Summer Secrets (12 page)

The very thought of it makes me want to drown my feelings in a very big bottle of vodka. Which I have done, but not every night, not those nights I go to meetings and hang out with Jason afterward, and hope and wish and pray that even though he has been quite clear he will not get involved with me during my first year of sobriety, I can somehow make him change his mind.

Do I want to talk about it? Professionally? I saw a therapist once, years ago, because I felt … lost. She was a very old German woman in a big stucco house in Belsize Park. She was very nice, if entirely clich
é
d. The house was filled with abstract paintings and interesting sculptures. When I say interesting, I don’t mean beautiful. She would sit in her big leather chair and just look at me, her face blank, and I had no idea what to say, and would blurt out stuff about my father because I was sure that’s what she wanted to hear, and I didn’t want her to think I was wasting her time.

Oh, but it was such a waste of time.

I felt a constant vague embarrassment at telling a stranger things I hadn’t said to anyone before. I’m sure I made some of it sound a bit better, because I didn’t want her to think too badly of him.

I have no idea what she thought of him. She was, I suppose, of the school of thought that a therapist is there as a, what do you call it? Tabula rasa. A blank slate, there to help me understand my life through her silent stares and occasional nods.

It didn’t work for me. If I were ever to have therapy, and I’m going to tell you this, I’m frankly extremely uncomfortable with the idea, but if I were to, it would need to be someone with whom I had a dialogue, someone who felt like a friend, someone who would actually give me advice, direct me, shed some light on why I am the way I am.

If I were to see someone, Robyn McBride is exactly the sort of person I would see. I could, in fact, very clearly imagine sitting on a small sofa in a cozy yellow office, chatting away and telling her everything. But I’m not going to. At least not today. I have an article on ankle bracelets that needs to be sent to the subeditors in thirty-five minutes, so I reassure her I’m fine, and she gives me, as she always does, the perfect quote.

*   *   *

I have finished the article, sent it to the subeditor, am just about to tap Gina on the shoulder and ask her if she wants to grab a coffee downstairs, when my phone rings and it’s my mum.

“Darling,” she says, her voice happier than I have heard in years. “I’m so sorry to trouble you at the office, but I wondered if you and I could meet for a coffee after work?”

“Did you speak to him?”

“I did. Too much to talk about over the phone, so let’s try to get together.”

My heart stands still. What does that mean, too much to talk about over the phone? Was he happy? Shocked? Angry?

“What does that mean?” I manage to get out.

“It’s all good,” she says, hearing the anguish in my voice. “Why don’t you come over after work today and I’ll tell you all about it?”

I think about what I have planned today after work; a meeting with Jason, then up to the Everyman in Hampstead for some Gerard Depardieu film I’m pretending I’ve been dying to see because he’s been talking about it for days, even though I’ve never heard of it.

“Tell you what.” I look at my watch. “Why don’t I come over now? We could have lunch.”

“Wonderful!” she says, and I put the phone down, scribble a message on a piece of paper to leave for Jackie, and head out the door.

*   *   *

I stop at Waitrose and pick up a sandwich and a salad for Mum. Her American-ness seems to show itself mostly with her food choices. She has never ordered a meal in a restaurant without asking for something to be on the side, or for a substitution—salad instead of mashed potatoes, and she always,
always
eats the salad first.

The only safe thing, in fact, to ever buy my mother for lunch is salad, and sure enough, as soon as she opens the door and takes the Waitrose bag from my hand, her eyes light up at the salad in the way mine would at a huge bag of caramel popcorn. Or vodka. Take your pick.

“Salad!” she exclaims in delight, as if it were a chocolate
é
clair. “Yum! Come in, sweetie. I’ve set the table.”

I smile at how pretty she has made it; white linen napkins, sparkling crystal glasses, and a vase of creamy pale pink roses in the middle of the table. All this to eat salad out of a plastic container and a sandwich.

“So what did he say?” I can’t wait until we sit down, patience never having been a particular virtue of mine. “How did you tell him? Did he remember you?”

Her smile fades slightly, and she nods. “I knew you’d want all the details. Let me try to remember everything. I had written to him, you know that. I told him how terrible I felt and that I was too young and too stupid to realize he deserved to know he had a daughter in this world. I told him about you.” She smiles again then. “In the letter I told him you have inherited his dark skin, his dimples, and his creativity, only you express it through words rather than paintings. I told him a little about me. That it hadn’t been a particularly good marriage, but that I never felt I had another choice. I told him that I had never realized, until you were born, how unkind he was. And particularly to you.” My mother blinks back tears as she says this, and I have to swallow a lump in my own throat. “He was not a good father, and I didn’t protect you. I am so sorry.”

“It’s okay, Mum.” I want her to carry on with the story. I know she’s sorry, and I don’t bear any grudge against her for not protecting me from my father. She did the best she could, and it has never occurred to me to blame her for any of it.

“I sent him a picture of you. Three, actually. One when you were very tiny, then another from that holiday in Disney World when you were about eleven, and finally one from your birthday last year. I said you knew about him, that I had just told you, and that I had done you both a tremendous disservice in keeping you apart, and if he wanted to change that, as I very much hoped he would, this was the number to call.”

“Your number.”

“I thought it might be too much to give him your number from the get-go. What if he’d been angry and taken it out on you? I needed to check the lay of the land before anything else.”

“When did he call?”

“This morning. At eleven. Which is six a.m. his time. He said he’d been away in New York for a show and had only just got back to Nantucket to find the letter. He’d phoned immediately. I think he’s stunned, and happy.”

“What did he say? I mean, what
exactly
did he say?”

“I don’t know exactly. He said he had read and reread the letter. That you looked exactly like his two daughters there, who are just slightly younger than you. He said he wanted to talk to you, and wondered if you might consider going over to Nantucket to see them.”

“Oh my God!” My heart threatens to flip with joy. “Are you serious? Nantucket? And I have sisters?”

She nods. “Do you feel ready to talk to him?”

“Yes!” I leap up from the table and fling my arms around my mother in an impromptu hug. “I can’t believe this!” I say. “I can’t believe how easy this is!” My mother disentangles herself and pulls the phone over.

“You’re sure you’re ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” I grin, jiggling my knee in excitement as she pulls out a piece of paper and dials the number written down.

“Brooks? It’s Audrey again.… Good, thank you. Look, I’ve got Cat with me. She came over for lunch.… Yes. Right here.… Sure. Hang on.” And she hands the receiver over to me.

*   *   *

“Cat?” His voice is deep, exotically American. My mother’s accent is no longer exotic, as familiar as it is to me, but this is something that sends jolts of longing, a little girl finding her father, something entirely unexpected and discombobulating.

I can’t speak.

“Cat? Are you there?”

“I am. Sorry.”

“Oh wow. Listen to you!” I can hear the smile in his voice. “With your English accent!”

“I, um,
am
English,” I say, somewhat pathetically.

“I know, I just didn’t think. Your mom still sounds American, and I just didn’t think about it. And you look so like my own daughters, I mean, my daughters here, that I guess I expected you to sound like them. Stupid, I know.” He trails off. “Well. This is some big news, isn’t it?”

“You think?” I say, and he laughs.

“Big, but
good
news. I’m delighted to have found you. I only wish it had happened a long time ago.”

I don’t say anything, not wanting to point the finger at my mother, even though I am thinking exactly the same thing.

“I haven’t talked to the girls, but they’re both here this summer. We convene every year at the house here on Nantucket. Ellie comes with her kids, and Julia is always here, usually with whatever boyfriend she has at the time. I was thinking perhaps you ought to come out here and meet all of us.”

I am gobsmacked. So much, so fast. All of it wanted. “I would love to,” I say, unable to wipe the smile off my face. “But maybe you should talk to them first. I don’t want to cause any trouble.”

“You wouldn’t be causing any trouble,” he says. “But I’ll talk to them. Do you have a number where I can reach you? You and I have an awful lot to catch up on.”

“Of course.” I give him my home phone number, and the office, although I warn I can’t often chat when I’m working.

“I want us to get to know each other,” he says. “Make up for lost time. Does this sound like something you’d be interested in?”

As if I’m going to say no.

*   *   *

I am so lost in thought, I barely notice that my mum is also smiling, in a way I’m not sure I have ever seen her smile before, and it dawns on me: My God! This is her first love! He mentioned talking to his daughters but not a wife. Maybe he’s divorced. Maybe he’s single and available. Maybe he never got over my mother, and now they’ve reconnected, maybe they’ll get back together.

Maybe I’ll have the family I’ve always wanted, in this entirely unexpected of ways. I look at my mother’s face, and she is positively beaming, and I realize in all of this, I haven’t once thought about my mother.

God knows I know how miserable she was with my father. After he died, and especially after she left the suburban boredom of Gerrards Cross, I was convinced she’d find some wonderful man in London, but it hasn’t been the case.

She refuses to join a dating agency, and friends have occasionally set her up, but she always ends up becoming great friends with them, and says she’s happier that way. They take her to dinner, the opera, the theater, but nothing ever happens beyond, and it’s not for want of them trying.

Maybe this really is the man she’s been waiting for her entire life. Maybe it’s not too late for miracles to happen.

“Mum?” She looks up at me. “Does Brooks have a wife?”

“They’re divorced,” she says. “He told me earlier.”

“So he’s single?” My eyes gleam.

She shakes her head, snorting with laughter. “He’s single, and it was lovely to connect with him, but I know exactly what you’re thinking, and no, I’m not the slightest bit interested.”

“He just invited me out to Nantucket. Well, provisionally, after he’s talked to the other daughters. But why don’t you come with me? Why don’t we both go? You can’t let an opportunity like this go unexplored.”

“It’s not unexplored.” She smiles. “But what happened between us was years and years ago. We probably wouldn’t have anything in common anymore.”

“What if you did? What if you had everything in common?”

“It’s unlikely. Anyway, I have my life here. I’m not the slightest bit interested in uprooting again.”

“Who’s talking about uprooting? I’m talking about a summer. Maybe a week. See what happens.”

She shakes her head. “This is your time to get to know him. Not mine. I’ve just joined the board of the museum, and I have much too much to do. But I can’t wait to hear how it all goes for you.”

Ten

“You’re what?” Jason is staring at me, as if he can’t believe what I’m telling him.

“I’m going to Nantucket to meet my family.”

“Okay. I mean, that sounds amazing. What an insane story.”

I laugh in disbelief. We are grabbing a quick coffee on Praed Street before the meeting. “I feel like you don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Meeting your long-lost family? I think it’s probably an excellent idea. I’m just worried about what’s going to happen to you, going away now.”

“Why?”

“They usually advise you not to make any big changes during your first year of sobriety.”

I don’t tell him that I’m … struggling with my sobriety. I need him to think I can do this; I have done this. The thought of his disappointment, of what he would say if he knew how I was letting him down, not as sober as I appear, fills me with terror. If he knew, then he would leave, and I’m pretty clear Jason is the best thing to have happened to me in a very long time.

“Please tell me you’re not going to tell me not to go. This is my father! My sisters!”

“I know, I know.” He has the grace to appear embarrassed at the very thought. “You’ll need to find meetings.”

“Absolutely.” I nod vigorously, although frankly that’s the last thing I’m thinking about. I need to find my family. Everything else is just gravy.

“You should talk to your sponsor about it. How’s that going, by the way?”

“Great,” I lie, making for the door. “Come on, we’re going to be late.”

*   *   *

In today’s meeting, someone talks about pulling geographics. Apparently every time life got too painful, or she had alienated too many people, or fallen out with someone, or not wanted to deal with whatever was going on, she moved. She moved from London to Edinburgh, then to Cardiff, Bristol, Glasgow, and finally, when she was ready to reinvent herself entirely, back down to London again.

The group nodded, murmurs of self-knowing laughter, and I turned to find Jason looking at me with a raised eyebrow, as if that’s what I’m doing, which is completely ridiculous. I haven’t alienated anyone, my job is great, and the only thing that might be difficult to deal with, the meeting of my newly discovered family, I am dealing with head-on.