Someone Else's Life (6 page)

“And then the other baby started to cry. The teenager’s baby. Big, hearty sobs. I looked across at her—she was so much stronger, healthier, and about the same size …”

Sarah’s breathing quickens.

“I didn’t think about it,” she says. “Not even for a second. There was no one else around, so I took my chance. I switched the identity bracelets and incubator tags. Just like that. Then the ambulance team arrived asking for baby Kenning. I told them there’d been a mistake about the child’s name—it was Woods, not Kenning—and they believed me—it was obvious which child was sick, and they took her away.” She swallows. “It was done. I couldn’t have undone it if I’d wanted to. But I
didn’t
want to—it was the right thing, I
knew
it was … for everyone.” She looks at me and I drop my gaze, my head reeling.

The teenager … two babies … 
switched?

“Then Jamila’s replacement arrived, and I rushed straight back to Trudie.” Sarah smiles, her eyes watery. “You should’ve seen her face when I told her her baby was okay. She couldn’t believe it, not till she finally saw her—saw
you
.” She squeezes my knee, her lips trembling. “Oh, Rosie, it was love at first sight.”

I stare at the cigarette burns polka-dotting the carpet as they spin and blur, thoughts flooding my head.

“So I’m … That teenager was …”

Sarah nods. “She was your biological mother, yes.”

I swallow. “And she never knew? Mum never knew …?”

She shakes her head. “Nobody knows. I’ve never told anyone.”

“Not even Steve? Not Nana?”

“No.” She sighs. “I knew if I did, if anyone so much as
suspected
, you could be taken away.” She closes her eyes. “I’d never have forgiven myself.”

“And Mum … she never suspected?”

“Never.” Sarah looks at me. “As far as she was concerned, you were her little girl, her baby.” Sarah squeezes my hand. “And you
were
, Rosie. She was your mum, she always will be. It doesn’t matter about—”

“And the other girl?” I interrupt quietly, looking away. “What was her name?”

“Rosie, I can’t really …” Sarah trails off, sighs. “Her name was Holly. Holly Woods.”

“Holly.” I test the name on my lips. A young name. A teenager’s name. “And she—my mother—she just left me?”

“Oh, sweetie,” Sarah says gently. “There could have been a thousand reasons why she ran away, why she’d decided to put you up for adoption. Imagine if you had a child now, at your age, it’s hardly the best—”

“I’d keep it.”

“Yes, well … maybe she couldn’t. Maybe she thought you’d have a better life that way.” She squeezes my hand. “The point is that Trudie
did
want you, more than anything in the world. You saved her that night. You saved each other.”

I stare at the doorframe, my height marked in Mum’s loopy purple handwriting every birthday. I remember how I stood on tiptoe each year, impatient to reach the same height as her. How strange I felt when I realized I’d outgrown her.

Suddenly a pain hits my chest so hard that I crumple. “I miss her,” I gasp. “I miss her so much.”

“Oh, sweetie, I know!” Sarah wraps her arms around me, pulling me close. “I know. Me too.”

“Why did she have to go? Why did she have to have stupid Huntington’s? It’s not fair!”

“I know, darling. I know.” She kisses my hair fiercely, holding me tight. “But
you
don’t. You’re young and healthy and everything she wanted you to be. She was so proud of you, you know that? She loved you so much.”

I nod, tears streaming down my cheeks.

“And she’ll always be your mum, no matter what. Nothing can change that. Remember that. Remember
her
.” She fumbles in her purse, pulling out a photo strip.
“Look at her.”

I do. It’s the photos we’d got from one of those passport booths. In each picture we’re wearing wacky clothes and pulling different silly expressions. I look at Mum, dressed up in a boa, her cheeks painted bright red, fluttering her huge fake eyelashes, and smile despite myself. It was the day she sacked her physiotherapist.

“Poor Eileen, she barely got in the door, did she?” Sarah smiles.

“
Poor Eileen?
She didn’t have a clue!”

She’d come in, introduced herself, then spoke to Mum ve-ry slo-wly and loudly. Mum had just stared at her, looked at me and Sarah and then said, “I’m sorry, are you quite well?”

“The look on her face!” Sarah laughs. “Priceless!”

We’d cracked up laughing but Eileen hadn’t seen the funny side. That was the end of her. Mum said if she only had a limited time left she wasn’t going to waste it with ignorant idiots, thank you very much.

“Then Trudie just said, ‘Come on, if people are going to stare, we’ll give ’em something to stare at!’ ” Sarah laughs.

And we did. We donned our wildest clothes and hired a pink stretch limo to chauffeur us down to Brighton, where we strolled along the pier, ate ice cream and fish and chips and candy-floss, then rode the rides till we felt sick, all decked out in our boas and crazy hats.

And you know what? Nobody stared, nobody gawped. We barely got a second glance all day.

“God, and then it started to rain, do you remember?”

I nod. “But I couldn’t even
drag
her under the shelter—she was too strong—and too busy dancing!”

“And singing!” Sarah laughs, and I giggle as I remember Mum whirling and twirling around the lampposts singing loudly.

“I can’t believe you convinced me to join in—what did we look like?”

“Who cares!” Sarah smiles. “She was happy.”

She was. I hadn’t seen her so happy in a long time. Singing her heart out in fancy dress in the middle of Brighton.

“And then—” Sarah can hardly speak for laughing. “Then when she got to the chorus of ‘It’s Raining Men,’ she just stopped dead—”

“Yes! And just stood there, straight-faced, looking round the seafront—”

“And said—”

“ ‘It bloody well isn’t!’ ”

We crack up in hysterics.

I laugh till I can hardly breathe, the memory of that insane, wonderful sight dancing in my head, crazy and hilarious. Tears of laughter stream down my face, covering the tracks of their unhappy predecessors.

“It’s raining now.” I smile, looking out the window.

“Men?” Sarah asks, and I giggle, until suddenly a car pulls into the drive.

It’s Nana. I pull away from Sarah, my smile gone.
Nana
.

“Sarah, it’s—”

“Shhh now, you’ll be fine. Everything will be okay, I promise,” she insists.

“How will it?” I stare at her. “Sarah, I—I can’t. She doesn’t know. You said she doesn’t know!”

Sarah stands up and takes my shoulders firmly. “She doesn’t,” she says, looking me in the eye. “But it’s okay. Just be normal.”

I stare at her.
Be normal?

“She’s still your nana, and she loves you,” she tells me, stroking my cheek. “We both do.”

The doorbell rings and I freeze.

“Look, whatever happens,” Sarah says gently, “it’s up to you. You can tell her if you want to, if it helps, if it makes it easier for you.”

She looks at me sadly.

“Rosie, I’m so sorry. Sorry you had to find out this way, for everything you’ve been through.” She sighs. “But it’s your life now, and you have to make your own choices. But no matter what, no matter what you choose to do, just know I’m always here for you, any time, day or night, okay?”

I nod. “Okay.”

She kisses my cheek, then goes to answer the door.

I take a deep breath.
Just be normal
. Be normal.
It’s just Nana
. Just Nana …

Suddenly there she is, stepping into the room, beaming at me.

“Hi, Nana.” I smile tentatively, feeling sick to my stomach.

“Hello, darling!” She gives me a hug, her small frame fragile in my arms. “Steve rang—are you all right? Andrew said he’d drop you off—”

“Oh, Nana, I’m so sorry—Christmas dinner …” I glance at my watch. “I should’ve called …”

“Don’t be silly.” She smiles. “It’s all keeping warm, and besides, it’s good for you to get out and see your friends. Especially now.” She squeezes my hand. “When I think of the parties Trudie used to throw—goodness me, she wouldn’t surface till
teatime
the next day!”

I smile weakly. Same old Nana, always making the best of things.

“Well, I’d better get back,” Sarah says. “Steve’s family will think I’m avoiding them! Bye, Laura.” She hugs Nana, then blows me a kiss. “Bye, Rosie. Merry Christmas.”

Merry Christmas
.

I watch her walk away down the gravel drive.

“Shall we?” Nana smiles. “There’s a great big turkey with our names on it at home, and I want to hear all about your wonderful party. Ooh, and
Holiday
is on later—I do love Cary Grant, and—Brrr!” She shivers violently as the wind blows in. “And I don’t know about you, but I could do with a nice big mug of hot chocolate. Warms you from the inside out, Trudie would always say!”

I smile weakly as she takes my arm—just as normal—and I step out into the cold, dark night, lifting my face to the falling rain.

Rain patters heavily against the window as I lock the bathroom door and hold my breath.

Please
, I pray, my fingers crossed tightly as I pull down my pants.

Please, this time …

Nothing. Shit.

I crumple to the floor, my fingers twisting frantically in my hair.

Relax
, I tell myself.
It doesn’t mean anything, it’s not that late …

Six weeks …

Raindrops slide like tears down the dark windowpane, blotting out the stars.

I screw my eyes shut, concentrate on breathing.

It could just … it could just be stress. It happens. You hear about it all the time
—
false alarms. It doesn’t mean …

My breath catches, ragged in my throat.

Get a grip, girl. Everything’s cool, everything’s fine. It’ll come …

I bite my lip, take a deep breath and force myself to stand up and splash cold water on my face.

Everything’s fine
.

I open my eyes and the girl in the mirror stares back at me.

She looks as unconvinced as I am.

Chapter Five

The little glow-in-the-dark stars swim above me as I stare at the ceiling of Nana’s spare room, my head buzzing. Images of Sarah, Nana and Mum swirl wildly against the blank faces of my real mother—Holly—and Mum’s dead baby, the events of that fateful night whirling like a tornado in my mind, questions battering like hailstones, puncturing and destroying all the truths I’ve ever known, leaving a void as black and as vast as the night sky, but with precious few stars to guide me.

My future.

A person cannot exist without a past. Someone famous said that. But what if your entire existence is a lie? It’s like I’ve been wearing stilettos all my life, leaving footprints everywhere I go, and then one day someone says, “Hey! Those shoes don’t belong to you!” and they take them away. And I look back, and all I have left are the old footprints, which don’t even fit my feet anymore, so I can’t go back, but I haven’t got any new shoes to go forward in, so I’m stuck. Frozen in that place. Not even existing.

I sigh and reach into my purse, pulling out the list I’ve kept with me ever since I decided to take the test:

If Positive
—
Fight HD by:

Eating nutritiously
—
a strong body is a healthy body
.

Exercising regularly
—
ditto
.

Taking vitamins, fish oils, etc
.—
if there’s ANY chance they could help, it’s worth it
.

Keeping my mind sharp
—
learn Italian, play chess, go on “Mastermind.”

Taking part in clinical trials and research
.

If Negative

The page beneath is blank—I couldn’t bear to hope, to imagine the endless daunting possibilities …

And now?

I sigh. Now my past
and
future are blank.

I heave myself out of bed, grab my dressing gown, and pad into the lounge, curling up on the sofa and flicking blindly through the muted TV channels. The clock on the wall ticks endlessly, each second throbbing against my skull as the minutes crawl by. I glance up at it, and without warning, the family portraits beam down at me: black-and-white photos of Nana and Granddad when they were young; their wedding day; Mum as a baby, with Granddad—so smart and proud in his police uniform—just months before an armed burglar blasted him and his genetic secret into an early grave.

There are lots of Mum as a girl, then with Dad: laughing as they cut their wedding cake; suntanned and windswept on a beach somewhere; Mum on a park swing grinning at the camera, her arms wrapped tightly round a small dark-haired toddler.

I stare at them incredulously—how did I never see it? We look nothing alike, it’s blindingly obvious. Nana and Mum have the same chestnut hair, the same hazel eyes, but I’ve got black hair, and my eyes are green. It’s not even as if Dad was dark—he was blond! How could I have been so blind? I’d never thought, never guessed, never
imagined
.

The faces smile blurrily back at me, but it’s not real, it’s not my family. Not anymore. The pieces are broken, and they can’t be patched over with cuddles and cocoa and bloody Cary Grant. The lies glare through, like cracks in a stained-glass window, ruining everything.

“You’re so like her, you know.”

I look up quickly, blinking away the tears. Nana is standing in the doorway, her snowy hair crumpled from her pillow.

“The number of mornings I’d get up to find her curled like you are on the sofa with a mug of hot chocolate.” She smiles. “Couldn’t sleep?”

I shake my head, and she sits down next to me, following my gaze.

“She was so proud of you.” She beams, her face crinkling like tissue paper. “She loved you so much, from the moment she first held you.” She strokes my hair behind my ear the way Mum used to, and my chest hurts. “You were the best thing that ever happened to her, Rosie. A gift of hope, of happiness—just when she needed it most.”

I swallow hard, her words echoing Sarah’s:
You saved her that night
—
you saved each other …

Nana squeezes my hand. “You brought so much joy to her life, through everything …” Her voice cracks, but still she smiles, the light from the silent TV catching every wrinkle on her face. “I honestly don’t know what she’d have done without you. Our gift. Our miracle.” She clutches my hand tightly. “My precious granddaughter.”

Her face splinters as I blink fiercely, fighting the tears.

I’m not her granddaughter
 … Not any relation at all …

My eyes flick back to the family photos.

We’re the only ones left
, I realize suddenly. I’m all she’s got left—and I’m not even hers …

“So.” Nana smiles, her eyes watery. “What’s next for the bright and beautiful Rosie Kenning?”

I look at her, my mind an utter blank.

Where do I go from here? How do I even start?

“What about Sixth Form?” Nana suggests. “You could pick up where you left off, and you’d be back with all your old friends—”

“They’ve got their A levels this year,” I say miserably. “They’ll be gone by June.”

Everyone’ll be gone. Off to uni, or jobs, or taking gap years. There’s only me left behind. Me and Nana. A Nana I have to lie to—or break her heart.

“Well, how about traveling?” she suggests. “You’ve always wanted to travel, why not go now?”

I look at her, surprised.

She smiles. “What’s stopping you?”

“I—I can’t,” I protest. “I couldn’t leave you, not now …”

“Nonsense!” She laughs. “I’m quite capable of looking after myself, thank you very much. And you can afford it—you know Trudie put that money aside for you.”

“What? No, Nana. I can’t. That’s for the future.”

“The future starts today, Rosie,” Nana says firmly. “If Trudie’s taught us anything, it’s that life’s too short to put things off. We mustn’t waste a single precious moment.”

“Nana—”

“Rosie,” she interrupts, her eyes serious. “You’ve put your life on hold for far too long. You’re nearly eighteen.” She squeezes my hand. “Have you thought any more about taking the test?”

“What?” I look up, surprised.

“The predictive test—for Huntington’s. You can’t let it overshadow your life, Rosie—”

The doorbell rings.

“I’ll get it!” I say quickly, jumping to my feet and darting past her, my head throbbing as the walls of lies close in.

How can I tell her?
How can I possibly tell her I don’t
need
the test results anymore, because I know it’ll be negative
because Trudie wasn’t my mother
—I’m not her granddaughter after all—I’m just some
stranger
, an
imposter
. A
fraud
 …

I can’t tell anyone, I realize with a jolt. I’ll have to lie, have to live with this secret—this terrible,
awful
secret—for the rest of my life …

I open the front door to find Andy shivering in the cold morning sunlight. I stare at him in surprise.

“Reckon I’m the last person you want to see right now, huh?” He looks at me nervously. “I’m really sorry—about yesterday.”

I shrug. “Forget it.”

“And about your mum—having Huntington’s—about thinking …” He shakes his head. “I’m so sorry. No wonder you couldn’t come traveling, couldn’t call … I should’ve waited, should’ve stayed, should’ve
been there
for you.” He looks at me, his eyes pained. “I’m so sorry, Rosie.”

I shake my head. “It’s okay.”

“I looked up Huntington’s online—I haven’t slept. Have you been tested? Do you have it too?”

“Rosie?” Nana calls from the lounge. “Rosie, who is it?”

“It’s just Andy, Nana! We’ll be in in a minute!” I call back, pulling the front door closed behind me.

“Well?” he asks urgently. “Have you had the test?”

“Andy, I …” I hesitate as his blue eyes pierce mine. “Yes.” I sigh, already weary of lying. All that sneaking around, going to the clinic for counseling, taking the test without anyone knowing, any pressure, anyone to talk me out of it … and all along I’d only had to ask Sarah.

He looks at me fearfully, his voice a whisper. “Have you got the result?”

I shake my head. “My appointment’s tomorrow, but—”

“I’ll come with you.”

“What?”

“I’ll come with you. I’ll drive you there.”

“No, Andy, thanks, but—”

“Please, Rosie,” he says earnestly, his eyes clear, intense. “Let me go with you. Let me be there for you this time.” He takes my hand in his. So soft, so warm. “Please, Rose,” he begs. “I feel like such a shit.”

I squeeze his hand. “You’re not,” I whisper. “You didn’t know.”

“But I do now.” He gazes down at me. “I’m here now.”

My chest aches as I look up at him.

It couldn’t hurt, could it? To go to the clinic, to get my results—though I already know what they’ll be. It’d put Nana’s mind at rest, after all, and it would mean one less lie to tell … And it couldn’t hurt to double-check, to be sure …

“Okay,” I whisper.

Andy’s face lights up, and he pulls me suddenly into a tight hug. I let myself relax in his strong arms, my face buried against his chest, inhaling that familiar warm musky Andy smell.

No, it couldn’t hurt.

The clinic waiting room is daffodil-yellow and filled with bright posters and big, leafy potted plants, the coffee tables strewn with glossy magazines covered with beautiful smiley women—every trick and tactic possible to lift the spirits and thoughts of its occupants.

They needn’t have bothered. I’ve probably leafed through every one of these magazines—and never read a single word. No distraction works when you’re waiting to discover your fate. Not really.

When mum was first diagnosed I did what Andy did and looked Huntington’s up online. I’d never heard of it before, so I was amazed at how many sites there were offering information and advice.

Essentially, I gathered, Huntington’s is a genetic mutation that causes a progressive degeneration of your brain cells—something along the lines of the physical effects of Parkinson’s plus the mental deterioration of Alzheimer’s—slowly stripping you of your ability to walk, talk and reason. Most people develop symptoms between the ages of thirty and forty-five, but there’re also juvenile and late-onset forms. Mum had the latter.

I was surprised to read that there are currently about 6,700 reported cases in England and Wales, and around 30,000 in the United States, though most of the websites I looked at seemed to think that there are probably twice as many cases as the “official” numbers reported, because people often hide the condition due to stigma, insurance or family issues, or just decide not to be tested. Once the symptoms start it usually takes ten to twenty years to kill you—although the suicide rate is scarily high—and children of parents with HD have a fifty-percent chance of inheriting it. Oh, and there’s no cure.

Basically, it’s the worst thing I could possibly have imagined.

The more I read, the more surreal it felt—the discovery of the disease, its progression … None of this could really be happening to my mum, could it? But when I got to the symptoms, several seemed to jump out at me: involuntary movements (chorea), slurred speech, mood swings, outbursts of anger, difficulty multitasking, forgetfulness, clumsiness, slow reactions, weight loss, depression, paranoia … Suddenly the last few years seemed littered with signs, each screaming out at me that there was something wrong.

But they’d all seemed so trivial, so unimportant at the time. Mum had always been flighty, forgetful, easily flustered—she couldn’t cope if I changed my plans at the last minute or asked her to do several things at once, like test me on my revision while she cooked dinner or washed laundry. I remember I got so cross with her for dyeing my school shirt pink once, then she’d blamed me—said I’d been distracting her—and we’d had a huge row and I’d stomped up to my room, slamming my door behind me.

But that was normal, wasn’t it? Teenagers are supposed to argue with their mothers, aren’t they? Bex certainly did—she had screaming rows with her mum. Fortunately, my mum always calmed down really quickly—way before me. She’d just get very upset, have a huge outburst, and then it would be over. Friends again. I just thought she was going through the menopause.

But after her diagnosis I suddenly had to reassess every argument, every fight we’d ever had, trying to untangle Mum from the disease, the terrible things I’d said echoing guiltily in my ears.

Even the physical signs, like the chorea, I’d never noticed. I thought nothing of the familiar jingle of bracelets announcing her approach, used to nag at her for fidgeting while watching TV … and even as far back as my childhood, there were little things. Like, Mum was never any good at Snap. Her reactions just weren’t quick enough, and I’d always beat her, hands down. It was one of my favorite games—because I always won.

And now … I look around the waiting room guiltily, wondering who’s affected, what stage they’re at. Half the people in this room will have the disease, statistically.

But not me.

I’d decided months ago that I needed to know, once and for all. I’d had a bad day with Mum, lost my temper, and dropped a bowl of pasta, smashing, to the floor. And then I panicked. I started analyzing everything I did, scouring myself for symptoms. It drove me crazy. So I rang the clinic and booked my first counseling session. You’re usually supposed to be eighteen, but as I was only a few months off they let me in a bit early, so long as the counseling went well. They had to be convinced that I was psychologically ready, that I knew what I was letting myself in for, whatever the result. Because there is no going back. There’s no cure. There’s just knowing or not knowing. Having it or not. Fifty-fifty.

Unless, of course, you suddenly find out that you’re not actually related to anyone with Huntington’s after all. They didn’t cover
that
in our sessions.

“Rosalind Kenning?” The nurse looks up from her clipboard.