The Reckoning
The more I stare, the more I know. Rory doesn’t look a bit like my husband, Michael. He does look like Richard, though. Fortunately, Michael will never meet Richard and Richard will never meet Rory. My work colleague and I have, by mutual assent, gone our separate ways when neither could cope with the embarrassment of our fumbled night in the Premier Inn hotel. And, more fortunate still, going his own way led Richard to take a new job in a faraway city, leaving my hometown long before the baby bump began to show. But it does mean two things: I am most probably living a lie and Rory is almost certainly illegitimate. That stings. What on earth makes me think I can get away with it?
Rory rams a toy car into the skirting board, casting hooded eyes at me over his shoulders.
‘Rory, no. Bring it here. Play here on the rug.’
He smashes the car into the woodwork again.
Diversion. The only way. Crouching down on the carpet, I throw my arms forward imitating a growling monster, before scuttling forward to wrap his wriggly, protesting body in my arms. It takes a round of tickles to remove the scowl and uncover his angelic smile. After three weeks of lockdown and these recurring, exasperating skirmishes, I am drained.
My mobile chimes. Rory takes the interruption as a signal to flee my tense bear hug and begins throwing bricks – thankfully, plastic bricks – at the television. With one hand I swipe up the phone; with the other, and with practised ease, I find his favourite cartoon on our streaming service. I take a few paces towards the back of the lounge room, to mute the high-pitched squeal of the animated characters. The screen displays a name. It is Laura, Michael’s mother. I swallow.
‘Laura, hi. How’s things?’
‘Not too bad, I suppose. Trying to keep busy. Do my bit, you know. What about you? It must be super to be home with Rory, full time.’
My jaw clenches. Is there an edge to the statement? From the woman who had the luxury of choosing whether to work or not. My bottom teeth drags over my top lip. ‘Great. Yes, we’re good, though he’s missing his friends from nursery.’
‘Is he?’ Rising pitch, incredulous.
‘Oh, yes. Very much so. He keeps bringing me his backpack and shoes.’
‘Poor, darling.’ Spaced words, falling pitch.
Yes, the poor darling who knows nothing better than to be physically ejected from his home every day, to be cared for by strangers. I stifle a sigh knowing it is an opportunity not to be wasted. ‘I just wish we could go out, stretch our legs. He hates being cooped up. A bit frustrated with all this, I think.’
‘Well, yes, fresh air always made a difference to Michael. Of course, I was at home, so we went out nearly every day, even if it was just to the park or shops.’
‘And if you had a week of rain? Did he lose … get irritable?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Like, blow a gasket. From time to time. Not all the time.’ Jesus, why do I always allow myself to feel so judged?
‘Oh, no. Michael was a lovely, placid boy. Of course …’ She doesn’t finish. She doesn’t have to.
‘Oh, well. It’s an odd time for us all. I expect he’s picking up on our stress and confused about his routine being changed.’
‘What’s he doing now?’
‘Mm, building a tower with his bricks.’ I flick my eyes towards the inert figure up ahead, engrossed and glassy eyed by the moving screen.
‘Just like his dad. Another architect in the family. So how is Michael managing with the ‘work from home’ thing. So good to know his job is safe. You must be relieved.’
Pause. ‘Yes, oh yes. We’re both so lucky to have jobs like ours and not be on the front line.’
‘Quite. Who’d want to be a doctor or a nurse, at the moment?’
‘My sister?’
‘Oh, of course. How’s Chloe? Is she well? Is she safe? I don’t suppose you’re letting her visit, are you? She’s not coming round to see Rory?’
‘No, Laura, she’s not. Because she’s a nurse and she understands the risks.’
‘Good, good. Sorry. I just worry about that little munchkin. He’s our first grandchild, first grandson, carrier of the Hudson name.’
I flinch, the words crashing against my conscience.
Laura continues. ‘This thing, this virus, it’s put us all on edge. I didn’t mean to sound unkind. Chloe’s doing a very important job and I know how much you worry about her. Anyway, better dash. Take care and talk soon.’
The line goes dead.
I push aside the habitual irritations of my mother-in-law’s phone calls to focus on the new information about Michael. My husband had not displayed a short fuse, which only adds to the growing list of features Rory possesses and Michael did not. Rubbing my chin, I think of the emails I need to send before the witching hour – the time period between four and seven o’clock when my son can slay Supernanny herself – yet knowing my mind won’t cooperate. I’ll make up the work time later when he is asleep. Anxiety about Rory’s paternity seems to expand a little each day as his appearance and behaviour slowly diverge from the photos I have of Michael as a baby and a little boy, and the stories Laura and Jim tell about him. I slide to the floor next to the bookcase and reach for a familiar photo album, one that is worn along the spine and fragile, the adhesive pages brittle to the touch. My previous handling has already caused several pages to unstick themselves completely, leaving photos vulnerable to loss. Michael as a baby. That one is fine: they all look the same at that stage. Michael as a six-month-old. Still fine. His boy features haven’t materialised. Michael at a year, though? Shuffling sideways, I reach the sideboard from where I grab a photo frame of Rory at a similar age, scanning the images for every detail. For me, the differences are becoming horrifyingly obvious, even at the twelve-month mark. And what about our fertility problems? Aren’t they also a red flag to anyone taking the minutest bit of notice? Five long years with no result? The tests, the uncertainty, the inconclusiveness of it all? When I announced the miracle pregnancy, no-one seemed to care. Then, at least. But, really, what are the chances Rory is his, after all that time and failure?
I flick on through the pages, imaging how much Rory will not resemble Michael as he grows up. Or can I, as his mother, claim the dominant genes? I’ve become so obsessed with the similarities between man and boy, I wonder whether I might have underplayed the maternal possibilities. Choosing another album, a new replacement for an old shabby thing my mother took offence to one day, I begin the process again, comparing babies, older babies, and toddlers. Rory has inherited the colour of my eyes but not the shape. His hair is blond and curly; mine is mid-brown and straight; and Michael’s is like neither. His face shape is still an indeterminate circle of puppy fat, destined, in all likelihood, to replicate the oval of his probable parents, me and Richard, and not the square of his hoodwinked dad. And there isn’t a single dimple between Michael and me, yet Rory’s is resplendent in every smile. The photos bring no peace. Leaning back, I close my eyes feeling the heavy album slip across my lap.
A sudden squeal and Rory is clawing at my jeans. The cartoon has ended.
‘Use your words, Rory. What do you want?’
He bounces on his haunches pointing resolutely at the television screen.
‘More? You need to say, ‘more please’’.
The bouncing increases. His little face puckers. Grunts emanate from between his cherry red lips.
‘Say, ‘more’. You can do it, Rory. Come on. ‘More please’’.
The grunts become screams. His head goes down and begins slamming into my thigh. And that’s when I notice another photograph has slipped between the pages and onto the carpet.
The teaching session abandoned, the cartoon running again, I sink onto the lounge to remember my friend Caryl and the story she entrusted to me. She lost a brother, taking a lifetime and some assistance from me, to unravel the riddles of the past and reunite with him. The photo was given first as a clue, then as a warm memory of our time together. Time which I’ve come to treasure and have always thought of with straightforward pride. But I know the photo contains a message and, since Rory’s birth, I’ve shielded myself from its intent, closing my mind to any parallel or association. But there it is, a six-by-four montage of three people whose lives were wrecked by secrets.
What would Caryl say? More importantly, what do I need to do for Rory’s sake? I know there are thousands, hundreds of thousands of women who bring a cuckoo into the nest and get away with it. But what would be the cost to my little boy? To Michael and me? Even to Richard. Doesn’t he have the right to know he has a son? The simplest solution is a DNA test, one which I can no doubt arrange without raising the alarm, for my eyes only. My stomach clenches. Whilst the truth is unknown, I can continue to fool myself and everyone else. The thought of certainty, a definitive answer, means courage and responsibility. Do I have those attributes? Dragging a hand across my forehead, I endeavour to massage away the confusion, the fear, the shame.
The cartoon ends abruptly. Glad of a distraction, I leap forward and grab Rory, swinging him up onto my hip with promises of a drink and supper. When settled into his highchair, and not without a degree of fuss over the harness, I sing a nursery rhyme as I butter bread at breakneck speed, producing squares of cheese sandwich in record time. Pulling a kitchen chair next to his, I ruffle his curly hair and catch errant pieces of squashed dough pushing over the rim of the tray.
Sighing, eyes closed, Caryl’s photograph materialises in my mind’s eye. Whether it’s the image and it’s attendant message or Laura’s phone call, both coming during the current lockdown where my ability to study Rory is heightened, I know this crisis has to be faced. An icy chill descends my spine.