Page 72 of Statistically Speaking
Apart from all that, I suppose I’ve had a pretty normal childhood. I went to the local school, and now I’m studying psychology, biology, and chemistry before hopefully going to college. I think I want to be a doctor but I’m not totally sure what type yet. I did pretty well in my courses and so far so good with the exams, which is excellent news as I need three As to get into my course.
It’s weird that you live in Liverpool, because it’s my first choice for uni. I came up for an Open Day and loved the place. It’s strange to think that you’re there too, and we could even have been walking around the same part of the city or eating in the same café or whatever and not even known.
Mum says she wonders if I get my academic brains from you, but she’s just being daft—it’s as much down to them as anything. They always encouraged me to work hard, like they did, and that’s just as important as anything genetic, I think, isn’t it? I don’t mean that to be rude—I just know that they’ve made me who I am, and I still feel a bit like I’m betraying them by even writing this, no matter what they say.
Mum also said you’d probably want to know a bit about me, like everyday stuff. So, I like animals—we have a rescuedog from Romania to add to the chaos. He’s a handsome boy called Dax, and a big chocolate lab called Jasper who either eats everything or humps everything. I’m a vegetarian who misses bacon. My best friend is called Poppy, and I have a boyfriend called Nathan—though I’m not sure if that’ll last with us both going off to uni, because if we get our grades, I’ll be in Liverpool and he’ll be in London.
I passed my driving test last month, and Dad got me a car for my eighteenth—a fifth-hand bright yellow Nissan Micra that is possibly the least cool car ever, but it is all mine. I like reading fantasy novels, and baking, and I play bass guitar in a band. We’re pretty rubbish but it’s fun. I’ll watch anything with Timothée Chalamet in it, and I love Marvel films, and I like old rom-coms with Hugh Grant in them too.
Mainly, Mum said you’d want to know if I’ve been okay—so yes, I have. I’ve been happy, even though there was that rough patch when I was younger. I suppose everyone has one, but it could have been worse. (I don’t need to tell you that!)
I’ve always felt loved and wanted, and your letter did help with that. I don’t blame you, for giving me away—I could tell you didn’t want to. I could tell you were in a really crap situation yourself, and some of my sibs have come from difficult homes and I know what an effect that can have. When I was sixteen there was no way I could have raised a baby either. So I suppose what I’m saying is that it’s all been fine. You told me to “shine on,” and I always loved that—I hope I have.
That’s pretty much it. I don’t know what will happen next, or whether we will stay in touch or whatever. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to keep it like this for a while. I wrote this instead of emailing because it seemed right—you sent me a letter, now I’m sending you one. I don’t really feel up for phone calls ormeeting or anything just yet, but if you want to write to me, that would be fine.
If you do, then I suppose I have a lot of questions too. As I said, I think my mum and dad made me—but that doesn’t mean I’m not curious about you as well. Like, is it your fault I have this hair? And that I’m as tall as a giraffe? And I suppose I want to know what happened in your life too, after me, and also if you remembered anything more about my biological father.
Anyway. This is the longest letter I’ve ever written. Actually, I think it’s the only letter I’ve ever written outside English lessons—nobody writes letters anymore, do they?
So you have my address, and if you want to write back, that’d be good. Just don’t turn up on the doorstep or anything!
No idea how to sign this one off—so I’ll stick with my English lessons.
Yours sincerely,
Beth
I finish reading. I read it again. I cannot stop smiling, stroking the paper, staring at that picture. She is here. She is not Baby. She is not Katie. She is Beth. She is in my life, and everything has changed.
Chapter 31
Twenty-Eight Very Amused People and One Big Announcement
We arrive at work in plenty of time. The drive there has been odd, me sitting next to Karim in the passenger seat, grateful for the belt that kept me tethered in place. I feel as light as a helium balloon, as though I might float away into the autumn sky if I’m not tied down.
He has not quizzed me about the letter’s contents, showing self-restraint that I know must be killing him. The very resounding kiss I gave him before we set off, and the smile that has been making my face ache ever since I read the letter, are hopefully enough to reassure him.
“So,” he says as he parks the car and switches off the engine, “I assume it was good news?”
“It was, Karim. Really good news. She’s happy. She’s thriving. She’s had a great life. And she doesn’t blame me. I feel... weightless.”
He grins and reaches over to stroke my cheek.
“I’m so glad for you, Gemma. I can only imagine what it feels like, after all these years, knowing that she’s safe and well. Letting go of some of that guilt you’ve been carryingaround. So what’s the plan? What happens next? And... at some point, can I read it? The letter?”
He sounds hesitant as he says this, as though he fears he is pushing some kind of unspoken boundary between us and is uncertain about how I will react.
“Of course you can read it,” I reply quickly. “Just as soon as I’ve had it laminated.”
He stares at me for a moment, unsure, until I burst out laughing. I am joking—I think.
“Seriously, yes, you can—let’s meet up for lunch to do that,” I say.
He is part of my life, and she is part of my life, and I have learned that trying to keep everything separate and safe in its own little box doesn’t work so well in the long run.
“And as for what happens next, I suppose I write back to her. And maybe she writes back to me. And we become, I don’t know, some kind of heavily emotionally laden pen pals? That’s my task for tonight, anyway. Just as soon as I’ve called an emergency girls’ night at Margie’s so I can tell them about it as well. All of you have helped get me to this stage, and I can’t say how grateful I am. Do you want to see her? Before we go in?”
He nods, and I reach for my bag, carefully pulling out a manila file that I’ve used to keep the letter and picture in. I suspect I may never let them leave my presence again, that if they are ever more than a couple of feet from my body, some kind of internal alarm will go off.
