Suzy K Quinn - Not My Daughter

I drop into the chair, feeling baby Reign against my chest, our heartbeats finding each other – hers like a fluttering leaf, mine like a tribal drum.

‘So you have your forms with you?’ the registrar asks.

‘Here.’ Dee shoves our envelope to the registrar like it’s a biting animal. Her hand drops on my shoulder and I feel she’s shaking too.

The registrar opens the folder and flicks through. He makes a clucking sound. ‘You’ve cut this very fine. If you’d left it any later …’

I nod, but my throat is too tight to reply.

Then the corners of the registrar’s mouth drop down. ‘You’re only seventeen. You have some support here, do you? Your mother?’

‘She’s in the States,’ I say. ‘And she’s not much of a support wherever she is.’

Dee manages something like a laugh, but her hand is still tight on my shoulder.

There is a pause, then the registrar says, ‘You had a home birth?’

I nod, my voice leaving me again.

He squints at the form. ‘And your sister …’

‘She … uh … witnessed the birth.’

‘Yes,’ says Dee.

‘It was just the two of you at the birth? The father—’

‘He’s not in the picture,’ says Dee.

The registrar hesitates for a moment, and I can tell he wants to ask something else.

This is it. The part where I break down and lose this baby …

I risk a glance at Dee. She won’t meet my eye.

And then it happens.

The registrar writes my name in neat black ink.

Mother: Lorna Miller.

I feel Reign’s warm body in my arms and dampness from Dee’s palm.

The registrar’s pen moves to the next box.

Father: unknown.

It was that easy. Who’d have guessed it would be so easy?

‘You’re entitled to benefits,’ says the registrar. ‘Worth looking into. There’s no shame in getting benefits. Especially at your age.’

‘It wouldn’t feel right,’ I say. ‘I’m not from here originally. I grew up in the States.’

‘What about healthcare?’ Dee asks. ‘My sister … she had cancer, sir.’

I make urgent eyes – what are you doing? Dee makes apologetic I had to ask eyes back.

‘You’ll be entitled to free healthcare,’ says the registrar. ‘What kind of cancer did you have?’

‘Bowel,’ I say, just as Dee says, ‘Breast.’

We look at each other.

Dee clears her throat. ‘Um … she had both.’

‘I’m fine now,’ I insist. ‘Really. Not worth talking about.’

The registrar glances at me for a moment, then moves to the next box.

‘What’s the baby’s name?’ he asks.

There’s a long silence. Too long. My mind is wrestling with itself. Trying to pin down thoughts.

I can’t call her Reign. It’s too distinctive. Why didn’t I think of this before?

‘Liberty,’ I decide. ‘Like the Statue of Liberty. Freedom.’ And then more words tumble out. ‘She’ll have a middle name too. Liberty Annalise.’

Dee’s hand clenches my shoulder, her nails digging in. ‘Are you sure you want that name? Annalise? I mean, really ?’

I nod.

The registrar looks between us. Then he hands me a pen to write the names. Next comes the hard thunk of an official stamp.

As we walk out of the registrar’s office, I kiss the baby’s soft head over and over again.

Liberty Annalise Miller.

It’s official.

Dee won’t look at me.

That afternoon, I buy a heavy-duty safe with one-inch-thick steel sides. It costs £150 and takes twenty minutes to carry upstairs.

I put Liberty’s birth certificate inside the safe, along with all my medical records and lock it up tight.

The documents are still in there now.

‘Well, well,’ said the old woman, peering out with a crafty look. ‘Haven’t you got a sweet tooth?’

– HANSEL AND GRETEL

Why isn’t Liberty home?

I’m in my workshop, legs crossed in paint-stained yoga pants, gluing tiny hairs into a foam-filled werewolf head.

Yoga pants? Leggings, Lorna. Leggings . You’ve been in this country seventeen years now. Butt is bum. A knob isn’t always a door handle. And never say ‘move your fanny’ unless you want to cause offence.

The workshop door is open and I can see our front gate, thick as a fist, the wood warm in the sun.

Warm.

Not hot. It’s never hot hot in this country.

I grew up under scorching California sun, but I’ve learned to love these softer British summers. Diet summer. Summer lite.

You know Liberty will be late today. All the students will be talking about their mock-exam results.

These werewolf hairs are a bad job to do while I’m waiting for Liberty. Way too fiddly. But filming starts next week and this guy needs to be ready. It’s ironic that I make monsters for movies, given my past. As ironic as my occasional bacon sandwich with Liberty’s vegan spread. But life never goes like a fairy tale, right? Maybe these teeth could do with more saliva.

I tap my laptop. The screen shows me the photoshop version of Michael, my nickname for this flesh-ripping, vicious beast. A moment later, the screen turns sleeping black and shows me something even tougher than the werewolf.

Me.

Once upon a time, I was skinny, sickly and quiet.

Not anymore.

My eyes, which my sister used to call cornflower blue, are now steel grey, like the weights I lift. Long hair – once short and naive sandy brown – dyed jet black. Arms no longer bony rods but toned and strong and covered in sleeve tattoos. I’m gym-fit and sturdy. Not the frail cancer survivor I was once upon a time.

Of course, I’m like every other tough-looking woman – soft as a marshmallow in the middle. Someone hurt me once. So I got strong. No choice really. It was either that or fade away.

As I reach for silicon glue, I hear footsteps outside the gate.

Please let this be Liberty …

But it’s not my daughter. I know this because Skywalker, our German Shepherd, watches the gate like a mafia boss, body stiff, ears pricked. Skywalker doesn’t do the guard-dog stuff when Liberty comes home; he gets excited, leaping up and down, pawing at wood.

So this must be Nick.

The lock buzzes and my eight-foot wooden gate swings open, making a big, light hole in the safe little world of our house and grounds.

I call out from my workshop, ‘Hey, future husband.’

Nick sidesteps through the gate in his gym gear, biceps bulging with hessian bags of shopping.

‘Hello, future wife.’ Nick bounds into the workshop and kisses my hair. ‘I found everything. Everything on the list. Even cashew nut cheese. I have a good feeling, Lorn. A really good feeling.’ Nick has a Yorkshire accent, which makes his boyish optimism sound even more naive.

Should I tell Nick that my teenage daughter might hate him less if he didn’t try so hard?

No. Nick is who he is. The man I love. Not with obsessive, fake teenage love. Real, sincere, honest love. It happened slowly, like real feelings should. Not overnight, like …

Michael.

Don’t think of him today.

I look around the workshop, mentally naming objects to switch my mind off bad thoughts.

Silicone glue. Silicone paint. Mould. Plaster of Paris. Movie script.

Skywalker trots into the workshop, sniffing the shopping bags.

‘Hey, pup.’ Nick reaches to pet him, but Skywalker barks and runs off.

I give Nick a sympathetic smile. ‘Baby steps, right? Listen, let’s start dinner. I need a distraction.’

‘She’ll be home any minute,’ says Nick. ‘When I was sixteen—’