Being Lara (17 page)

“She's a sweetie,” said Pat.

“And that cloth she is holding. She never let it go. Ah ah! It is so funny. We have tried to wash it but she cries.”

“Perhaps it's a comfort cloth,” said Pat.

“Comfort, ke? Comfort is having food in your belly and sleeping good! You are funny!” said Mary as she laughed.

But that cloth, in fact everything about this three-year-old, just endeared her to Pat even more, allowing Omolara to stand out beautifully and clearly, like a pink rose in a field of butter-colored daisies. This Omolara was special, Pat was sure of it, because every fiber of her being was telling her so.

For the first time since that first bite of success, Pat Smith wished she was still a star. Or at least in possession of a Filofax full of connections to those with access to millions—VIPs she could push for donations and awareness—and perhaps a heaving bank account of her own, ready to be put to good use in helping Kayo with his quest to build a better future for the little ones at the Motherless Children's Home.

A few thousand pounds could only go so far.

But then, what if she could help one? She could be a building block for a secure and loving future for a child who would otherwise face an uncertain one. Providing that child with the attention she would perhaps be lacking in a home housing so many other children. A beautiful and loving child abandoned at birth by a mother because of poverty and uncertainty, left in the compounds of a home almost three years previously, at only a few days old with a note stating her name and date of birth and wrapped in a yellow, green, and red cloth. A child immediately put to the breast of a succession of women willing to provide the urgent nourishment she needed and never being with one caregiver longer than a few short months as they moved on, while she remained at the Motherless Children's Home ready for the next person to nurse her and balance her on their back.

What if Pat could help little, sweet, beautiful Omolara?

“How could anyone not want her?” whispered Pat as she sat in the yard opposite Kayo as the child nestled peacefully against her chest. Pat felt comfortable in the green-and-blue tie-dyed caftan presented to her by the helpers, while the whole scene felt uniquely surreal. Only two weeks ago, she'd been in England, chopping up onions for what would be the closest they got to anything remotely exotic: Pat's curry and rice made with mincemeat and mild curry powder from Tesco.

“It happens, Pat. That is why I am so grateful for what you have done for us all,” said Kayo.

“It isn't much.”

“It is more than very generous, and perhaps the publicity may allow others to come forward and help.”

Omolara opened her eyes, clutching Pat tightly, the pattern of the dirty fabric in her tiny hands mingling with the spirals on Pat's caftan. Omolara stared up at Pat, as if already being rejected so many times in the past, she was determined for it not to happen again. And Pat held the child even closer, loving the smell of her. A strange image of this child playing together in the garden with Kieron, as well as with Brian and Agnes's children, appeared in her mind. She blew against Omolara's cheek, which induced an unprecedented squeal of sweet-sounding joy.

Of course it was a ludicrous idea—to take someone's baby just like that. But leaving her to an unknown fate felt much worse. There was just something about Omolara that tugged at Pat's heart with such intensity, such longing, it felt like a physical pain. Perhaps it was the child's strength, her smile, her cheekiness, her laugh, which actually made Pat feel as if she would do anything to keep her. Her feelings for this child were so real that if she didn't act on them, Pat wasn't sure she'd ever be able to look herself in the mirror again.

While Barry opted for relaxation in their hotel, Pat spent most of the rest of their trip singing with the kids, eating hot plates of jollof rice, and thoroughly immersing herself in Nigerian life, all while a little girl clutching an old piece of cloth remained permanently stuck to Pat's tilted hip.

Y
ou must come back and see us again soon,” said Kayo as he pulled open the car door, boot laden with Pat's purchases of colorfully carved bowls, a bronze statue for her mother, grass mats, and multicolored glass beads.

“It would be nice to come back someday,” said Pat, even though she knew that wouldn't be happening. The truth was, they'd have to tighten their belts after this trip. So much was about to change.

Pat flew back to England while Barry stayed in Nigeria to sort out the red tape, which didn't appear to be too difficult with Kayo's contacts and the fact they were British nationals. Officials were even more eager to please once word leaked out that Patricia Reid was in fact a “star.”

The interim period allowed Pat to reflect on the life-changing event she'd decided would be their path. No one except Brian and Agnes knew of her plans. When she'd told them, Agnes's squeal of delight warmed her, a contrast to Brian's cautionary “Are you sure you have really thought this through? Is your heart ruling your head on this one? I'm just saying. There are going to be so many issues, Pat. Maybe not now, but later on.”

While Pat didn't appreciate Brian in any way piercing the romantic bubble she'd blown for herself, it had made her rethink everything—for a matter of seconds.

Pat was absolutely and without question certain she was doing the right thing. Her heart and her head were in total unison. She knew there would be challenges—growing up in the Smith household had taught her that—but didn't love eventually conquer all? Hadn't she been singing about love for years, making a living from the notion that as long as there is love, anything can be achieved? Pat believed wholeheartedly in love and even more so in what she was about to do.

The day Barry was due back from his second trip to Nigeria, Pat felt a tenseness she'd never experienced before. The house gleamed from two days of intense scrubbing and polishing, but she was far from tired. She'd hardly eaten a morsel for days yet wasn't hungry.

Pat had been painstakingly counting down the weeks, days, and now hours, finding it difficult to believe the moment would soon arrive. She wanted everything to be perfect. She wanted the rest of their lives to be perfect. And it would be.

Pat had also spent most of that day changing her outfit several times, opting for a flowery summer dress she hoped made her look approachable, nonthreatening, and, above all, motherly. And then she'd gone and changed again, this time into a skirt and blouse.

In Arrivals, Pat stood within the crowds of waiting relatives, friends, and taxi drivers. Her heart raced as she fiddled with her handbag and the teddy with the blue bow tie.

It wasn't hard to spot them as they appeared from behind the wall. Pat rushed forward as every sound and everyone around her morphed into a sort of oneness.

And then, very quickly, after all the waiting, they were face-to-face.

They didn't say anything to each other, but Pat's heart was full to bursting. Her handbag dropped to the floor, the other hand clutched the teddy bear tightly.

Pat couldn't produce a sound, just barely able to smile cautiously as she simply handed the teddy to the little girl who looked at it with confusion at first, before placing it over her eyes with laughter. Taking this as a cue, Pat held open her arms slowly, hoping, silently praying, her heart leaping as the little girl launched herself into her arms. Pat held her against her chest, their heartbeats colliding into one singular beat. And it felt beautiful.

Pat pulled away slightly, just to look at her, and noticed the cloth in her hand; realizing Omolara was actually real, Pat then pulled her in close again, her own tears flowing freely and without apology as the bright silvery flash of a huge camera made little Omolara jump.

“It's okay, sweet pea,” soothed Pat, as she ran her fingers over the little girl's huge plaits, smiling almost insanely at the joy of it all, experiencing a feeling so beautifully indescribable, she knew she'd never be able to articulate it to anyone, not even to Barry who stood by them, a look of pride shining on his face.

Then another flash went off, sealing the divine moment pop star “Trish” was finally reunited with her newly adopted daughter, Lara.

Lara

Then

L
ara awoke to the soft aroma of sponge cake baked the night before, freshly mixed lemon icing, and tangerine-flavored jelly. It was two days after her tenth birthday and the morning of her party.

She'd dressed in excited childish haste, thrilled at the sight of the kitchen table emblazoned with delectable (usually forbidden in such quantity) goodies and
that
cake. Although Mum had been unable to produce a “good enough” zero to accompany the number one, the sweet-smelling freshly iced sponge cake beside two gigantic packets of salt and vinegar crisps had a deliciously spelled-out TEN in blue-and-white icing, wrapped in shimmery silver cake ribbon.

“What do you think?” asked Mum, walking up behind her just as Lara was about to pilfer a crisp. Mum's apron was slightly stained with blue coloring as she stooped to squeeze the sweet frosting from the icing bag onto the cake, slowly and carefully spelling out the words
Happy Birthday, Lara.

“I love it!” she enthused.

“Good. So, sweet pea, excited about being ten?” she asked.

Lara nodded her head slowly, knowing that if she were to tell Mum the truth, she'd have to admit “Only a little,” because in all honesty, Lara's excitement at her birthday had been colored by a thought that had hung around ever since Mum and Dad had pulled that box from the attic and explained the story of a three-year-old girl with a funny name who'd climbed onto a big airplane and flown to England. Unlike stories Mum told at bedtime, there had been something extraspecial and real about this one. There'd been pictures—of Lara—plus other bits of evidence written on paper that seemed to just
look
important. Some were even typed! It had been difficult but over the years, Lara had slowly begun to understand, and now—as a fully grown-up ten-year-old—she understood
everything.

Mum offered the icing bowl, which Lara took gratefully, devoured, and as always, ended up with a slight tummyache.

So she went to find Dad.

“You okay, Laralina love?” asked Dad, packing away the orange lawn mower into the shed.

Lara rubbed her tummy and followed him into the shed. “Not really, Dad.”

“Has Kieron from next door upset you again?” he said, sitting down as she walked into his arms, resting her head on his warm and squeegee tummy.

“No. I was helping Mum with my birthday cake.”

“Ah, yes. Eat too much of that icing again, did we?”

She smiled mischievously.

“You do know you'll lose all your teeth by the time you're eleven?” he said, playfully squeezing her nose.

She giggled. “I don't care, Dad, as long as I get to eat the icing!”

He bent down to his side and retrieved his flask and two cups.

“Get that down you. Your tummyache will be long gone.”

Lara closed her eyes, downing the overstrong tea in one go. It was horrible.

“Steady, Lara!” he said with a smile. “Better?”

“Yes, Dad,” she lied.

Mum's comments about Lara being too old to sit on Dad's lap echoed in her head as she placed her arms around his neck. She'd been doing this for as long as she could remember, apparently starting the day Dad had gone to fetch her from Nigeria. They'd spent days together while he sorted out “paperwork” with officials and other grown-up particulars. Lara could only imagine that rather momentous long journey to England on an airplane, sitting on Dad's lap as the sound of the engine frightened her into rigid submission. Of course, she would never really, clearly remember that time, but the ensuing moments they spent as father and daughter—walking to school together, watching TV on his lap, smearing extra butter on his toast when Mum wasn't looking—and the feelings they invoked were what sealed their bond. And Lara could not remember feeling any other way about her daddy.

“Daaaad?”

“What is it, love?”

“You know I'm now ten…?”

“How can I forget?”

“And you know you and Mum told me about the woman you got me from, in Africa…?”

“Yes…”

“Well, I don't want any presents—even that tape deck I asked for with the treble base. I don't want anything but… I would very much like to meet her.”

“Meet who, love?”

“The lady you got me from.”

They'd never spoken much about her over the years and Lara had always thought thrice about bringing her up or mentioning her in any form. But she was older now, and on the actual day of her tenth birthday, two days ago, she had decided on two very grown-up decisions—bin her Sindy doll and meet
the Lady.
Lara was ready, with Dad obviously the right person to ask. She'd always felt secure in the knowledge that Dad was on her side. Like, if Mum said it was too late in the evening for chocolate, Dad would sneak her a Funsize Maltesers or Galaxy. And sometimes when it was just the two of them, they'd stop off at Captain Gino's for a huge knickerbocker glory and sometimes a Coke, too (another substance not allowed in the Reid household, except at party time). Lara could go to Dad with absolutely anything, and in no way at that moment, sitting on his lap, did she think she'd just asked the impossible.