Page 72 of When We Were Young

Liv

I’ve almost finished the photo book for Chloe, but there’s space for a couple more pictures. I’ve used all the ones Mum gave me and the few Dad had on his phone, but I wonder if he has any older photographs in a box somewhere? He’s out, but I could have a look around.

Downstairs, I go through all the cupboards in the open-plan living area.

I check the cupboards above the washing machine in the utility room before heading out to the garage.

I can’t remember the last time I came out here.

There’s a punch bag hanging from the ceiling and a couple of bikes mounted on wall brackets.

It’s super tidy, with one entire wall dedicated to storage.

This is promising. I search through the drawers and cupboards.

If I need a screwdriver or hammer, I know where to come, but there’s nothing personal in here at all.

The furthest bank on the storage wall contains the wide, shallow drawers you find in the art department at school.

I open the top drawer and inside are large sheets of yellowing paper.

I pull out the top one and it’s covered in sketches of a naked woman sitting and standing in different positions.

Oh my God, what have I found? The drawings are rough, the marks angular.

The figure has no face, but I can tell it’s an older woman with plump folds of flesh.

I’m hoping there isn’t anything I don’t want to see in here.

Digging down through the papers, there are sketches of all sorts of everyday items: a pair of well-worn converse high-tops, a cigarette mashed into an ashtray, the tangle of spaghetti around a fork. Is this Dad’s work?

I try the next drawer down. Pulling it out a few centimetres, I spot something inside and jump back with a yelp.

Was that a creature? I stand well back, waiting for it to crawl out of the open drawer.

Nothing happens, so I step forward gingerly, craning my neck to see inside.

I wait a moment, and when there’s still no movement, I pull the drawer out a little further.

It’s filled with butterflies and beetles, their iridescent colours shimmering in the harsh fluorescent light of the garage.

But they’re not alive, they’re not even real – they’ve been lovingly crafted from paper.

I pull the drawer out as far as it will go to see they’re attached to a dark backboard.

But the backboard has a huge crack in it like it’s been folded in half.

This artwork reminds me of the Yellow Feathers cover.

It has a similar style – carefully arranged objects spiralling outwards from the centre.

This is Mum’s work. I know it.

But why does Dad have it in his garage?

I search the remaining drawers, and each contains another delicate masterpiece.

As soon as Dad gets home, I’ll ask him about all this.

I close the bottom drawer, flick off the lights, and as I head into the house, I change my mind.

When Dad caught me with his copy of the Yellow Feathers CD, he put it in the cabinet, but when I checked later, it was gone.

If I talk to him about the stuff in these drawers, it might disappear as well.

No, I can’t risk it. I’m certain it’s Mum’s art.

I don’t need him to confirm it. At least this way I can come and look at it whenever I want.

Back in my room, I put the finishing touches to the photo book, filling the last page with a recent picture I hadn’t yet used. I click through the virtual pages to make sure everything’s perfect, then order two copies. I fill out the form for the gift message: I’m sorry. I miss you.

I don’t sign my name – she’ll know it’s from me and at the last moment I add:

P.S. I found out why WB did it x.

I hope this will tempt her to get in touch.

Three days later, my copy of the photo book arrives.

I track the delivery of Chloe’s copy and see exactly when she signs for it.

I keep my phone beside me on the bed in case she gets in touch.

Slipping my earphones in, I listen to the Fragments album while flicking through the pages, and even though I’ve seen them all before, reliving the memories brings a lump to my throat.

Chloe by my side as I blow out the candles on my eighth birthday cake, bouncing alongside me during my trampoline park party, then tucked in bed with me at Dad’s.

He brought us a midnight feast – though it was probably only about 9 p.m. We were so excited and full of sugar we hardly slept that night.

Looking closer, I see the familiar dimple that always appears on her left cheek when she smiles.

I feel a hand on my shoulder.

Dad looks serious, so I remove my earphones. ‘What’s up?’

He’s holding a letter.

Panic rises in my chest. ‘Are those the results of the paternity test?’

‘Yes.’

‘What does it say?’

‘Read it yourself – you’re the one who wanted this.’

I practically snatch it from him. The page is a confusing jumble of numbers that means nothing to me. My eyes latch onto the word ‘Summary’ at the bottom of the page and I read the paragraph below it:

The alleged father is not excluded as the biological father of the tested child.

What the hell does that mean?

Based on the analysis of the STR loci listed above, the probability of paternity is 99.9998%.

Tears fill my eyes as I look at Dad.

He smiles. ‘Told you.’

But something in his expression tells me he’s as relieved as I am.