Page 4 of Statistically Speaking
I don’t have much to share with you on that front, because, like I say, I’m sixteen. I don’t regret having you—you were not some terrible mistake—but I would maybe also say on the life wisdom front that vodka and boys don’t mix that well, so be careful with that.
You’re probably wondering why I gave you away, and that’s fair, and that’s why I’m writing this. I didn’t want you to grow up feeling rejected, or crap about yourself, or at least no more than normal. So, here’s the thing—I didn’t give you away because I didn’t love you, or because I didn’t want you, or because there was anything wrong with you. I haven’t met you in person yet, but I just know you’re perfect in every way a baby can be perfect. I can tell.
I gave you away because of me, and my life, and what I can’t do for you. My mum has a mental illness, and she also does a lot of drugs and drinks too much, and I’m sure that’s all kind of bundled up for her in one horrible package. If I was looking at her life from the outside, I’d feel so sorry for her—she tries so hard, and on days when she’s her version of normal, she is really funny and kind and good to be with. But on the days when she’s not, she’s so sad she can’t get out of bed, or sometimes she’s scary and out of control. Either way, it makes you feel completely freaked out.
I know it’s not her fault, but I am angry with her anyway. Then I feel guilty for being angry, and it all gets squished up in my head. One of the ways I deal with that is by counting things. Whenever I’m a bit stressed or upset, I count stuff to calm medown. Stupid things, like steps, and windows, and how many Skittles there are in a bag. I started doing that when I was really little, like about seven, I think. Old enough to count, anyway. She told me she was going out to get some chips and would only be five minutes, and I was at home on my own and I was scared. So I started counting because I knew there were sixty seconds in each minute. Every time I got to sixty I made a mark on my coloring book.
Eventually the coloring book was pretty full, and I was pretty hungry, and I couldn’t even cry anymore because I was so tired. She didn’t come home for three days, and I just ate dry cereal out of the box. I even counted how many bits of Coco Pops there were.
After that, she went to hospital for a bit. And she gave me away. Then she came home and seemed better and got me back. Then it happened again, and again, until eventually she agreed that she would give me away for a longer time.
I didn’t want that—even though it was shitty at home with my mum, it was still at home with my mum, which felt less frightening than living with strangers. But that’s what happened, and I think now I can understand it a bit better. She didn’t just give me away for the reasons I maybe thought at the time—because I was a pain, because I was inconvenient, because she preferred a simpler life without me. Or maybe she did, I don’t know—it was all a bit chaotic.
But I think maybe she also gave me away because she knew it was better for me. She knew it was unhealthy for me, being with her, and maybe even dangerous. I think she gave me away because she wanted me to be safe and to be able to go to bed at night without having to check she hadn’t left toast burning orworrying that she’d spent all our money and that I’d be hungry for the rest of the week.
I say maybe, because I don’t know—we don’t have the kind of relationship where we can talk about it. I don’t see her much anymore, and that’s both good and bad. Maybe if I’d had a letter like this, I’d know—I’d know she did some of the things she did because she actually loved me. And I think that would have helped—it would have made me feel better.
So that’s why I am writing this. So you can feel better. So you will always know that I didn’t give you away because I didn’t love you, or because you did anything wrong. I do love you, more than I’ve ever loved anyone. It’s weird and huge and really unexpected, how much I love you.
But I’m also only sixteen. I live in foster care. At the moment I’m with a woman called Audrey and she is really strict and takes no crap, and that is a good thing for me.
Audrey makes sure all the boring stuff is taken care of. I have clean clothes and food and a bed—she’s good to me, but she doesn’t love me, and I feel that a lot. I compare myself to my friends and it makes me feel lonely. I know my mum loves me, but she can’t give me any of that other stuff, and that other stuff is important too. If I could mix and match them, that’d be great—but you can’t do that with human beings. I can’t give you all the bits of me that love you but let someone else do the boring bit that keeps you safe and happy—I have to give all of you away, and hope you’ll find the real deal with them. All of the bits you need in one place.
If I was older, if my whole universe was different, I would keep you. But this is the reality—I have no other family, I have no money, and I don’t have anything to offer you. I don’t wantyou to grow up worried about how many Coco Pops are left in the box. I don’t want you to grow up messed up by how messed up I am. I have thought about it such a lot, Baby, I really have—and even if you hate me for it, that’s all right. You can. But you are going to have a proper family, and a nice life, and I hope all your worries will be normal ones, like about your mates and your exams and boys (hint: don’t worry about any of those things!).
I can’t tell you much about your bio-dad because I don’t know much. I am ashamed to say this, but I don’t even know his name—but he was pretty cool, and he was nice to me. If you’re good at wheelies, that comes from him. I met him in the park, hanging around, and he was only visiting and disappeared as fast as he arrived. I don’t know what all that counts for, but there you go. I don’t know my dad either—as legend has it, my mum got pregnant while she was at Glastonbury at the music festival, but I’ve never known if that was true or just an interesting story she created.
It’s both scary and wonderful how casually a life can be created. You’re drunk or careless or in love and carried away, and suddenly a whole new human person is there, with their own set of dreams and needs and disappointments. I hope you don’t have to continue this line of women who give away their children, because it sucks.
I’m going to stop now, and I am going to just say this—you are loved, and you are perfect, and you are going to be brilliant. I’m sad I won’t be around to see that, how brilliant you’ll be, but I think maybe you’ll be less brilliant if you get stuck with me as your parent. Having a mum around isn’t always for the best if it isn’t the right mum.
Shine on, lovely Baby. I wish all the awesome for you.
Lots of love,
Your mum (my name is Gemma, by the way)
xxxxx
PS—I have met you now. You are amazing. The most beautiful thing I have ever seen, and the best thing I have ever done. You will never be mine, but I will be forever yours.
Part 2
Now
Chapter 3
One Hundred Iron Men and One Black Cloud
September, eighteen years later
“So,” I say to Bill as he sprawls next to me on the concrete steps that lead down to the beach, “how did my life get so messy? I’ve been here for over a year now. I only meant to stay for a few months. I meant to keep it simple. I blame you.”
Bill gazes at me with unreadable brown eyes, thuds his skinny tail once, and lets out a fragrant fart.
“Ha. Well, that told me.”
I reach out and scratch behind his ears. He’s a weird mix, Bill—some lurcher maybe, some collie, perhaps a bit of Lab. He’s multicolored, shades of yellow and brown and gray, and has fur that’s so long on his back he has a center parting, and so short on his head that he looks almost bald, apart from his massive and super-expressive eyebrows.
