Then why dump me?
In a bag. What type of bag? Supermarket bag? Designer bag? Throwaway carrier bag? A bag for life? That should raise a smile; it doesn’t. What does it matter? My mind starts creating its own stories. Images of how my birth mother abandoned me in a bag with only a broken figurine to keep me safe.
A grey mist of rain lashes the woman carrying the shoulder bag. Inside the bag is a baby. The baby cries and cries and won’t stop. The woman wears no expression because she has no eyes, no nose, no lips. Totally blank so that no one will remember her when questioned about the evil she is about to do. She places the baby in the bag at the corner of a building made of worn stone near a drain belching the overflow of rainwater and sewage. It’s hard to distinguish between the cries of the baby and the roar of the drain. She gives the baby one last faceless stare. No whispered words of love are spoken. No final cuddle goodbye. She leaves. Never looks back. The baby cries and cries. Her voice becomes hoarse. Stutters. Whimpers.
Is heard no more.
I’m fighting for breath at the macabre scene my mind makes up. I reach for my phone and get the photo of the women up on screen. Hope, Amina, Sheryl and Veronica. My hand hovers over the delete button. I try to press down . . . I can’t do it. I can’t get rid of these women from my life.
Joe closes the door and sits on the edge of the bed. The pads of his thumbs soak up my tears; his way of trying to absorb my pain.
I know what he’s going to say, so I get there before him. ‘I’m done with this.’ I sit up. Lean into a soft pillow. ‘She threw me away, so why the hell am I spending my time trying to find her?’
What about your commitment to finding out the truth about why the women went missing? Why they were all black? Are they alive or dead? Ruthlessly, I shove promises made away.
Joe’s face is the picture-perfect expression of pure relief at my words. ‘I’m pleased to hear it. I’ve been so worried about you.’ His brows dip. ‘What about your father?’
‘Sugar or Danny?’ Two dads and a mother who abandons me: what a sorry sight I am.
‘Danny,’ Joe replies. ‘Will you continue seeing him?’
Oh hell! Danny’s doing me a big favour trying to find the address of the Suzi Lake Centre. And that’s not all he’s doing; he’s still trying to find my mother through other means just in case she isn’t Hope, Amina or Sheryl. My head throbs thinking I’ll have to tell him to stop.
I answer slowly. ‘I don’t want to lose touch with Danny, now we’ve connected. But maybe I need to take a breather, a bit of a break.’
Joe hugs me. I hug him back. But I’ve got one last thing to do before I completely close this chapter of my life.
CHAPTER 22
For a time I sit in the dark of my car with that traumatised child my birth certificate resurrected in the passenger seat next to me. I refuse to look Little Eva’s way. To see her bowed head, her despairing shoulders. I hear her though. The scuff of her shoes, the harrowing sighs that get louder, the despairing hopelessness that has its own terrifying noise. Sugar’s so right; I don’t want to ever go back to that. Back to her. We’re a sad pair; Little Eva with the charity-given name and adult Eva with the three birth certificates. I realise something else that’s terrifying. For the first time since leaving the children’s home I feel desperately alone.
I get out of my car, stepping into the driving rain. I’ve come to visit the place where my mother left me. I shouldn’t be here. I’m only torturing myself further. I’m scared. No! Petrified. A sickening dread and bile-inducing terror grip me. What is waiting for me in this place?
Before I lose my nerve I tuck my head away from the rain and start walking. My heart sinks as I look around. The street is grimy and grim and narrow to the point where buildings look like they’re about to topple in on each other. It feels so sad here, so unloved. The buildings and people I pass are a blur. As I draw closer to the address, my thundering heart pleads with me to stop, but I’m almost there.
Suddenly I spin around. Is someone following me? It’s not the presence of my blood mother I sometimes feel in the street. This is different. This is the sensation of someone hunting me. I search and search. There’s no one here.
I carry on with my journey to the place where I was abandoned. I look up at the buildings now and for some reason find comfort in counting down the numbers.
274.
272.
270.
My feet falter. I stop. The muscles in my legs twitch and tremble. It’s the next building. Oh hell, am I really ready for this? You’ve come this far; you can’t go back, Eva. Inhaling chilled air and raindrops, I take that step forward into the backwoods of my past.