Someone Else's Life (25 page)

Rosie

We stroll through the park, past the barren trees and lampposts, until we come to a duck pond.

“Perfect!” Kitty announces, sitting down on a damp-looking bench.

I eye her cream coat uncertainly. “Are you sure?”

“Best seat in the house, don’t you think?” She grins. I stare at her, this woman in her designer dress—her carefully styled hair tangling in the breeze, Jimmy Choos caked in mud—perched, knees up on a park bench, drinking soup out of a bread bowl, and I smile. She’s like a totally different person. She tosses some crumbs to a quacking family of ducks, which fall over themselves as they scrabble after the bread, and she laughs, beaming up at me as I sit down.

“God, I don’t know what it is with you, Rosie, but I just suddenly feel …” She leans her head back, searching for the right word. “
Young
, I suppose!” she laughs, hugging her knees. “That’s weird, isn’t it? You’d think meeting my grown-up daughter would make me feel ancient—and it does, in some ways,” she admits. “But being with you makes me remember being your age, seeing all this for the first time …” She sweeps her arm out to encompass the park, the surrounding buildings, the statues. “It’s glorious.” She sighs blissfully.

“It is beautiful,” I say, taking a sip of chowder and looking around, the creamy soup warm and salty in my mouth. “There’s something so … peaceful about Boston, like it’s been here forever.”

“There is, isn’t there?” She smiles thoughtfully. “This city has such a sense of history. The
Mayflower
landed just up the road at Plymouth. Boston itself is where the first shots of the American Revolution rang out, as well as being home of the first newspaper, the first university …” She looks at me and laughs.

“Don’t look so surprised, Rosie.” She grins. “I’m not actually a
complete
airhead. I used to love history when I was at school, it was like story time—all these amazing tales and characters, and all of them true … more or less, anyway.” She giggles. “I’ll never forget my old history teacher: ‘Remember, children, the victors write the history books!’ ” Kitty laughs. “She was bonkers. For some reason she was crazy about the suffragettes, women’s lib and all that. She had us make this mad
sculpture
out of coat hangers and clay and papier-mâché or something! Oh, it was horrible. Hideous! But she loved it, insisted it be installed in the playground as a reminder to us all. Of what, I’m not exactly sure. I think it was supposed to be Emmeline Pankhurst or something, but it looked more like a giant yeti in a tutu—”

“Betty the Yeti!” I cry, and she looks at me, stunned.

“Yes,” she says slowly. “How did you …?”

“That was my school.” I grin. “Maybridge Grange.”

“No!” she gasps. “You’re …” She stares at me, gobsmacked. “You’re not a Grangers girl?”

I nod and she shrieks with laughter.

“No way!”
she squeals, clutching my hands. “My God! How is the old place? Tell me Belchers isn’t still there,
please!
”

I nod, laughing, thinking of tiny wizened Miss Bellchamber, dwarfed by her stacks of ancient history books. “They kept trying to replace her, but she refuses to retire!”

“God!” Kitty laughs, her eyes watering. “She’s an institution! She must’ve been sixty-odd when
I
was there! Tell me she doesn’t still run the choir too?”

“Oh, yes, berets and all.”

“The berets!” Kitty squeals. “Oh, God, they don’t still make you wear those horrible orange monstrosities, do they? Ugh! Hideous!”

“Not according to Miss Bellchamber.” I clear my throat to imitate the old lady’s squeaky voice. “ ‘We should be proud of our berets—the reason the Prince of Wales spoke to Grangers girls when he visited Maybridge was because they looked far smarter than any other school.’ ”

“Bollocks!”
Kitty shrieks, spilling her soup. “I was
there
! The poor prince couldn’t stop pissing himself giggling at us!”

“I
knew
it!” I laugh. “I wondered why he looked like he was crying in the photos!”

Kitty nods, her eyes streaming. “It took him five whole minutes to regain his composure, poor thing. He was meant to be meeting the mayor, but he couldn’t keep a straight face! In the end his aide asked us to take them off completely in case we set him off again!”

I crease up in hysterics as Kitty giggles uncontrollably, the rich chowder warming my insides.

“My God, Maybridge Grange.” Kitty wipes her eyes, beaming at me. “Jeez, Rosie, I’m so sorry—I wouldn’t inflict that place on my worst enemy, let alone my daughter.” She smiles. “It’s a wonder you learned anything. Don’t tell me you went on to Maybridge Sixth Form College as well?”

“No,” I say, straightening my napkin on my lap. “No, I was meant to, but Mum—” I glance at her quickly. “Trudie, I mean—she needed me.”

Kitty’s smile fades. “Because she had Huntington’s disease?”

I nod.

“So you missed your A levels to look after her?”

I nod. “I wanted to.”

“But it can’t have been easy,” she says gently.

I shrug, picking at the edge of my sourdough roll, watching the pieces crumble to the ground.

Kitty looks at me for a moment, then stares at her soup.

“It’s awful to watch someone you love slip away,” she says softly. “My granddad died of cancer when I was a little girl.” She smiles weakly. “I remember running up to his bedside, not understanding why he looked so different, why he’d stopped picking me up and playing with me. It was like he wasn’t my granddad anymore.”

I nod. “That was the worst part. The way she changed …”

She nods sympathetically. “The disease affected her mobility?”

“Not just that—it was her behavior too. Her moods, her temper.”

She frowns. “She was violent?”

“Not really—she didn’t mean to be, she just got angry, frustrated. It was the disease, not her.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Kitty squeezes my hand. “I can’t imagine what you’ve been through … what you’ve given up—”

“I didn’t mind,” I insist. “She was my mum.”

She looks at me. “And all that time you thought it might happen to you too? That you might inherit her disease?”

I nod, studying my chowder intently, my eyes swimming.

Kitty puts her bowl on the bench and pulls me close. “Oh, Rosie,” she whispers, kissing my hair. “Imagine how different life would have been … 
should
have been.”

My heart twists in knots as I grieve for my lost mother—for all the years I’ve missed with the one I’ve found.

“I’m so sorry,” Kitty sighs, stroking my hair as she holds me tight. “I am so, so sorry.”

Holly

I close my eyes. This is surreal. A nightmare … I pinch myself, hoping I’ll wake up.

“Holly?” I look up to see a smiling woman in a green dress. “Would you like to follow me?”

She leads us down a long hallway and into a small office that smells of oranges, then closes the door.

“Hi.” She shakes my hand. “I’m Charlotte Atkins. I’m a genetic counselor. That sounds technical, but it just means I’m here to talk everything through with you.” She turns to Andy. “And you’ve brought a friend. Excellent.”

“Andy,” he says, shaking her hand awkwardly.

“So,” she says, sitting down and glancing at her notes. “You’re thinking about testing for Huntington’s disease?”

I nod.

She looks at me, her voice gentle. “And I understand you’re pregnant?”

I nod again. “About eight weeks.”

“Yes.” She nods, her eyes troubled as she scribbles on her page. “Well, we’ll come back to that. So, have you always known you were at risk?”

“No.” I shake my head. “No, I just found out. My mom died—she had Huntington’s.”

“That must’ve been hard.” Charlotte frowns. “Were you her caregiver?”

“No, actually I—I never met her, she …” I hesitate, glancing at Andy. “I was brought up by someone else.”

“You were adopted?”

I look at her, then nod. Now is not the time—it’s complicated enough.

Charlotte explains all about Huntington’s. Most of it I’ve already heard from Rosie, but it’s good to hear it from an expert—and from someone I don’t despise.

She confirms that if I have inherited Huntington’s from Trudie, my symptoms will probably develop at around the same age as hers did—not until my forties or fifties—and that my baby has a twenty-five percent risk of inheriting, which would rise to fifty percent if I test positive.

“Now, Holly.” Charlotte leans forward. “Is your pregnancy the main reason you’re thinking of testing?”

I nod miserably. “I mean, if I’m positive I need to consider …” I trail off.

“And Andy, is this what you want too?” Charlotte asks.

“Um … I …,” he stammers.

“No—Andy’s just a friend,” I say, embarrassed.

“Right.” Charlotte smiles. “I see. Actually, that’s better. You don’t need any pressure, Holly,” she tells me. “I’m not here to tell you what to do, and nobody else should either. This isn’t anyone’s decision but yours, okay?”

I nod, twirling my finger tightly in my hair.

“But if your pregnancy is your main concern, we can perform a prenatal test—to test the baby’s DNA directly.”

“You can test it before it’s born?” I ask incredulously.

“Yes.” Charlotte nods. “Through CVS at ten to twelve weeks or amniocentesis a little later.”

“That’s what I want,” I tell her. “I want to know if my baby will have the disease.”

“Okay,” she says. “But we do advise that you test yourself first.”

“Why?” I ask. “I don’t need to know about myself right now—I need to know about the baby.”

“I understand,” Charlotte says calmly. “What you need to appreciate is that with these procedures there is a risk—up to one percent—of a miscarriage.”

I close my eyes.

“Obviously, if you’re negative there’s no reason to risk the pregnancy. And I know you might not think so now, but even if you yourself are positive, you might decide you don’t want the prenatal test after all.”

I sigh.

“Most importantly, you need to understand that if the prenatal test comes back positive, then you won’t have a choice not to know your own fate. You’ll both definitely develop Huntington’s disease.”

I bite my lip. “I understand.”

“Holly,” Charlotte says quietly. “The only real reason to do this—to take a prenatal HD test—is if you’re considering terminating your pregnancy if the result is positive.”

She looks at me and I drop my gaze, her words hanging heavily in the air between us.

“Is that something you’re prepared to do?”

Rosie

The limo smoothly and silently rounds the corner and Woody’s Plaice rises into view, its wooden sign creaking in the evening breeze, the lanterns twinkling brightly in the windows.

“I wish I didn’t have to go,” Kitty sighs, pulling me close. “Today’s been so wonderful. Thank you so much.”

I hug her back, my throat tightening painfully as I inhale her rich perfume, breathing her in.
Don’t go
, I beg inwardly.
Don’t go, I’ve only just found you
.

“Promise me you’ll come visit,” she urges. “Just give me a call and I’ll arrange everything. Promise?”

I nod, my eyes prickling.

“And no matter what happens—what’s happened—know that I love you.” She hugs me fiercely. “And I’m so, so sorry …” Her ribs shudder and she tightens her grip, holding me for a long moment before kissing me on the cheek. “Now go. Before my mascara starts to run.” She grins. “Again.”

I look at her uncertainly, unwilling.

“Go,” she whispers, pulling a tissue out of her bag and rolling her eyes. “Don’t mind me, I’m an actress. My emotions are always at the surface. I’m fine.” She smiles brightly. “Go, go.”

I step out of the car and turn back to her as she winds the window down.

“I’ll see you soon,” I tell her.

“You’d better.” She grins tightly, her eyes bright. “Goodbye, Rosie,” she whispers, gripping my hand.

“Goodbye,” I whisper, my eyes filling as her hand finally slips from mine as the car pulls away.

I watch it sail away around the corner, my heart both heavy and light.

Goodbye, Mum
.

It feels like a dream. It seems impossible that just this morning I didn’t know her at all, thought she didn’t want to know me, and now … I smile. She’s my mother. I mean, Trudie will always be my mum—Kitty will never replace her—but now I have a chance to get to know my real mother. My birth mother. A completely new, wonderfully different woman. I race up the steps to the house, brimming with excitement, and fly through the door, nearly colliding with Megan.

“Sorry!” I grin. “Have you seen Andy?”

“Andy? No—have you seen—”

“Holly?” Jack calls, rushing into the kitchen. “Rosie!” He stops in his tracks. “How did—Where’s Kitty?”

“She had to go, but oh, Jack, we had the
best
day!”

“Really?” He smiles, relieved. “I was so worried.”

“She’s terrific!” I laugh. “She’s amazing, she’s just—”

“She’s your mother.” Jack smiles.

“Yes.” I look at him, the word thrilling through every fiber of my being, bright and shiny and incredible. “She is. She really is!”

“That’s so great, Rosie, after all this time …” Jack smiles, but something clouds his eyes.

“And she said she was sorry,” I tell him quickly. “Sorry for leaving us. For leaving you—that she’s regretted it every day of her life.”

His expression changes as he looks down at me, surprise followed by something else, something softer.

“She said that?” he whispers.

I nod. “She said she was scared. Scared she’d ruin our lives, and then scared to come back—frightened that we’d reject her.”

He frowns. “I’d never have rejected her,” he whispers softly, searching my eyes. “She’s … she’s your mother.”

“I know.” I smile up at him. “She also said that she never worried about me, not for a minute, because she knew I’d be safe with you,” I tell him. “That you’d be a wonderful father.”

He looks at me, his eyes unreadable.

“She was right.” I beam, a lump swelling in my throat.

Emotion streaks across his face.

“Thank you,” he whispers, his voice hoarse. “Rosie, thank you.”