‘It’s like one of those long-lost-family TV shows,’ Mel said, blowing her nose so loudly I was glad we were the only ones in the waiting room.
‘You’re not crying again, are you?’ I asked, amazed that the story of discovering Henry was my father still made her teary every single time we spoke about it.
‘It’s my hormones,’ Mel said, which was her go-to reply to everything these days. She lifted the water bottle to her lips and took another enormous swig. ‘I swear if they don’t call us soon, my bladder is literally going to explode... and it won’t be pretty.’
She checked her watch for what had to be the tenth time in the last five minutes. ‘And if Steve doesn’t get here soon, he’s going to miss our appointment, for which I will literally kill him.’
‘I had no idea pregnancy would bring out such a dark side of your personality,’ I teased, trying to distract her from her currently missing husband. ‘It’s all exploding body parts and homicide with you these days.’
Mel snorted into her water bottle.
‘Steve will be here soon,’ I reassured her. ‘He’s probably just got held up in traffic. We’ll ask them to wait if he hasn’t arrived when they call us in.’
I’d been incredibly touched when Mel had asked if I’d like to go with them for the private 4D pregnancy scan. ‘This one is just for fun,’ she’d told me, reaching for my hand and squeezing it warmly. ‘And I’d really love you to be there when we see his or her face for the first time.’
Mel gave her watch one last scowl.
‘Tell me again what happened after you realised Henry was your dad. I love that bit.’
I shook my head, but in a loving rather than despairing way. Mel’s expanding waistline made it hard to deny her anything, something she wasn’t above exploiting.
‘Well, for several minutes I couldn’t say anything at all...’
‘You’re my father, aren’t you?’
The silence stretched, until reality felt gossamer thin. I kept grappling for the right words, but they were as slippery as eels, slithering away before I could formulate a sentence.
And then, while I was still reeling from the revelation, something powerful barrelled through the debris of my memory. Something so immense, so shocking, that if I hadn’t been sitting down, it would have knocked me over in its wake.
‘Oh my God, we’ve had this conversation before.’
It wasn’t a question; it was an accusation. The lightning was a capricious thief and sometimes it threw back the memories it had stolen from me with absolutely no warning. This was one of those times.
‘I found you by her grave, the day after the funeral.’ My voice sounded shrill and strident in the quiet beauty of the rose garden.
I smacked my hand against my forehead in a way I didn’t think people did in real life. Henry’s watery gaze locked with mine, full of regret but also, strangely, with relief.
I closed my eyes as the past unfolded behind them...
I’d gone back to work the day after the funeral, because it had always been my sanctuary. But I’d closed the office early and found myself driving to the cemetery. Without a headstone the grave hadn’t been easy to find, but eventually I located the neat raw rectangle of flattened soil covered by the flowers I’d asked the funeral director to leave. Mum had always liked flowers.
I must have stood there for half an hour as the sky grew darker and swirling specks of snow began to fall. It was freezing and desolate and I remember thinking how cold Mum must be, lying there in the icy ground. Acting on impulse, I removed my coat and shrugged out of the thick cardigan I was wearing beneath it. I laid it gently onto the earth that covered her.
‘Here you go, Mum,’ I said, my voice threatening to break.
I strode back to the car park, not sure if the swirling snow or my tears were the reason it was so hard to see. Beside my vehicle once more, I delved into my coat pocket for my keys, only to find it empty. I checked the other pocket. Nothing. Damn it. They must have fallen out when I’d taken my coat off. Snow stung my cheeks like a thousand tiny needles as I hurried back to the graveside to search for my lost car keys.
With my head bowed against the falling snow, I was close to the plot before I noticed someone else was now there. I blinked icy crystals from my lashes, unable to believe what I was seeing. Aman was kneeling on the snow-speckled ground beside my mother’s grave... and cradled in his hands was my cardigan.
Anger like I’d never known before coursed through me. What was this stranger doing? The film of snow on the ground muffled the sound of my heels on the pathway, masking my approach.
‘Excuse me,’ I said, sounding very British, the way I always did when I was furious.
Perhaps the ‘thief’ was a homeless person, who needed the warmth of my cardigan even more than my mother did. But I rapidly revised that opinion when the figure on the ground finally realised he was no longer alone. He jumped guiltily to his feet and turned to face me. He was old and distinguished-looking, with silvery white hair. Dressed in an expensive wool coat, with a scarf that looked like cashmere around his neck, he certainly didn’t appear homeless. I was so busy cataloguing his appearance it took longer than it should have done for me to notice the man was crying.
The realisation knocked my anger off the boil, and I cleared my throat, trying to remember the manners the woman who lay between us had instilled in me.
‘Do you mind if I ask what exactly it is you’re doing?’