“Yes,” says Aunt Meryl.
Hot, angry tears instantly jump to my eyes at the thought of my vulnerable sister and manipulative father together. I imagine her sitting opposite him in a booth at Daisy Gray’s, open-mouthed as he tells her his version of what really happened that night. What would she make of the lies he’ll tell her I told the judge? How would she feel if he tells her it was my fault we went into foster care and if it weren’t for me she’d have lived a very different life? She hates me enough already and with a little help from him, she’ll hate me even more.
“She thinks he’s paid his penance,” says Aunt Meryl, her words only adding to my spiraling despair.
“And what do you think?” I dare to ask.
There’s a heavy sigh at the end of the line. “I so want to try and forgive him. You and I both know how exhausting it’s been to hold on to the anger and rage for all this time.”
And hatred and grief, I want to add. And all the other emotions you experience when your father kills his wife; a sister to Meryl and a mother to me.
“So have you?” I force myself to ask.
“Have I what?”
“Have you forgiven him?”
“He sounds like he’s a very different person to the one who went into prison,” she says, and in that instant, so too is Aunt Meryl. No longer is she my advocate; our combined force for good, who protested on the streets of New York, bearing placards with the slogans Stop Violence Against Women and Love Shouldn’t Hurt.
While I’ve been fantasizing about avenging my mother’s death, she’s been practicing forgiveness for the very man who caused it.
“She wants to see you,” Aunt Meryl goes on, as I do all that I can to shut out what she’s saying. “She knows how much she hurt you last time and she wants to start building bridges.”
My insides feel as if they’re being twisted, tying me up into tight knots. While there was a time, not so long ago, when that would have been what I’d wanted, more than anything else in the world, now I can’t help but wonder what her motivation is. Is she looking for sisterly love? Or is she looking for revenge?
“Have you told her where I am?” I ask, unable to stop the involuntary shiver that runs through me.
“Well…” she starts, coughing to clear her throat; a sign I’ve long since known precedes an awkward truth. “She wanted to know how you were and what you were doing with your life.”
I swallow the bitter taste that is beginning to sour my mouth.
“I told her that you were doing really well in England and that she’d be proud of everything you’ve achieved.”
“So you haven’t given her my number or address?” I ask, though why it suddenly bothers me, I don’t know. I used to give my contact details to literally anyone on the street, if it meant there was a chance of them being passed on to her. She’s your sister, for Christ’s sake, I say to myself, in an attempt to assuage the inexplicable panic that’s rising in my chest.
“I would never give your personal information out to anyone without asking you first,” says Aunt Meryl.
My breathing steadies as the image of Jennifer striding through Heathrow airport, looking to avenge the misery I’ve bestowed on her life, fades away.
“But she did ask to see a photo of you,” she says. “Apparently, not a day has gone by when she hasn’t imagined what you look like.”
Her and me both. Even when I thought she was thousands of miles away, it hadn’t stopped me from eyeballing every woman I saw, wondering if I’d be able to recognize the little girl she once was.
“So you showed her one?” I ask, as anxiety flutters its wings again.
“Only the newspaper cutting you sent me about your award,” says Aunt Meryl. “I wanted her to see how well you’ve done and how far you’ve come.”
I pull myself off the couch to look at the same clipping that hangs proudly in a frame on my office wall. My smile is wide as I stand beside the president of the British Psychological Society, with both our hands clutching my red-stamped certificate for my outstanding contribution to clinical psychology.
I was as happy as I could ever remember being in that yellow dress, which I’d found in a vintage shop in Tunbridge Wells, knowing that Leon was just to the side of the camera, the pair of us eager to get out of the stuffy surroundings of the assembly hall and into a pub garden.
I’d finally escaped my past; stepped out from underneath the black cloud that had shrouded so much of my life, and into the sunshine. How could I possibly have known that that moment might prove to be my downfall all these years later?
I could pretend that it’s impossible to see the calligraphy on the certificate that says the award is presented to Naomi Chandler. That the writing is too fancy to be able to read that my practice is called Chandler Associates. That you’d need to be Einstein to be able to then search for my website that gives my Tattenhall address.
As Aunt Meryl’s faux pas resonates and the recriminations evolve in my head, each more terrifying than the last, my body folds in on itself. I hold on to my desk to steady myself, forcing breaths in and out of my lungs.
“I’m sorry,” says Aunt Meryl, blithely unaware of exactly how grave her error of judgment may have been. “I couldn’t see that it would do any harm.”
You have no idea, I think to myself, but say, “It’s fine, I’ve got to go,” instead.
“OK, Angel,” she says. “I’ll speak to you soon.”
5
I always know when I’m feeling insecure by what I eat—it’s called comfort eating for a reason—and I’m halfway through making meatloaf before I even realize what I’m doing. I chop an onion while trying to dislodge the fear that my father and sister have formed an alliance to wreak revenge. I crack an egg while imagining one or both of them in my office this morning and the next thing I know, I’m knuckle-deep in mince, while desperately trying to stop my overactive imagination from running away with me. Though there’s no denying that the door was open, a dead bird lay on the threshold, and at least one client’s file is missing.
I will myself to stay calm, telling the part of me that’s prepared to listen that this is crazy. After being inside for a quarter of a century, the last thing my father’s going to want to do is waste the precious time he’s got left coming after me.
I can’t remember the last time I made my mother’s signature dish, but just the smell of the sage and mustard takes me back to sitting around the dinner table in our Colonial out on Long Island.
When I was younger, when I thought the only nutrition I needed came in the form of Twinkies and peanut butter sandwiches, my father would make me sit at that table until I’d eaten all my greens.
Looking back, I’m sure I only ever had four mouthfuls to endure before I could get down and go and join my cabbage-loving sister in the yard. But at the time, it felt like an eternity, and I would retch and gag while my father kept a watchful eye on any scraps I was managing to feed the dog.
It shouldn’t be a memory that reassures me when I feel unassured, yet just the thought of the four of us being together, before our world was blown apart, wraps itself around me like a weighted blanket.
I’m still kneading the mixture when the shrill ring of my phone transports me out of my childhood home and back into the one I sometimes still don’t feel grown-up enough to live in.
I brace myself for Aunt Meryl, having remembered to tell me something else I don’t want to know. But as I quickly rinse my hands and take the tea towel across to the island where my phone is charging, I’m surprised and mildly alarmed to see Jacob’s number flashing incessantly on the screen.
For a split second, I consider not answering it. And perhaps, if Leon were here, I wouldn’t feel able to, but Jacob and I have already crossed into a more personal relationship and I can’t expect the blurred lines to come into sharp focus whenever it doesn’t suit me, or Leon.