‘Firstly, I never claimed to be anything. It was Danny who wanted to meet me not the other way round. Danny had his DNA on the FoundFamily’s database before mine.’
‘And do you know why that is?’ The shift in her tone takes me by surprise. ‘He’s put a sample of his DNA into every one of those DNA companies in the hope that one day you might do the same. That’s how desperate he is to meet you.’
That leaves me speechless, which gives Miriam the space to finish the point she’s making. ‘Life hasn’t always been a picnic for me. But the one thing I can do is look out for my father as he gets older.’
I like this woman, this half-sister who put her arms around me. I like her gruff, plain-speaking manner and the way the green of her hazel eyes intensifies as she talks about her father.
‘And now that you’ve met me?’ I challenge. ‘Do you think I’m out to fleece Danny’s family silver?’
Miriam eases back. ‘Do you know what I think? I think that Dad’s going to like you.’
Then I remember. ‘Can you tell me anything about my mother?’
Miriam retreats beneath her electric-blue fringe. ‘No. But I know a man who probably can. Dad wants you to come over for dinner. Tomorrow night.’
CHAPTER 7
‘Sugar?’ I call out once I’m inside his house.
No answer. The place is dark, silent, no one appears to be about. After seeing Miriam I should’ve gone home to tell Joe what had happened. Instead, I find myself at Sugar’s. It’s cutting me up inside that we’re still not talking. Whenever I have a problem this is where I come, to Sugar’s house. My former childhood home. To sit beside the man who literally carried me in his arms away from a life I can barely think about without wanting to retch.
Sugar always knows exactly what to say, what course of action I should take. Of course, there’s a big problem this time – we never go near the subject of my blood family. In my relationship with Sugar it’s always been a subject ringed with barbed wire. I know this because the one time we did wade into those murky waters, when I was sixteen years old, he was clear: ‘Don’t go back there. Hurt. Tears. Chaos. These are the devils waiting for you when you go backwards in life, Eva.’ He tipped up my chin. ‘Only ever gaze forward.’
The last thing I want is to cause this giant of a man – who has only ever showered me with love – heartache and suffering. I was very lucky the day Sugar and Cherry took on the role of father and mother to me. My gaze roams with wonder as I move about the house, experiencing the same thrill I did when I first came here as a child. Little Eva was captivated, even overwhelmed, by the pictures, photos, artwork of black and brown people proudly on display. My favourite is the one I pass now, a large framed photo of a child with short, wayward dreads, arms folded, staring straight and sure into the camera lens. They taught me how to love black-brown me. They couldn’t mend all my broken parts, but that never mattered to them. Be proud and claim who you are.
Sugar has been my strength since I was young, and now I need his formidable strength again. My palm tightens on the banister at the bottom of the stairs as I ready to call out his name again. Maybe he’s upstairs. Then something catches my side-eye. The door to Sugar’s private room is slightly open. That’s odd, he always keeps it locked. Maybe he’s in there working or doing whatever he does in there. I’m still angry that his ‘girlfriend’， Ronnie, is allowed to go inside while I’m still shut out.
Stubborn resentment and curiosity get the better of me. The lure of the open door is irresistible. With the gentlest of touches, my fingertips push the door. Slowly it inches back. And back.
What I find stuns me. It looks like a room that belongs in an entirely different house. Chaos would be a polite description, bedlam a more realistic one. Sugar is a creature of discipline. Order. This is the total opposite. Files are strewn everywhere: on shelves, scattered on the floor, discarded and opened on the desk. What a contrast to the light airiness of the rest of the house. The room is all wood: the large desk, the shelving, the warped wooden floorboards, sombre and heavy. It’s smelly too. The musty funkiness of old papers. The staleness of no natural light or air. A lingering odour of unrest.
On one wall there’s a large flow chart with photos. Multiple Post-it notes are attached above and below. Who are the people in the photos? They are mainly pictures of young women. Some wearing the freshness of womanhood, others a touch older. And they’re rocking fashion from the 1990s; high-waisted denims, belly-tops, Timberland boots, chunky braid extensions, The Rachel, blond bob weaves. This was the decade I was born into.