Page 11 of The Pieces of Us

‘I’m hungry,’ she says hoarsely, and there’s a plea in her eyes that makes it impossible to be angry right now – if anger is, in fact, what I’m feeling.

I remember Lisa talking about the ‘anger iceberg’ after she started her psychology course: It’s a secondary emotion; something else always comes first …

hurt, fear, frustration. Yes to all the above.

And other feelings I can’t even put a name to right now.

I give Minnie Cheerios because I don’t have the energy for our usual argument about the brain-health benefits of eggs.

I fill a bowl for myself and force down a few mouthfuls, forming sentences in my head that go unsaid.

No arrangement of words makes sense to me.

I go for a variation on the question I didn’t get a response to yesterday.

‘Min, am I your daughter?’

She looks at me – for one, two, three seconds – then throws her spoon at the wall. It hits the countertop before clattering to the floor.

‘I can’t do this,’ she says, and starts picking Cheerios out of the milk with her fingers, cramming them into her mouth.

Guilt hits me, hard. Whatever the truth is behind the document that’s been buried in a cardboard box for decades, all that really matters at this point is that this woman, the woman who patiently fed me my breakfast every morning until I was old enough to hold my spoon, is struggling to eat her own. And she’s not even sixty years old.

Over the last few months, Minnie’s become increasingly frustrated as her food leads her a merry dance around the plate.

Usually, a bowl is easier, its shape cooperating with gravity to keep the contents inside.

But today even the cereal bowl is working against her.

I should have known better. I should have argued for eggs.

I watch her eat soggy cereal with her fingers, this woman who apparently didn’t carry me inside her body and then push me into the world, who never told me who did that, who never told me anything.

This woman who cared for me for as long as I can remember, until the role reversal that was never part of our plan.

Even if Minnie didn’t give birth to me, she gave me life and love and kindness and friendship and support.

Finding a way to let those two truths coexist feels impossible.

But what I can do is care for her the way she cared for me, for as long as she possibly could.

I’ll need to work out how to get answers later.

For now, my priority is making sure Minnie eats her breakfast, and then wiping the dribble of milk off her chin.

After breakfast, when I’m mindlessly washing the dishes, when she’s looking through one of her catalogues in the living room, her words pop back into my mind: I can’t do this . And I wonder if she was talking about the cereal, or something much bigger.

I dry my hands and dial Lisa’s number; she answers on the first ring. ‘Can you talk?’ I ask her. ‘I need to talk.’

‘Always,’ she says. ‘Talk.’

And so I begin.

Lisa’s in my kitchen half an hour later, wearing a bizarre combination of clothes.

Tracksuit bottoms, what may or may not be a pyjama top, a cardigan buttoned halfway, Doc Martens.

The picture of someone who has literally dropped everything to be here.

‘Study uniform,’ she says quickly, before holding me in a tight hug.

‘Thank you for being here,’ I say, and my voice doesn’t sound like mine.

‘Oh, Cat … sweetheart,’ she says. ‘What the actual fuck ?’

‘I know. I know. ’

‘I can’t even imagine what’s going on in your head.’

‘I can’t even begin to describe it,’ I admit. ‘Lisa, I just can’t believe that another woman gave birth to me. That Minnie’s not my biological mother. It makes no sense.’

The words are real now that I’ve said them out loud. They’re out there, and I need to work out if that’s where they belong. Or whether I should grab them and stuff them back inside me, as far as I can reach. Leave the past in the past and try to forget about it.

‘Where’s Minnie?’ Lisa asks gently.

‘In the living room. Lena’s coming over in a bit to help me with some more paperwork for the local authority.

I’m applying for monthly respite care at a local nursing home, which could take a long time to get approved.

’ I press the heels of my hands against my forehead. ‘Lisa, I don’t know what to think.’

‘Show me what you found,’ she says.

I retrieve the adoption assessment from my underwear drawer and grab the box of photographs I’d abandoned yesterday and finally my useless short-form birth certificate from the box on top of the fridge.

I switch on the laptop in the vain hope that the internet will offer clearer answers on a larger screen.

While Lisa reads the assessment document, I flick through a few of the photo albums. The chronological order makes it easy to find the first photo of me.

It’s not the traditional mother and baby in the hospital bed, but Minnie and me on a bus.

On the thick white border of the Polaroid image, in Minnie’s neat round pen strokes, is my date of birth.

I was apparently taken on a bus on the day I was born and I feel stupid for not questioning this before now.

‘We’re on a bus . Who gets their first baby photo taken on a bus? I’ve looked at this photo plenty of times – why did it never strike me as unusual?’ I inspect it, desperate to find some minuscule detail that would give me an answer.

‘Well, you’ve not had any reason to think about it until now,’ Lisa says.

She looks closer at Minnie’s young beaming face, my tiny body.

‘Cat, this photo means there’s no doubt you were with Minnie and Hugh when you were a baby.

But the adoption assessment …’ She turns the pages, checks the date.

‘This wasn’t done until you were almost two. Why?’

‘I have no idea. Maybe that was the way they did things back then?’ I look at the printed name and scrawled signature above the date. ‘It was a different world, certainly when it came to adoption.’

‘Or maybe you were with Minnie and Hugh from birth, but they didn’t officially adopt you until later? Like a fostering type thing?’

‘Maybe,’ I murmur.

‘Hold on.’ She’s staring at my birth certificate. ‘Catriona McAllister . You’ve got Minnie and Hugh’s surname on here. If they didn’t adopt you until you were older, wouldn’t your name be your birth parents’ surname?’

I groan. ‘None of this makes any sense. I need to contact social services, right? Surely they’ll have all the information if they handled the adoption?’

‘Yes. Call them.’ She says this without looking up from the laptop, her eyes scanning the screen.

I’m relieved that it’s Sunday, that it’s impossible for me to make the call right now. ‘I’ll call in the morning,’ I say, and my voice cracks. ‘But to be honest, I don’t want to. I want to hear the truth from Minnie, Lisa. Even though I’ve asked her outright, I feel like I’m going behind her back.’

‘I know,’ Lisa says softly. ‘Have you told Ruby?’

‘I’m not going to, until I’ve got something more concrete. Minnie’s only just moved in … I can’t put more on Ruby’s shoulders right now.’

She nods. ‘I get it.’

‘I’ll make us a coffee.’ I desperately need to focus on something else – something mundane and predictable.

I take my time with the task, leaving Lisa looking through the rest of the photo album.

She’ll see a photo of me on my first birthday, looking up at Hugh as he bounces me on his knee.

There’s one of me crawling on the small patch of grass in our back garden, looking delighted with myself.

My first pair of proper shoes, burgundy patent T-bars over white frilly ankle socks.

My first day of school. All the moments Minnie wanted to have lifelong reminders of, that I just can’t bring myself to look at right now.

Lena’s arrival always gives me a lift. Today she’s a welcome distraction from the pages of notes Lisa and I made during two hours of online sleuthing.

‘Let me know how you get on with social services tomorrow. And tell me what I can do,’ Lisa told me before she left. ‘You never ask for help. Now is the time to do that.’

I rely on my new mantra before Lena says a word, the concern on her face saying everything. ‘I’m just tired. I didn’t get much sleep last night.’

‘Go to bed,’ she says. ‘Sleep is the most important medicine.’

‘I can’t, Lena.’

‘Why not?’ she demands. I don’t have an answer for her, but she barely gives me time to respond. ‘Go. Sleep. I have nowhere else to be. I will wait with Minnie, as long as I need to.’

I look at her beautiful determined face, and hear Lisa’s words: You never ask for help. Then Pete’s: Lean on other people more.

I haven’t napped during the day since Ruby was a baby and I could barely keep my eyes open after night after night of breastfeeding at two-hourly intervals.

I pull my duvet up to my chin and close my eyes, but lying in a warm bed in a quiet room is doing the opposite of what I’d hoped for.

I give it ten minutes then admit defeat.

‘I can’t sleep,’ I tell Lena. ‘But I might go for a walk. I need fresh air.’

‘Then go.’ She lifts my jacket and bag from the hook and hands them to me, then points at the front door. ‘Go. We are fine. I promise.’

I leave the flat, and I walk. I walk for miles, focusing on nothing except putting one foot in front of the other, until I find myself at the gates of Kelvingrove Park.

A sudden wave of dizziness reminds me all I’ve eaten in twenty-four hours is half a bowl of Cheerios.

I buy chips and find an empty bench in the park, checking my phone with greasy fingers.

I text Ruby: Are you OK? Say hi to the girls from me xx

She replies quickly. All good ? I’m at Lauren’s. Might stay for tea. I’ll let you know. Rx