Page 71 of Statistically Speaking
“The place will survive without us for an hour, Gemma. This is more important. Come on, let’s go inside. I’m going to have a long shower so you can read that in private, but you know where I am if you need me. Then you can tell me about it, if you want to.”
He leads me upstairs, and I realize that I have left the other letters on the floor. He sees me looking back and adds, “Don’t worry. I’ll sort it.”
He is, of course, perfect. Kind and calm and take-charge in all the right measures.
“Thank you,” I say as we go into the flat. “For being so brilliant. I mean, not many men would be thrilled at the prospect of becoming a kind-of, almost-but-not-quite stepdad to an eighteen-year-old girl...”
“Well, I’m not most men, am I? And I know how much this means to you. So sit down, and I’ll bring you a coffee.”
I do as I am told, and within minutes I am installed on the sofa with a steaming hot mug and a blanket over my legs tokeep me warm after my run. Karim kisses me on the top of my head and disappears off to the bathroom.
As soon as he is gone, I realize that I needed the space—this time alone with this shining thing, this feeling as if a bomb is about to go off in my face, this Pandora’s envelope. He knew that even before I did. King I-Love-You the First is a mind reader, among his many other talents.
I sip some coffee, the background noise of Karim clanging about in the shower reassuring me, and hold the envelope in both hands as though it is too heavy to support with one. Physically, it weighs next to nothing. Emotionally, it is made of lead.
In this moment, I can imagine anything I want to. A happy ending. An invitation to meet up. A declaration of forgiveness. A description of her perfect life, the life she lived because I didn’t raise her. It could even simply be a strict instruction never to contact her. It could break my heart, or make it sing.
In that moment, it could be anything and it could be everything and it could be nothing. I am reminded of that poem again, and know that my dreams are beneath her feet.
I close my eyes, breathe deeply, and take the plunge. I open the envelope, careful not to tear it because every scrap of connection with her is significant and precious. I pull out the contents.
A letter, two sheets filled with the same sloping handwriting as the envelope. Inside the folded pages, dropping out onto my lap, a photograph. I pick it up with trembling hands and look at it, still hardly daring to believe.
I look at it, and I see that she is beautiful. She is perfect. She is magnificent. She is more than I ever could have expected.
Her hair has come in darker than mine, a deep and shining shade of auburn that she probably hates but everyone else willadmire. She wears it short and choppy, a little bit punk. Her eyes are large and brown, with lashings of black kohl that give her an exotic look. She has several hoops in her ears, and judging by the background, she is tall—maybe even taller than me.
The main thing I notice, though, in that picture isn’t the funky clothes or the makeup or the car she’s leaning against. It’s the smile. A big, confident, loving-the-moment smile that seems to beam right through time and space and photographic paper and into my soul.
It is a smile that says she is happy.
I manage to tear myself away from the photo after a few moments, reluctant to let it leave my hands, and lay it carefully by my side, scared it might disintegrate like a message inMission Impossible.
I catch up on the breathing I seem to have been forgetting to bother with and manage a smile when I hear Karim start to sing “Bohemian Rhapsody” in the shower. It is, I know, his not-so-subtle way of reminding me that he is here if I need him.
I unfold the handwritten pages and see an address in the usual spot. I read it slowly, as I know I will read every single word slowly. I want to gobble it all down, to inhale it, but I am making myself take my time. Making myself savor it.
The address tells me she lives in a place called Great Bookham in Surrey. I have no idea what that means, or what it’s like, but it makes my heart soar to see it. The fact that she has put her address on the page means that she wants a reply. That this isn’t just a “please don’t bother me anymore” letter. I hadn’t even realized how much I’d been dreading that until I’m not.
I smooth the paper down on the blanket on my lap, and I read...
Dear Gemma,
It’s me—“Baby.” Though I go by Beth these days, which is better than being named after someone from Dirty Dancing, isn’t it?
Thank you for leaving your details on the Adoption Contact Register. It took me a while to decide what to do, and how to get in touch—or even whether I should get in touch.
My mum and dad gave me your letter when I was fourteen. Two years earlier than you wanted, but I was a bit of a bitch when I was fourteen, and I think they were worried about it and thought it might help. Plus you’d said that thing about it being good if I had bossy parents, which I think they liked. It didn’t stop me being a bitch, but it did maybe make me calm down a bit. Especially your words of warning about the vodka. I think perhaps that came at just the right time, and it was pretty easy to imagine myself in the same position.
So, I didn’t really know what to write in this—it’s a hard situation, and I was worried about upsetting my actual mum and dad as well. They’ve always been honest with me about being adopted, but still, it must be weird for them, knowing you’re out there and knowing I’m sending you a letter. They’ve never had anything bad to say about you, by the way; they were always just really grateful that I turned up.
I talked to them about doing this, and they said they were happy for me to contact you. That doesn’t mean they don’t have their own doubts and worries about what it might start up, but they’re keeping those to themselves for now. If they get any hint that you’re bad for me, though, I warn you, they might hire a hit man.
I asked Mum what I should write, and she told me some of the things she’d want to know if she was you. She’s usually right about stuff, so here goes.
Mum is Sue, and she was a nurse in a children’s hospital when they adopted me. Dad is Richard—known to everyone as Richie—and he’s an electrician. We lived in Watford when I was a baby, but then we moved to Surrey.
When I was about four they decided to become foster parents, but they were really rubbish at it because they kept keeping the kids instead—so I have three adopted younger siblings, Irina who is ten, Rory who is eleven, and Isabelle, she’s fifteen. It’s a bit of a patchwork family and they drive me nuts, but we all love each other really. Deep down!
