‘Well, I’m writing this from the hospice so you tell me.’ She pops me a picture of a tube and dropper resting in a grey kidney dish.
‘Oh, Violet, my God, I can’t believe it. I’m so sorry.’
‘’S all right. It’s actually a pretty cool place. She can get her hair done and people help her in and out of the shower, and the food’s better than anything I make at home. Winner winner chicken dinner literally lololol.’
‘Still, Violet,’ I type. ‘That’s a shit buzz. I’m sorry.’ Letting her know about Naomi might lift her spirits, but something tells me to hold back.
‘Just keep me informed!’ she replies. ‘I am living vicariously through you now.’
16
June 1980
I have already noticed the clear plastic cube, with its tube and dropper, on the vanity table. ‘What’s this?’ I ask my mother. I am six and wondering why she has a toy when grown-ups don’t really have toys.
‘I’m going to be having a new baby,’ my mother says in a bright, sing-song voice. ‘You’ll have a little sister just before Christmas.’
This is good news, but also, I’m already worried. I don’t know if a baby will be happy when she gets here and realizes how much my dad shouts. Sometimes my mum joins in, but mostly she doesn’t.
A few days after this, I tell the grown-up neighbour Mrs Carson that I am getting a baby sister. As her mouth rounds into a perfect ‘O’, I am thinking of all the ways I will be able to have fun with a baby girl. I can put her in the baby bath. I can brush her hair, the way I do with my dolls. She can hide under the blankets with me whenever Daddy is around.
I wait and wait for the bump to come, because that’s what happened with Jilly’s mum down the street, whenJilly’s baby sister Sharon came along. But when I ask my mother whether the baby will be here in time for Christmas, and whether Santa will bring her a present, what my mother says next surprises me.
‘Oh, there won’t be any baby, no.’
‘Why not?’
‘There just won’t be a baby now.’
‘Why did you say I was getting a baby sister?’ Pain sweeps through me as I realize I won’t get to play with a new baby after all. But I’m also relieved that the new baby won’t have to hear any of the shouting.
A few days later, at Mass, I overhear Mrs Carson, in the pew behind me, talking to another woman I don’t know, but who wears the same sort of fancy hat and walking stick that she does.
‘I don’t care what anyone says, he should be in jail for what he did to that woman.’ Mrs Carson sighs. ‘That poor baby.’
17
I spend another afternoon ambling around Toronto and when I arrive back at Naomi’s she already has a bottle of wine and two glasses ready to go on the front porch. She waves effusively, genuinely happy to see me.
‘I’d really love to, but I have to work, the time zones…’ I start. It’s been a long day of Ted non-sightings.
‘It’s ten p.m. in London,’ she reminds me. ‘And you’re a writer. What office hours do writers have?’
‘There’s just something I need to send to someone by first thing tomorrow morning,’ I tell her.
She is visibly deflated as I move towards my bedroom. I can hear her, drinking in solitude on the porch, from my upstairs room. This feels like it needs fixing.
‘I have a crazy idea,’ I say, popping my head out of the window. I see she is now on Candy Crush, stroking her phone as though it’s an emotional support hamster. She cranes her neck, instantly perking up.
‘I know it’s only been a few years since… well, everything, but have you heard of Match.com?’ I ask her.
She blinks back at me. ‘Huh.’ I can hear the thoughts careering around her mind.Is now the time? Is it too soon?
‘I mean, we could just create a profile and have a look around, see who or what’s out there.’
‘Or JDate. My friend Jennifer is on JDate, she says it’s really good…’ she offers, all energy now. It’s as if she just needed permission from someone else to do this.
‘Sounds like I’m needed downstairs so.’
