Abruptly I stiffen with fear because I feel it. The lethal tip of a blade pressing against the soft of my belly. Gasping, I lift my head to stare into the eyes of its owner. Ronnie.
Quickly she pulls the knife back and pockets it. We don’t move. We stay like that, her crowding me, my back against the wall. It’s a re-run of the first time she found me looking in Sugar’s room. There’s a big difference this time though; her features are softer, her gaze is open.
‘Why have you been following me?’ I demand.
‘I was worried about you. No one had my back when I was your age.’ Her chin juts with a sudden dignity and defiance. ‘I’m just a woman looking out for another woman.’
A woman looking out for a woman. That phrase does something so simple: it makes me feel safe for the first time in a long time on this minefield journey to find my mother. To discover what happened to three black women who appear to have vanished off the face of the earth.
The arm of safety unleashes the churning emotions I’ve suppressed since seeing Miriam’s flat. My face crumbles. ‘My sister. Something bad has happened.’
CHAPTER 28
We face each other across a table in what must be one of the last remaining traditional greasy-spoon caffs – never café – in an area where delicatessens and pubs serving plant-based foods have become the norm. Maybe it was seeing a familiar face, even with the knife, that made me break down. Ronnie’s still got her hoodie up, her curtain against the world getting too good a look at her face. She did the same with her hand in front of the camera in the photo. Ronnie’s on her guard, gaze twitching and swaying despite us being the only customers. Her fingers flutter on the table. This is a woman who does not want to be noticed. Is that because of what happened in 1994?
She says, in that low, quiet voice, ‘I didn’t know you had a sister.’
I clam up. A dilemma faces me. I don’t want Ronnie to find out about Danny because she’ll probably tell Sugar. Then again, maybe I should let him know, clear some of the noxious atmosphere that defines our current relationship. But what about my promise to Danny to keep our newfound father-daughterhood between us for now? Our secret? Secret? I consider the word, how the sound of the ‘s’ at the start falls from the lips like a whisper. And that’s what secrets are, hidden whispers, some of which bulge with poison.
Cautiously, I decide to tell her. ‘She’s a sister that Sugar doesn’t know about. And I’d prefer to keep it that way.’
I’m surprised by Ronnie’s sharp nod of consent. ‘Is Miriam the lady that I’ve seen you with? The one with the blue hair and big mouth?’
My lips part with unexpected pleasure at that description, which sums Miriam up so well. ‘Miriam might have relapsed.’ Quickly, I explain about my sister’s former drug addiction history and what Danny told me, without using his name. ‘She wasn’t right after we left the building that was the Suzi Lake Centre, last night not far from where I was dumped as a baby.’ My tummy twists. Saying aloud what happened to baby Eva still brings so much pain.
My investigative spirit coming back, I slyly add, ‘But then you know all about the Suzi Lake Centre. You followed me there last night. Were you shocked when you figured out where we were?’
‘We used to call it Suzi,’ Ronnie admits abruptly.
Taken unawares, my coffee sloshes over the side of my cup as I raise it to my lips. My hand stings. The pain doesn’t register, what does is Ronnie’s surprise admission. The rest of the caff ceases to exist, all I see is Ronnie, her bowed head and the way the hand on the table has knotted into a fist. Here’s my confirmation that Ronnie is Veronica. Yes! Yes! Bloody yes!
I don’t let my euphoria allow me to interrupt, afraid that she might retreat again.
She continues, ‘Young people don’t have time for stuffy formality, so we just called it Suzi. Y’know, “I’ll meet you at Suzi.”， “Suzi’s running a computer course.”’ This confirms what Patrick Walsh told me about the centre running courses for young women. ‘For such a long time it was the only place I really felt safe.’ Ronnie’s voice squeaks. Catches.
‘Didn’t you feel safe at home?’ I have no business asking this. Then I remember something else that Patrick Walsh told me; Veronica’s home life was problematic.
‘Home?’ Ronnie’s mouth puckers as if she’s about to spit. ‘Now, that’s a cosy, comforting word to call somewhere where things were being done to me since I was a little girl.’