Joe senses the shift in my mood and is beside me in an instant, crouching by my side. ‘Have I done the wrong thing?’
I feel disorientated and get up to push open the window above the kitchen sink. Sucking in muggy air, winding my arms tight about my middle I stare outside. My birth mother handed me over to the care system when I was a baby. I don’t have any more clues about why that was and despite wanting to now find her I harbour resentment towards her too. How do you just hand the baby you’ve nurtured for nine months inside your body over to the authorities, turn your back and go on your merry way? How does that work? I sense things were probably tough for her, still, couldn’t she have kept me?
Being a doctor opened my eyes to the world and the decisions we make being so much more complicated. Don’t get me wrong, the resentment remains, but it’s swamped by my need to find her. As Mummy Cherry started to slowly die the shadow of my unknown mother began to grow.
For years I viciously kicked thoughts of my blood family to the kerb. Heritage was a dirty word. Ancestry was a filthy word. As for identity . . . the curse word supreme. I turned my back on my gene pool. Why can’t we just be content with the person we are today?
I’m mixed race. Or is it dual heritage? Or biracial? Cross-border baby? Yeah, someone really did call me that once. There are so many labels for people like me with one parent who is black, the other white. The problem is, if I’m two of something, why do I feel like one of nothing? Maybe finding my blood mother will make me feel whole again.
Hearing Joe’s hesitant presence behind me, I tell him, ‘“The life you live now, that’s what matters, not what some nameless relative did a hundred years ago.” That’s what Sugar told me. And maybe he’s right.’
‘He’s wrong.’ Joe is fierce in his conviction. ‘What matters is what you want to do. You want to find your birth mother and I want to help you.’
I face him. ‘How’s a DNA test meant to help me? It will tell me about my genetics and ethnicity and not much else.’
Joe draws me back to the breakfast bar. ‘But it would be a start, Eva. Finding out where your roots are is important, especially as one of your parents is black and the other white.’ His cheeky grin is back. ‘Who knows, there might be some big surprises in store about your family. Finding out that you might be the long-lost three-times-removed granddaughter of Tsar Nicholas? Or the heiress to some great fortune that hasn’t been touched for fifty years?’
Our shared chuckle doesn’t deflect my anxiety. Then I let him in on a little secret I’ve been holding close. ‘I’ve actually sent off for my original birth certificate—’
Joe jumps slightly, his brows diving into each other. ‘You don’t have a copy of it?’
‘Long story for another time,’ I sigh. ‘Maybe my original certificate will have a clue as to who my mother is.’ I turn to the box. ‘In the meantime, let’s find out what ethnic roots she laid for me.’
Panic starts stalking me again. My hand freezes and hovers over the DNA test box. Doing this is much harder than I thought. Erratic, heavy air blows harshly in and out of me like a storm in my ears. I’m in the grip of an emotional rush that leaves me feeling as if I’m about to capsize, plunging me into finding out things about myself I never thought I would know. The power of that is overwhelming. It is downright scary. I do my Sugar-spine-straight routine. There! Balance restored.
Avoiding the serpent, I lift the flap of the box. Inside is a mini door with a round hole. I insert my finger like a key opening a door into my past. Inside are two small test tubes and two long packets containing swabs. Being a doctor, I know exactly what to do. I take out a swab, open my mouth, run it along the wet ridges and bumps inside my cheek. Despite being a doctor it still amazes me that saliva, a strand of hair, a tiny piece of the body, can identify so much about you. It’s like a miracle. I place the swabs securely in their tubes and then in the FoundFamily envelope ready for the post.
The empty DNA kit still sits on the breakfast bar, its serpent shrouded by the purple wrapping paper. Isn’t purple the colour of sorrow and shadows?
CHAPTER 4
‘Well, well, if it isn’t Doctor Death.’
The sarcastic, snide greeting catches me unawares as I sit in my car in the hospital car park. I groan even before looking up. Why him of all people? It’s Patrick Walsh or Prickly Patrick as he’s known behind his back by the long-suffering staff in the hospital. Strictly speaking, is he even still my patient? Five weeks, that’s how long it’s been since I was suspended from my job as a junior doctor. My hands ball in my lap; this job means the world to me. It’s the symbol of my success. A million years away from helpless Little Eva in the children’s home. I haven’t been able to tell Joe or Sugar about my shame. So, I’ve been pretending, by getting up each morning, kissing Joe goodbye and then it’s hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to work Eva goes.