Page 12 of Days You Were Mine

‘Well you don’t have to. You’re a free woman now. How old are you?’

‘Almost nineteen,’ I say, and Jacob laughs. I’ve let myself down with the ‘almost’.

‘How old areyou?’

‘How old do you think I am?’

I am confident enough now to look at him properly, examining his features as an artist might. The grooves around his eyes are quite deep, especially when he smiles. His front teeth are a little bit crooked and slightly yellowed from nicotine. Not that any of this detracts from his beauty; more I am measuring his flaws as an indicator of age. Like looking into a horse’s mouth. Or counting the rings of an oak.

‘I think you’re thirty.’

‘Cheeky. Twenty-six.’

Seven years older, I find myself thinking. Is that an acceptable gap? And perhaps he is having the same thought, because he says, ‘Quite a lot older than you.’

‘That doesn’t matter,’ I say, and he smiles.

‘It doesn’t, does it?’

He looks at his watch. It’s ten minutes to seven.

‘If we walk slowly, the French House will be open by the time we get there. Are you up for it?’

More than I have been up for anything, ever. I wish I could communicate with Rick telepathically. If I could, I’d tell him that right now, right in this moment, I have never felt happier.

Now

Luke

Reunions between an adopted child and his birth parent are often characterised by an intense honeymoon period which can feel a bit like a love affair.

Who Am I? The Adoptee’s Hidden Traumaby Joel Harris

Samuel lies on his little sheepskin rug in the corner of the kitchen. Hannah arranges and rearranges the flowers she bought from the florist earlier; I am stirring apple sauce, checking the slow-roasting pork, salting the potatoes, and all with an undertow of frenetic excitement. Alice is coming for lunch.

Earlier today I got out the paint pot we keep under the stairs and painted over every single fingermark and smudge of dirt I could find. Hannah polished the dark brown furniture my mother gave us, clunky mahogany antiques that feel too old-fashioned for our home. A few minutes ago she lit a Diptyque candle she’d been given for her birthday and now the kitchen smells deliciously of roasting meat mixed with fig and fern. The table is laid with linen napkins bought earlier fromthe gift shop. I have even polished the wine glasses. Ridiculous levels of over-preparation, but it’s the only way either of us can keep calm.

When there’s a knock at the door – one o’clock, she’s exactly on time – my stomach swoops and I am momentarily paralysed by a desire to run. Not towards the front door but away from it.

‘It will be fine,’ Hannah says, and she takes hold of my hand and pulls me out into the corridor, a gentle shove in my back until I am leading the way.

I open the door and find Alice standing there, and there’s a rush of chemicals, no other way to describe it, coursing through my veins, a surge of intensity that is like nothing so much as the feeling of being in love.

She stands on our doorstep dressed in a blue denim shirt and white jeans, a paper wrap of sweet peas held against her chest.

‘These are for you.’ She thrusts them at Hannah as she walks through the door and Hannah presses them to her face and inhales.

‘My absolute favourites. Oh Alice,’ she says, looking up at my birth mother. ‘You look exactly like Luke. And Samuel looks just like you too.’

Her voice wavers dangerously and Alice reaches forward to pull her into a brief, spontaneous hug.

‘Believe me,’ Alice says, ‘I’ve done nothing but cry for the past few days.’

She releases Hannah and looks at me – a fractional pause; you’d need to be deeply attuned to notice it – and then we embrace too. How can I explain what it’s like, this shyness, this shall-we, shan’t-we first-date-ness between mother and son? It’s easier for Hannah and Alice, that’s all.

In the sharp bright light of our kitchen, Alice spots Samuel on his rug and gives a little cry of anguish that seems familiar tome, perhaps from a lifetime ago, perhaps recorded somewhere in my cellular memory, who knows?

‘Just look at your little boy,’ she says. ‘He’s you exactly, isn’t he? Those eyes, my God.’

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