The Family Next Door(75)

“Did she say that high achievers don’t get divorced?”

“More or less.”

“And what did you say?”

“I told her that contrary to her opinion, high achievers regularly analyze complex problems and make judgment calls based on the evidence they have and the probable outcomes.”

Fran stifled a smile. It was such a Nigel response she couldn’t help but love it. But it also made her nervous. Nigel had spent the last few days analyzing their relationship. What would his judgment call be?

“So,” she said. “What have you deduced in this case?”

Before he could respond the doctor walked into the room and they both rose to their feet.





62


ESSIE


Ben answered the door. It wasn’t the way Essie had planned it, but then again, she’d changed her mind approximately 5,687 times in the past week. Isabelle had also offered to answer the door—which wasn’t a ridiculous idea since it was her father and brother out there—but once she’d heard the knock, Essie had grabbed her arm and held her firm.

It was all confirmed now. Essie and Isabelle had both had cheek swabs done which proved they were indeed biological sisters. Essie could just about get her head around that part, but now she had other family members to meet. Family members who were currently at her door.

“Hello! I’m Ben,” she heard Ben say in a loud, overfriendly voice that gave away the fact that he was nervous too. Mia stood behind his legs, shyly.

“I’m Graham, and this is my son Freddy,” came a booming, grandfatherly voice. Essie couldn’t see them from where she sat but she pictured them shaking hands.

“Nice to meet you,” Ben said. “This is Mia.”

“Well, well,” said the voice. “Aren’t you beautiful!”

Essie stood as a profile view of her father came into view. He was tall, with thick gray hair and a paunchy belly. Beside him was a man who looked very much like him, except his hair was mostly black and his stomach was flat. Both of them looked at Mia with an expression Essie could only describe as wonder. Then the younger man looked around the room, his gaze landing on Essie.

He gasped. “Dad…”

The old man followed his son’s gaze. They had the same face, Essie noticed, father and son. The same jaw, the same chin. The same eyes, pale blue, starting to mist over in unison. If Barbara was here, Essie mused, she’d be racing around, making more tea than anyone could drink. She’d be warm and friendly and she’d whisk the children away so everyone could catch up properly. But of course, Barbara would never be here. Even if she wasn’t in the hospital. She was the woman who’d stolen her.

Essie had gotten the call this morning. Barbara had woken up after a week of being unconscious. She had a broken hip, three fractured ribs, and a partially collapsed lung, and while secondary brain injury was still a possibility, she was showing no signs of brain swelling or bleeding. The police said it was lucky she hadn’t been pulled underneath the tram. If not for that, she likely wouldn’t have made it. Essie had wanted to go to the hospital immediately after she’d heard her mother was conscious. She’d wanted to go with the same ferocity as she’d wanted to stay away. Part of her, she realized, was afraid to see her mother. Afraid to ask the questions she needed to ask. Afraid of hearing the answers to those questions.

It was Ben, in the end, who’d helped her decide. (Your father and brother are on their way, he’d said. They’ve waited a long time to see you. Don’t make them wait any longer.)

“Sophie,” her father whispered.

Essie made herself smile. She walked over and held out a stiff hand to him. “I’m Esther,” she said. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Her father looked at her hand for a moment. Then he scanned her face, from right to left, top to bottom, as if memorizing it. Maybe he was. He touched the ends of her hair, turning it over in his hand. Finally he pulled her into a hug.

“Hello, honey,” he said to Isabelle over Essie’s shoulder. He kept one arm around Essie and put the other around Isabelle. Then he smiled warmly down at them both. “I never thought I’d see this day. My two daughters.”

Essie recalled that her father had another two daughters. Four, in total. She felt irrationally glad that he’d forgotten them in this moment, and she suspected, judging from Isabelle’s face, that she was glad too.

He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. “I just wish your mother was here.”

“I’m Fred,” the other man—her brother—said. He hugged her too, but only quickly, then he pulled away again for another look at her. “I’m sorry. I just can’t get over how much you look like Mum. I wish she was here.”

“I do too,” Essie said, though it wasn’t her biological mother she was thinking about.





63


BARBARA


Barbara let the words spin around in her head. Postpartum psychosis. Post-traumatic stress disorder. These were all words the psychiatrists had used to describe Barbara’s psychotic episodes—this one and the one thirty-two years ago when she’d stolen Essie from the hospital. No one was really sure which diagnosis best fit Barbara’s experience—these things were rarely clear-cut, they said. In short, the trauma of her stillbirth had caused her to block out her baby’s death, and Isabelle’s confrontation had brought it back. She knew she would never in her right mind have stolen a baby. She had believed Essie was hers. Even now, knowing the truth, it was hard to believe Essie wasn’t hers.