The Stolen Girl (13 page)

‘I hate you!’ I yell, channelling all the futility I feel at being a child, a pawn, all the hurt, at the one person who is here, beside me.

I yank open the car door and walk out onto the hard shoulder, the roar of vehicles, the cold air slamming me in the face.
At least I am feeling something,
I think, shivering, as my extremities gradually go numb,
something other than pain.

Why, Mum, why? Explain. Explain this mess to me.

I want to see her. ‘I want to see you, Mum, right now!’ I yell and my words are lost in the whoosh of cars racing past on the motorway, the smell of smoke and petrol exhaust and ice.

Up ahead the warning, ‘No service station for 18 miles’, is obscured by the legend ‘Tom loves Diane’ painted in fluorescent green graffiti right across the sign. I picture Tom, half his body hanging over the bridge, blond hair slick on his forehead, tongue poking through teeth in intense concentration, painstakingly painting those letters upside down, declaring his love to the world. I want to do that, paint ‘Vani is my mum and I want her back here with me’, up there for all to see.

‘I know you do,’ Jane says.

Did I just speak my thoughts out loud? I don’t know when Jane has come to stand beside me and I don’t care. She is shivering, pink goosebumps dotting her chubby white hands.

‘Why are you here and she isn’t?’ I scream, my words lost in the hiss and roar of the cars zooming past.

The February air envelops me like a ghost, creepy fingers chilling my spine. A sleety drizzle falls, quiet as the world outside a shut window. Cars whine and whoosh, groan and complain as they whistle past. Fog hangs in the distance, an ashen blanket. I imagine its icy embrace obliterating the sign, the bold proclamation of Tom’s love for Diane. I wonder whether he still feels that way or if he’s moved on, found someone else, and there are other signs further along, his fickle love given away like sweets to whoever is next in line. The dull silvery curtain of rain matches my mood, matches how I feel inside, and I think, good, much better this than the brightness, the clear, cloudless morning I woke up to.

Jane has been speaking but I haven’t really been paying attention. I only catch the last bit of what she is saying: ‘She is here.’

Mum
, my heart declares and I whip around instinctively, even though my brain tells me there is no way. ‘Where?’

My heart has always been much faster than my head, which I have been told is quite sensible. My heart doesn’t pay heed to my head though; it is impatient, quick to rise in hope, to jump to conclusions. I suppose that is why it keeps breaking.

‘I am sorry,’ Jane’s voice is like the fog. It creeps up on you, surrounds you, fools you into believing everything is okay. ‘The woman who gave birth to you, who has been searching for you for thirteen years – she desperately wants to see you, Diya. Would you consider meeting with her?’

A high-pitched keening. An anguished wail. After a bit, I realise that it is coming from me. My own alien throat. Something is wrapped around my shoulders. A coat. A whiff of unfamiliar perfume. Flowers. Spring. Warmth. I’m cold. So very cold. Nothing can warm me. Not anymore. Except for the one embrace I am denied.

Arms guide me to the car. The door closes slowly, shutting out the wind, the chilly slice of outdoors. Jane starts up the engine. I turn away from her, to the window. It is misted over. I draw a ghostly figure in the condensation, and I hear her laughter. Mum’s infectious laugh like silvery bells chiming. ‘What have you drawn now?’ Whenever she boiled rice or potatoes, I would be at the kitchen window, etching symbols in the condensation. She refused to rub them away and there they would remain for a few days, the faint outline of them taking shape and form every time the kitchen steamed up. ‘They are your creation – how can I bear to wipe them away?’ she would smile, eyes shining.

The pain is a physical thing eating my insides. Not a flower, no, not anymore. A monster.

I have to eat, drown out the monster.

‘I am sorry,’ Jane is saying. ‘I cannot begin to imagine how hard it must be for you, Diya.’

No, you cannot.
‘Do you have something to eat?’ I manage.

The sound of a zip being undone, a swish, a rustling, then, ‘Here.’

An Aero bar. I rip it open, swallow. Chocolate floods my mouth, travels down my throat, pushing past the salty lump that has taken up permanent residence even though I cannot recall having granted it permission. And yet, the pain doesn’t budge. If anything it intensifies, reminding me of the day before, stuffing chocolate into my mouth to placate the abyss of loss gaping inside. As if I need reminding! Chocolate used to help, it used to at least sugar-coat my insides, if not make everything better. Not anymore.

‘The woman who gave birth to you…’

‘Stop saying that, calling her that,’ I yell.

‘She is here,’ Jane continues after a pause, ‘she’s come from India to be with you. She has been travelling here for the last thirteen years, on and off, searching for you.’

Somehow, Jane saying this does not hurt the way the policewoman’s words did. Perhaps it is Jane’s voice, a waterfall, soothing, washing away my hurt. Or perhaps I am getting inured to pain. After all, how much ache can a human being endure before they begin to shut down?

‘She was even arrested once, briefly, for snatching a child on the street. She thought it was you,’ Jane says.

Despite myself, I am interested. The heating cranks up with a groan of complaint. The condensation on the pane runs down in streaks. The figure disintegrates.

‘Really?’ I ask.

‘Really,’ she says. ‘Are you up to meeting her?’

Panic. It grips me once more. ‘Not quite yet,’ I manage.

‘You have more tests at the hospital today. You will likely be given the all clear this evening. Tomorrow, I will take you to meet with a psychologist. Perhaps after that? Let me know.’

I look out of the window, sparkling clean now the mist has steamed away; no evidence of my drawing of earlier.

‘I’m fine. There is no need for all these tests.’

‘We just have to make sure you’re all right, you know? That she did not mess with you…’

‘She
loved
me. She loves me.’

I close my eyes and shut out the world as Jane drives, the flowery, slightly chemical smell of car air freshener, the taste of chocolate and sorrow and panic and loss and, nudging for a place amongst these feelings, a tiny burst of curiosity about this woman who has been searching for me. The rhythmic rocking of the tiny car, buffeted by vehicles speeding past on either side, is comforting. I wonder if when I look at her, I will recognise her, see reflected in her face some of my features: the slightly upturned nose, the too-far-apart eyes, the flabby cheeks, the wide forehead. Will it be like looking in a mirror and seeing an older version of myself, like those computer animations where you enter a number and they age you by that number of years? Without warning, pity for her because she lost a child blooms, even though I can’t quite connect that child with
me
. If I feel sorry for her, then do I believe her? If I do, then that means my mother…Mum…the woman I have loved and looked up to all my life…the woman who is facing extradition…

And my mother’s face blossoms in front of my closed lids: her soft, small face, her constantly moving eyes, glowing as they look at me, her button nose, her weary chin, her bow lips. Guilt sears, chocolate and salt, as the tears that roll down my cheeks slip past the barrier of my lips, as they make their arduous way along the slope of my mouth and inveigle underneath my chin.

M
y precious Diya
,

These are the little details other mothers take for granted, but I never did, knowing that I had you on borrowed time:

1) The way you grow every single day. A minuscule amount, not quite noticeable perhaps. But I noticed. I noted every little aspect of you, stored it away for the time when I would need to pull it from memory, for times like today.

2) The way your eyelashes splatter your cheeks like a fan when you are asleep and your lips part a little, dreams escaping via soft inhalations. I would love to get a peek into your dream world, Diya, to see what you think about when you are lost to the world and to yourself, if only to ease my constant worry that what I did has unconsciously affected you, that it will manifest itself somehow, some day.

3) The way you sigh sometimes when you are thinking, the long-drawn-out lament of an old woman with years of experience wrinkling her skin and lining her face.

4) The way you wear your hair, in a messy ponytail, most of the strands having escaped the confines of your hairband by the end of the school day, fanning across your face like shadows swaying on the russet bed of leaves in the heart of a forest.

5) The way you chew the ends of your hair when you are thinking, when there is no pencil end left to bite, a bad habit that I have warned you against but would give anything to see you do now.

You will have outgrown your skirts and trousers, and most likely your shoes. You are growing an inch a day nowadays and I am so proud; soon you will be taller than me and I will look up to you. I will let you in on a secret here, Diya – I do already. You are admirable. Everything I hoped you would be and more. You inspire me every day with your innate goodness, your generosity, your happy demeanour, your sunny smile.

You will be needing a new wardrobe. Your hair will need a cut soon. I so wish I was around to nag you, to take you shopping, get your hair cut, give you a hug, a kiss, breathe you in, be rewarded by your smile, that twinkle in your eyes…

I wish.

So, we – my solicitor and I – are waiting. Waiting for the funding for the DNA test to come through and for it to be sanctioned. And while I wait, I write these letters, these missives to you.

Diya, I thought I would send these to you via my solicitor. But… You see, if this case, my case, goes to court, you will be on the side of the prosecution. And this case is very complicated and does not have many precedents, my solicitor informs me. While your lawyers and your care team go through the few cases on record and try to work out if any contact between you and me is allowed, they are erring on the side of caution. They fear that us meeting and even my letters to you might somehow influence you, bias you towards me in court.

I understand. I do, although it is torture to live without you, Diya, much harder than I anticipated. I cannot bear to think it, but it must be worse for you, to have to find your bearings without your mother by your side, especially now, when you need me most, when you are desperately hurting and lonely and lost. I am sorry, Diya. So very sorry.

I will stop now, my darling. Shadows are creeping down the wall and dancing on this sheet of paper. More tomorrow. Until then, sweet dreams, my heart.

Sending a goodnight kiss and all my love your way,

Mum

B
reakfast
: Cereal: Bran Flakes – 30g with a dash of skimmed milk. Tastes of longing.

What is taking her so long? Why doesn’t she want to see me? What have I done except wait for her, spent thirteen years searching for her, missing her?

I am tempted to go to her, rather than wait for her to come to me, but I don’t know where she is. I am back to square one. I
still
do not know where she is. A small consolation is that at least now she is not in Vani’s clutches.

With each day that passes I am more inclined to hire the private detective who found her for me, but I have run out of funds to pay him. Anyhow the real reason is that I am afraid. When I do find her, what if she doesn’t want to see me?

Isn’t that why she hasn’t come yet? Isn’t that why I am still waiting?

What if she shuts the door in my face and I lose her all over again?

A
arti is running
, running through the empty rooms of her house, listening for the sounds of a child’s laughter, a child’s cries and met only by silence. She is running like she used to when she herself was a child in search of her mother. She is running like a woman possessed, convinced that if she runs fast enough she will find her child, panic owning her body like an accomplished lover, sending thrills of fear up her legs and down her spine, manifesting itself in shuddering, soundless sobs that burst out of the void of her mouth. She is running from room to room, her face wet and her heart heavy from the weight of her tears. She is running the length and breadth of her huge house and she is alone.

Aarti wakes up gasping, grasping at air, wanting, yearning, aching…coming up empty. Always coming up empty. She blinks, tries to orient herself. A palm tree swaying, lurid green. The soft murmur of voices. The fruity scent of air freshener not quite masking the stale whiff of overcooked vegetables. She is in the lobby, tucked into the sofa behind an artificial palm – it is that sort of hotel – where she can spy on people without them noticing. She must have dozed off and been visited by the nightmare again, the same one that has besieged her repeatedly over the years. A nightmare that she lived through thirteen years previously and, as if once wasn’t horrifying enough, one that she relives over and over again.

Aarti has not been sleeping well at night, too keyed up, worrying about why her daughter hasn’t contacted her, worrying if, when she does, will she bond with Aarti, thinking of what to say to her daughter when she finally meets her.

She shrugs away the last vestige of the lingering nightmare and watches guests arrive, young families, old couples – the hotel is near the town centre and yet not that near. It is one of those ‘affordable’ ones. In the early days, Aarti would have balked at staying anywhere other than a four-star hotel at the very least. But now the money is dwindling, along with any work she had hoped to find. She is the skinniest she has ever been but the industry has always been fickle, geared towards younger, prettier women.

To tell the truth, she hasn’t really been interested in work for a while now, thirteen years to be exact. Everything has taken second place to the urgency of finding her daughter.

Aarti closes her eyes, a headache looming as memories of that awful time after claim her. All those years of searching, leading up to this point. And somehow, despite all the years of not knowing, the lonesome hours bleeding into each other, these last few days are taking the longest.

The waiting. The yearning to see her daughter, to touch her, talk to her. She puts both arms around her stomach, hugs herself close. She is nervous. Afraid. Will her daughter like what she sees? She is a far cry from the model she used to be once. Age has caught up with her; there are lines around her eyes, lines tugging her lips downward, spidery strokes that no amount of make-up can hide. Lines etched over the years of searching, bearing witness to her degradation, her despair. Lines that mark the ravages Vani has inflicted on her. Vani has a lot to answer for, she thinks, as she closes her eyes and imagines her suffering in jail, the thought calming her nerves. A hell of a lot to answer for.
I hope it is hell for her in there.