Page 33 of Statistically Speaking
Margie is brandishing a jar, a bemused look on her face.
“Erin brought this for you,” she says.
“Thank you. What is it?”
“It’s beetroot juice,” Margie replies, “you know, to help with youranemia?”
Margie’s tone adds an unspoken “that you don’t have” to the end of the sentence, and I feel a flush of embarrassment creep onto my cheeks.
“Oh. Right. That’s really thoughtful. Except, well, I was lying last night, Erin—I’m not anemic, as far as I know.”
“I see. Are you pregnant, then?” she asks, eyebrows raised in curiosity. Clearly, that is the only other reason she can come up with for my incredible fainting-woman routine, and possibly my odd behavior. It makes a lot more sense than the real reason, that’s for sure.
I shake my head, and all three of us are silent for a moment. I have no idea what to do or say next.
“Tell you what,” says Margie, breaking in and saving me, “why don’t you two take Bill for a trot while I get the kettle on? I’m sure you’ve got plenty to catch up on.”
She meets my eyes and purses her lips, and I know that she is trying to telepathically communicate with me. To tell me that I should come clean, open up, confess all.
Or maybe she’s just cold and wants to get rid of us so she can go inside and watchHomes Under the Hammer.
“Good idea,” I reply, “if you’re up for it, Erin?”
She nods, and I unlock the little gate that marks out Margie’s territory. Bill knows what’s afoot and slinks out, wrapping himself around Erin’s legs before bounding off toward the sand hills.
We follow and make small talk about the history project as we explore, heading along one of the paths that crisscrosses the dunes until we reach the shoreline. One hundred and twelve steps for me, maybe more for Erin.
We come to a halt by the steps that lead down to the sea, and I perch on them, as I usually do, but this time with Erin by my side. It is cool but sunny, the sky vivid blue, zigzagged with streaks of white cloud. The storm from last night has left the waterfront battered and wild, debris strewn across thesand, the plants that edge the dunes flattened and damp and tangled.
Bill is frolicking in and out of the frothy waves, living his very best life, playing with a little brown spaniel called Twig. He runs out of the water, starts to inspect a pile of driftwood, and pees on it.
Erin laughs, and I say: “Yeah. He’s like a one-dog comedy routine, isn’t he? At least he isn’t bringing us any gifts. One day over summer he found the decapitated head of a gull and brought it over to me, spinal cord still attached.”
“Nice. Sounds like something from a horror film.”
“It was a bit. You get quite a lot of jellyfish washing up, but he’s learned to leave those alone... Anyway, I’m sorry I lied.”
“About being anemic?”
“Yeah, and—well, I haven’t lied about anything else, but there have been what you might call some omissions.”
She nods and looks serious, and I see the side of her that is capable of working in law and seeing through nonsense for a living.
“And these omissions, they’re my business, are they?” she says gently.
I nod, and suck in some air, and decide I might as well jump right in. I like Erin and would enjoy continuing to see her. I want to be honest, to clear the air, but I’m also concerned that it is going to freak her out. That my clearing of the air is her horror story, with or without a decapitated seagull head.
Katie is my student, and her daughter, and even though we have formed our tentative friendship outside of the school environment, there are still probably a million and one safeguarding protocols being broken.
Damn it, I decide—it’s either trust that she’ll understand, or never see her again outside parents’ evenings. To which I will wear a disguise.
“It’s a bit of a long story,” I say eventually. “In fact, it starts over eighteen years ago.”
“Crikey. Thatislong. Come on, then, let’s be having it!”
She smiles encouragingly and pats my hand, and it is enough—enough to give me the final push over the edge of reticence and into honesty.
“Right. Yes. Well, when I was sixteen, I had a baby. I had a baby on the third of October almost eighteen years ago. She had red hair, just like mine, and she was perfect, not like me, and—well, she was adopted, for lots of good reasons, and I’ve never seen her since.” I speak briskly, in a matter-of-fact fashion, as though I am discussing the best way to assemble an IKEA wardrobe, not the darkest day of my life. It is, I think, the only way I will be able to do it.
