Of course it is. Wishing can’t

change it. This isn’t

magic wand—it can’t perform

miracles.

Hot tears trickle down my cheeks and bury my

head in my hands.

knew—of course knew. But now know For sure.

Completely and irrevocably and scientifically.

Positive

I’m pregnant.

My life is over.

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Chapter Six

Negative

Not at risk

Not my mother

God, it’s true. It’s all true. Everything Sarah said.

Though, as it turns out, she needn’t have told me after

all—they didn’t compare our results, didn’t find out.

close my eyes, my head reeling.

Negative

How can one word bring so much joy and so much

despair?

“What’s it to be? Red? White? Rosé?” Andy grins,

putting on French accent as he surveys the wine bottles

in his kitchen. “Rosé for Rosie?”

smile weakly. “No, thank you.”

“No?” He frowns. “I know! Champagne!

think

we’ve even got some flutes somewhere—this is

celebration, after all!”

He disappears through the doorway and

look

away, out of the window. Black clouds gather menacingly

over the fields, blotting out the sun.

thought I’d be pleased to get the all-clear, that it

would set me free

but instead

just feel

lost

It

seems like whenever

finally get an answer to one

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question,

million others pop up right behind it: don’t

have the disease, I’m not Trudie’s daughter– so who am I?

And who’s this girl, this Holly Woods, my real mother? Is

she still around? Why did she run away? Why did she

abandon me?

“Okay

champagne and flutes!” Andy returns,

proudly flourishing bottle and two glasses. “Now all we

need is cake!”

“No, really, don’t want—”

“What have we got?” He opens

cupboard. “Swiss

roll

flapjack …”

“Andy—”

“Battenberg! Do you like battenberg?”

“Andy, I’m fine! Really.”

“Really?” He turns. “Really.”

“Really? Because you’ve barely said two words since

we left the clinic, Rosie.” He looks at me. “You don’t want

to go out, you don’t want to celebrate …”

look away.

He sighs. “I could understand it if the test were

positive, but you’re acting like you’ve got the weight of the

world on your shoulders—and it’s negative! You’re

healthy!” He sits down beside me. “Why aren’t you happy

about it?”

shift uncomfortably.

“And don’t say it’s that guilt bollocks the counselor

was on about.” His tone softens and he covers my hand

with his. “Rose, you’ve suffered enough—your mum

would be thrilled that you’re in the clear.”

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pull my hand away. “You don’t understand.”

“No,” he sighs. “You’re right, don’t.”

“Andy—”

“I don’t understand, because you never tell me

anything!” He stands up, paces the room. “You just lock

yourself away in your own little world and try to deal with

everything by yourself. That’s why we broke up—because

you couldn’t tell me, wouldn’t tell me, what was wrong!”

stare at him, my cheeks burning, my eyes hot.

look away.

“I could’ve handled it, Rosie—I could’ve helped—I

could help now, if you’d let me.”

close my eyes.

He sighs. “I know it must be difficult—I know it’s

lot to take in …”

“It’s not,” mutter.

“Of course it is.”

“It’s not

lot to take in, all right?” glare at him.

“Because I—I already knew.”

Andy frowns. “What do you mean?”

look away.

“I don’t understand, Rose,” he says slowly. “I

thought Huntington’s was hereditary?”

“Exactly! Exactly, it’s hereditary!”

He looks at me for moment, then shakes his head.

“You’ve lost me.”

“It’s hereditary!” look at him, the pain prickling my

eyes. “But you can’t inherit disease from someone who’s

not related to you—who isn’t even your mother!”

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He stares at me.

“She wasn’t my mother, Andy—she wasn’t …” trail

off, close my eyes, my throat swelling painfully.

There’s long silence. Then he takes deep breath

and reaches over, his hand warm and soft on mine.

“Okay,” he says gently. “I think it’s time to spill,

don’t you?”

“Wow.” Andy sighs after I’ve told him everything.

“Wow.”

“Yeah.” It feels good to finally let it all out.

feel

lighter. But exhausted.

“And Trudie never knew?”

shake my head.

“Wow, Rose.

mean, God,

don’t know what to

say …” He sighs. “How do you deal with something like—

Have you told your nana?”

shake my head. “I can’t, Andy. I’m all she’s got

left—of Granddad, of Mum—how can possibly tell her

that it was all one big lie, all these years? That her real

granddaughter died the day she was born? It would break

her heart.” swallow, the pain in my chest swelling. “It’s

broken mine.”

“Rosie, it’s okay.”

“No. No, it’s not. You don’t know what it’s like, Andy.

I’m stuck here, trapped in this life that’s not even mine

with

grandmother

have to lie to, no friends, no

qualifications, no life—there’s nothing left!” My voice cracks. “It’s all right for you, you’re buggering off around

the world—you can escape!”

84

“Then come with me.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I’m serious—why not? You said it yourself, what’s

keeping you here?” He looks at me. “We always wanted to

travel, didn’t we? This is our second chance!”

hesitate, and he squeezes my hand, his eyes

softening. “Come with me, Rose. It wasn’t the same

without you—I missed you the whole time. This was our

dream, after all. We planned it, we dreamed of it and then missed it because of

stupid misunderstanding—so let’s

go now!”

look at him, the idea dancing enticingly in my

mind—to just fly away with Andy, leave everything

behind, pick up where we left off, but

it’s too much, too

sudden.

“No strings,” he promises, reading my doubts. “I’ve

missed you, Rosie. I’ve missed you—just being with

you

hanging out, educating your taste in music.” He

grins, those dimples making me falter. “Come on, Rose. It’s

just what you need, it’ll take your mind off everything.”

“It will not!”

He looks up at the anger in my voice.

“You have no idea, do you? You think dashing off

around the world will make me forget that my mother’s

dead? That she wasn’t actually my mother?” look at him.

“How could ever come back, Andy? To this mess of—of

lies and deceit and, and …”

trail off and look out the

window, but all can see is my tearstained reflection and

the dark clouds beyond. “It’s such

mess, it’s all such

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mess, and just

There’s nothing left, Andy. None of it’s

real …” close my eyes.

He sighs, rubs his brow.

“So, what now?”

shrug. “I dunno.”

We sit in silence for moment.

“Actually,

do,”

say eventually, taking

deep

breath. “I’m going to find her.”

“Who?”

swallow hard. “My real mother.”

“Hello? Mr. Woods? Hi!” cross my fingers tightly.

“Hi, I’m friend of Holly’s, and—Sorry? Holly Woods? She

doesn’t?” My heart sinks. “Sorry to bother you. Bye.”

sigh heavily, dropping the receiver into its cradle

and my head into my hands. There were thirty-five

Woodses in the phone book. That was the last one.

“Tell me you’ve had better luck with the birth

records?”

Andy shakes his head at the computer screen.

’Fraid not. According to this birth records site, no

seventeen-year-old Holly Woods even existed in the year

you were born.”

“What?” look up. “That’s impossible! Maybe Sarah

guessed her age wrong. Try the years either side.”

“I have,” Andy sighs. “I’ve tried five years either

side. No Holly Woods.”

“None at all?”

He shakes his head.

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“I don’t understand.”

frown. “That’s impossible.

We know she was here—she was seventeen, she ran

away, she had baby …”

drop the phone book and pick up my jacket. “Come

on.”

Andy stares at me. “Where are we going?”

“To the one place we know she has been.”

The snow has all but melted as we drive into town,

mounds that were once snowmen glinting in the fields and

gardens as the afternoon sun struggles through the

clouds.

“All set?” Andy asks as we pull into the car-park.

take deep breath and hug my clipboard. “All set.”

He squeezes my shoulder, and we head into the

small country hospital, the stench of disinfectant stinging

my nose as we follow the signs down the lino-lined

corridor to ward painted in pastel colors.

Maternity

Little goose bumps break out down my back. This is

it. This is where it all happened. Thank God Sarah’s got

this week off, so there’s no chance of bumping into her.

“Can

help you?”

cheerful-looking nurse

approaches us.

force

bright smile and clear my throat. “Hello,

we’re students at Maybridge Sixth Form College, and

we’re doing project on the day we were born.” My tone

is professional, polite, as recite the rehearsed lines we

devised in the car.

“I see.” She smiles. “How can help you?”

87

“Well,

was born here,”

say confidently. “And

was just wondering if you could tell me how many …” My

eyes flick to her name-badge. Jamila Price “How many …”

Jamila … “How …”

She raises her eyebrows.

“How many other babies were born on the same

days we were,” Andy finishes for me. “And any

information you can give us about them.”

“I’m sorry.” Jamila smiles apologetically. “We can’t

give out that information. Patient confidentiality, you

know.”

“Of course,” Andy says. “Thanks anyway.”

“What about you?” ask desperately as she turns

away. “Maybe could just ask you some questions. Have

you ever had to deal with mothers running away—

abandoning their child?”

She stares at me. “I’m sorry—I’m afraid can’t help

you.”

“Come on, Rose,” Andy says quickly. “Let’s go.”

“But—what about teenagers with unwanted

babies? Adoption?”

“I’m sorry.” She turns away.

“Come on.” Andy grabs my arm and pulls me back

through the door.

“Crap.” kick the snow gloomily as we walk back to

the car. “Utter crap. Fat lot of use that was.”

“Well,

don’t know what you expected, to be

honest, Rose. They’re hardly going to say, ‘Oh yes,

88

remember that mother, here’s her name, address and

telephone number,’ are they?”

“She might have.” round on him. “She might have, because she’s the one who told Sarah about me!”

He stops walking.

“She was there Andy—she met Holly. She might

remember her, might be able to tell me—”

turn back but he grabs my arm.

“She’s not going to tell you anything, Rosie—there

are laws, you know?”

“I know,” admit sulkily. “But—”

“And Sarah broke the law, Rose,” Andy continues,

his voice

whisper. “She’ll get into

lot of trouble if

anyone finds out—you have to be really careful about

this.”

“I am being careful.” hug the clipboard tightly. “But

Andy, how else am going to find my real mother?”

He sighs. “Maybe she doesn’t want to be found.”

look at him.

“Think about it, Rosie. She was seventeen.

Seventeen and pregnant and alone. She was going to give

you up for adoption, she ran away, she probably even gave

fake name—there were no seventeen-year-old Holly

Woodses, remember?”

sigh heavily, digging my toe into the loose gravel.

Andy’s right, the trail’s gone cold. It’s nearly eighteen

years cold. All have is name, and if that’s fake

then

have nothing. My mother walked out of that hospital and

89

just disappeared into thin air, leaving me behind—the

only proof she ever existed.

She doesn’t even have birth record.

dig my foot deeper into the stones, losing my toes

in the dirt and grit.

No sign of her, even five years either side.

rewind my conversation with Sarah miserably in

my head. She was seventeen she was here– the girl’s name was Holly Woods …

Suddenly my heart begins to race.

The girl …

march back to the car. “We need to check the

records again.”

“What? Rosie, wait—”

“The birth records,” tell him, sprinting now. “We

got the wrong year!”

“Rosie, we checked,” Andy argues. “Five years either

side—there was no Holly Woods born at the right time to

be your mother!”

“No.” grin, my cheeks warm in the icy air. “Not my

mother …”

My fingers trip over themselves as type into the

database. hold my breath, tapping my foot nervously as

the computer scans the birth records.

page of details pings up before me.

“Bingo,” whisper, clicking the mouse.

Holly Marie Woods it reads.

Mother’s Maiden Name: Sinclare

Registration District: Maybridge

90

Date of Birth …

The fifth of January, the year was born.

stare at the record, hardly able to believe it. There

she is in black and white. Holly Woods—the baby’s name, not the mother’s. Sarah must’ve misunderstood when

asked her—or did. But here she is. The other baby. Holly

Woods

“This is morbid,” Andy mutters beside me. “This is

so morbid, Rose. This girl died—Trudie’s baby died …”

look at the screen, goose bumps prickling my

arms. Mum’s baby If she’d lived, she’d have had my

mum—she’d have my life. But she died.

blink hard,

imagining her tiny body, tiny coffin. Sarah swapped us,

and she died—and Mum never even knew. She died

and

lived in her place.

stare at the record, guilt wrapping heavily around

my shoulders.

The day was born. My town. could be looking at

my own birth record, it’s so similar.

Suddenly, an icy shiver trickles down my spine.

This is my birth record

stare at the page again, my eyes wide, the facts

screaming out at me, clear as day. This isn’t some other

girl, some stranger, even Trudie’s daughter

These are my details: my name, my mother

scroll down quickly, scanning, searching.

Mother’s Maiden Name: Sinclare

91

“That’s weird,” Andy says, reading over my

shoulder. “Why would you give your child

different

surname? Why Woods, not Sinclare?”

shrug. “Maybe it was my father’s name?”

“I thought she was alone?”

“She could still have named me after him.”

“Or maybe she wanted to distance herself …,” Andy

suggests carefully.

“From my real dad?” frown.

“Yes …” Andy hesitates. “Or

from you.”

stare at him.

“Rosie …” He sighs. “All I’m saying is

she was

going to put you up for adoption. Perhaps it was just

easier to call you something else. Maybe she wanted to be

harder to find.”

“That’s ridiculous,”

say, my cheeks hot. “There

could be million reasons why she called me that—maybe

she’s movie buff?

Maybe she just liked the name! The

point is, we don’t know Andy. We can’t ever know, unless we find her.”

“How?” Andy asks. “We don’t even know her first

name—it’s impossible!”

stare miserably at the screen. All we’ve got is

surname.

And town

Quickly, click on new search. type Sinclare into

the database, and, instantly, short list appears in front of

me.

smile spreads over my face as scan the screen.

92

There’re only few entries for thirty-five years ago

and

only one in Maybridge!

“Bingo!”

Katharine Sinclare

My mother!

My heart pounding crazily, grab the phone book

again and flick through it clumsily.

gasp. There’s only one Sinclare

In Maybridge.

stare at the page. I’ve found her. I’ve really found

her

Andy looks at me, his eyes serious.

“Now what?”

Now what?

stare at myself in the mirror.

pull off my baggy T-shirt and turn sideways,

running my hand over my belly.

You can’t even tell, not really.

look normal—a

couple of pounds heavier, maybe, but no one would know