Page 85 of All Our Missing Pieces

‘So you’re saying you don’t want me to be part of Charlie’s life? You’re asking me to choose between you and a one-day-old baby?’

‘I’m not saying that. There’s no choice for you to make – he’s here, he’s your son. It’s a done deal. I just can’t be part of it.’

‘I can’t deal with this right now.’ He put his head in his hands.

I longed to hug him, tell him I’d made a mistake, that everything would be all right and somehow we’d find a way through it – a way to make everyone happy, him and me and Rachel and Charlie.

But I knew there wasn’t a way.

I heard a knock on the door downstairs and Orla’s footsteps as she hurried to answer it.

‘I think your pizza’s here,’ I said.

Luke looked up, tiredness and hunger overcoming emotion for the time being.

‘I’ll eat downstairs,’ he said stiffly. ‘We’ll talk in the morning.’

‘Okay.’

He got up and left, not dramatically, not slamming the door or swearing at me or anything. I’d been holding off crying, but now I found I didn’t want to cry any more. I felt numb and empty, like all my feelings of love and loss and sadness had passed through the door along with Luke. I ached for him. I hoped that Orla would be able to offer him the comfort I could not. I hoped when morning came he would see things the way I saw them.

Because I knew there was no other way it could be, even though my heart was breaking.

FIFTY-TWO

As had become her weekly habit, Beatrice was perched on the stairs with her laptop on her knees. The balustrade had been stripped and varnished all the way up now; under her hands she could feel the smoothness of the freshly sanded stair she sat on. She and Orla had been looking at carpets earlier – Beatrice wanted blue but Orla had said grey would be more versatile and Beatrice suspected she was right.

Beatrice sensed that Orla was approaching their relationship in the same way she was – tentatively, yet with a growing sense of trust. She’d told Orla details of her childhood, yet Orla had so far declined to be introduced to Beatrice’s mom and dad over Skype, saying it was too soon for her and probably also for them. Orla had unearthed a box of old photographs in the cellar and shown Beatrice pictures of her own parents and her grandmother. Sometimes Beatrice stood and looked over Orla’s shoulder while she painted, admiring her skill but reluctant to interrupt her work by speaking.

Before she went upstairs to bed, Orla would say goodnight to Beatrice and, just a few days ago, she’d leaned over to drop a kiss on Beatrice’s cheek. The imprint of it seemed to linger there, so precious that Beatrice had been reluctant to wash off her make-up.

The stairwell was as warm now as it had been back in summer – although now it was thanks to the new boiler and radiators that had been installed all through the house. The repair of the roof was complete and the attic rooms above her were dry and empty, waiting to be converted into bedrooms and a proper studio for Orla. A new bathroom was being installed there too – Luke’s final job before he moved out.

Livvie, too, had given Orla notice and was leaving before Christmas. After that, it would be only her and Orla living here.

Beatrice heard the familiar acoustic modem handshake as Skype on her computer reached out to Skype on her parents’, and seconds later their faces appeared on the screen. They were downstairs in the living room today, not in her dad’s office, and Beatrice could see the Christmas tree behind them, laden with glass baubles in shades of red and gold and sparkling with white lights.

‘There you are, honey.’ Her dad beamed. ‘You’re looking well.’

‘I hope you’re getting plenty of rest now you’ve got some time to yourself,’ her mom said.

‘We just wish you were going to come home for Christmas,’ said her dad.

‘I know.’ Beatrice smiled. ‘I’m going to miss you both, and Sligo. I sent gifts for you all. But I wanted to spend a bit more time getting to know Orla. And – well, there’s this boy I’ve kind of been seeing. Neil. I’d like to get to know him better, too.’

‘Oh, sweetie.’ Her mom’s face fell. ‘You know we were worried you’d fall in love with someone out there.’

Beatrice laughed. ‘Take it easy, Mom. I’m not in love with him. You don’t need to start thinking about grandchildren just yet.’

‘And what about your – what about Orla?’ her dad asked.

‘Like I said, it was awkward at first,’ she said. ‘But we’re getting to know each other now, and we’ve got lots in common. She keeps a journal – she calls it Morning Pages – and every time she needs a new notebook she spends ages choosing a special one, just like I would. She’s a really gifted artist. She’s been doing some sketches of me and they’re beautiful – she’s asked me to sit for a proper portrait and I think I will.’

Her mom sighed. ‘So it sounds as if it’ll be a while before we see you again.’

‘I think so.’ Beatrice knew so, but she’d been planning to break it gently to them. ‘I could get another job as a nanny easily, but I think I’d like to study, or do some work experience in early years education. Maybe even a course in counselling or a master’s in social work. I could – I thought, I’d love to work with children who’ve been adopted, like me.’

‘I understand.’ Beatrice’s dad reached over and took his wife’s hand. ‘I guess we’d better start planning a trip out to London then, hadn’t we, Ruth?’