Page 23 of Statistically Speaking
“Yes. I didn’t know it was Katie’s mum; we just started chatting over a coffee, and then Katie turned up, and Erin looks nothing like her, and then they told me—that Katie was adopted. And before you say anything, yes, I know—lots of kids are adopted. But Katie—well, she kind of looks like me. She’s tall and has the same hair and she likes history.”
“Okay. I trust you to know the statistics on this one, Gem, but what are the odds that she’s yours?”
“Long. And actually, I wasn’t convinced when it was just that. But Katie had mentioned it was her birthday soon, and so I checked up on the school record, and she was born on theexactsame day as my baby!”
I lean back in my chair, feeling triumphant, like I should add: “I rest my case, Your Honor!”
I don’t know what I expect, but it isn’t silence. Margie is so rarely silent that it takes me by surprise.
“So, what do you think?” I ask, prompting her. Now I’ve managed to tell her everything, I’m oddly desperate to hear what she says. I think I want somebody to tell me what to do next, to take the pressure off.
“I’m not sure,” she replies, biting her lip. “I can see why you’re thinking what you’re thinking. But coincidences happen, love. Did I ever tell you that my hubby, God rest his soul—”
“What? He’s not dead, is he? I thought he’d moved to Wales?”
“No, he’s not dead—I just sometimes say that. Anyway, the point is this—me and him, we had the same birthday. We met in town when we were both out celebrating our twenty-first. It happens. You can look up your birthday and see how many famous people were born on it, and sometimes you bump into people with the same one, and—well, it’s not that unusual, is it? It could just be one of those weird coincidences. Haven’t you ever met anyone with the same birthday as you?”
I nod. I have, of course. In fact, there was a girl in my class at school with the same birthday, and she always had big parties and I kind of hated her for it.
“But she looks like me,” I say. “And she’s adopted. And she’s from Middlesex.”
“And that matters because...”
“Because it’s—well, it’s not far from London, is it? I never knew where she went, but that could make sense.”
She looks at me sternly, and that mothering vibe suddenly feels a lot stronger—and a bit less welcome.
She is bursting my bubble, and even though I know she is right to do so, I am not enjoying it.
“I think, Gem, that anything can make sense if you want it to.”
I am silent, trying to drag together enough coherence to explain myself.
“I just... Ifeelit as well, Margie. You know I’m all about the facts, but this one is different. She just feels familiar somehow. I can’t even explain it properly to myself.”
“Well, I’m not going to argue with you on that, Gem—I’m a big believer in instinct, even though I never thought I’d hear you say you were swayed by it... So. I suppose, then, the million-dollar question is: What next? Have you thought about that?”
“I’ve thought about nothing else, Margie. It’s so bloody complicated. I want to know for sure, but I don’t want to do anything that could put her, or her mum, in a difficult position. And even if she is mine, what do I do about it? I have no right to barge in. I have no right to claim a place in their lives. I don’t deserve that.”
“Deserve? I’m not sure that’s the proper word, babe. It is complicated, yes, no doubt. But it’s also not the kind of thing you’re just going to be able to forget about, is it? Nobody could, especially not you—not knowing stuff drives you mad.”
I nod, and drink, and realize that I am disappointed. I was hoping she’d have a magical solution, some wise-woman advice, a way to untangle this complex web.
“I’d normally just move away,” I admit. “That’s what I usually do if stuff gets too difficult. But you’re right; I couldn’t just put this one behind me. Even if I moved to Timbuktu, I’d still be wondering. I don’t even know what I want the truth to be.”
“Oh, I think you do, hon,” she replies, smiling. “You want it to be her, I think. Even though it’s complicated and messy and you don’t like messy, you want it to be her. And I can completely understand that. So what’s the plan? Do you have a plan?”
“Not really, and I hate that I don’t! I always have a plan, but with this, it feels like the more I think about it, the less clear it feels. Erin—her mum—has asked me round to theirs for dinner. I don’t know how I can do it—how I can sit in their home and talk about their lives and keep quiet about this.”
“You’ll figure it out—either you’ll figure it out, or you don’t go. You can’t go blundering in there with this. You can’t drop this kind of drama over spaghetti and a glass of red, can you? It wouldn’t be fair.”
She speaks firmly, and I know it’s true. Just because I’m messed up doesn’t mean I have any right to mess them up as well. They’ve been through enough in the last year.
“Maybe you can swipe a glass she’s drunk from, or her hairbrush,” says Margie, raising her eyebrows. “Get a DNA test done secretly?”
I laugh at this because I have already thought through the exact same thing. Apart from the moral implications, it’s also not as easy to do in the real world outside a police crime lab.
“Been there, decided that would make me a nutter,” I respond. “And if it was her, I’d have a lot of explaining to do about how I found out...”
