I wish you well, old pal. （Is it okay to say that? I feel like we were sort of pals back in the day!）
All the best
Stella Coughlan
I remembered Stella perfectly well. Her stutter was bad. She would turn crimson when anyone tried to talk to her, and if a teacher asked her a question, I could smell the sweat gather under her arms. She shared chocolate with me sometimes, wordlessly. She was not unkind. And yes, the bullies targeted her mercilessly. She got it worse than me because I rarely reacted. Mum taught me that. Stella often cried silently beside me. I could tell by the way her shoulders shook, but I didn’t know what to say to her. Would I call her some day? Maybe.
There was another nasty one, accusing me of patricide, but offering to pray for my soul, with perfect spelling and a signature. The other cards were mostly a range of condolence and Christmas cards from people who I half knew or names I had heard Dad mention. That left two more letters and the parcel. Both letters were from journalists, asking for my ‘story’ and making implications about my tragic childhood. ‘The nation deserves answers,’ said one. The other offered me €5,000 for an ‘exclusive’。
What had happened to me before Mum and Dad adopted me? And how did ‘the nation’ know all about it when I didn’t? I was tempted to ring Angela, even though she might be annoyed. It must have been something bad. Whatever it was should not matter as I couldn’t remember it. I had not ever tried. But now I recalled how the guards seemed to find it unusual that my first memory was my seventh birthday party. Did other people have memories earlier than that? My memory is excellent. I felt a strange buzzing in my head. My hands were shaking. I think this was nervousness. I played the piano for a little while until I felt better.
Then I picked up the box. I unwrapped it carefully and put the paper in the drawer where we kept all the paper for lighting fires or rewrapping.
It was a long shoebox and, when I opened the lid, I immediately felt a warm glow in my stomach. A small teddy bear lay in tissue paper and I grabbed him out of the box and hugged him to my chest. The warmth in my stomach reached all the way to my fingers and toes. I held him out in front of me. He was old and well worn, missing an eye, stained and patched, but he made me feel so … something. I clutched him again, confused. Why did he have this effect on me? Why was I so immediately warmed by his presence? Why was I calling it ‘him’ in my mind?
‘Toby,’ I said. He didn’t reply.
I rummaged through the box, looking for a letter or a card. On a yellow Post-it note was written:
I thought you’d like to have him back.
S.
15
I knew this bear. I knew his name was Toby. Did Mum give him to me? I have an excellent memory. Why couldn’t I remember? He smelled musty and dirty but also of something familiar. I was overrun by emotions I couldn’t understand. I was laughing and excited and agitated. I wanted to find ‘S’ and make him or her explain. I badly wanted to ring Angela, but I heeded Dad’s warning. Who could I talk to about this? Dad said that he would explain more in the next letter, but I wasn’t allowed to open it until Tuesday. This was one of those situations when I needed guidance. It was late. Dad always said it was not proper to phone anyone after 9 p.m.
I stood up and stumbled to my bedroom, feeling dizzy but in a good way. I got ready for bed without letting go of Toby. I talked to him, explaining what I was doing, welcoming him to his new home. I hoped he’d be happy here. I imagined his answers. I wrapped my arms around him and felt so light-headed that I don’t know whether I fainted or drifted off to sleep.
I had dreams that night, vivid, of a thin woman with long hair. I was sitting on her lap. This was strange because I never sat on anyone’s lap. It was also strange because I’d never had a dream before.
The next day, I rang my aunt, Christine.
‘Oh, my darling,’ she said, ‘it is so good to hear from you, we have been so worried about you.’
‘Do you still have that red coat?’ I asked.
‘What? Oh … that was such a long time ago. I’m delighted you remember. It must be twenty years since I saw you.’
‘You looked like a film star. I loved that coat. Aunt Christine, do you remember anything that happened to you before you were seven years old?’
There was a pause.
‘Well, yes, I have a few memories – getting an ice-cream cone from my dad, your grandfather –’
‘What age were you?’
‘Maybe three or four?’
‘I thought people’s memories only started when they were seven?’
‘Well, it’s different for everyone.’
‘I think something bad happened to me when I was younger than that.’
There was another pause.
‘Sally, may I come and visit you?’
‘Why?’
‘I think it would be best if I could speak to you face to face.’
I warmed up at the thought of seeing her again.
‘I could be there by lunchtime today?’
‘Will you want lunch?’
‘No, a cup of tea –’
‘I can make ham sandwiches.’
‘That would be lovely.’
‘Don’t bring Donald, okay?’
‘Well, fine, he’s recovering from an operation, but why don’t you want to see him?’
‘Dad said he was a lazy oaf who married you for your money.’
She laughed.
‘Why are you laughing?’
‘Your dad. Talk about projecting …’
‘I don’t understand. I don’t like it when people laugh at me.’
‘Goodness, I’m not laughing at you. Look, don’t worry, I won’t bring Donald.’
I hung up shortly after we had done the goodbye thing that annoys me: ‘Goodbye,’ ‘Bye,’ ‘Goodbye,’ ‘See you later,’ ‘Yes, goodbye,’ ‘Bye, then.’ So tedious.
Two hours later, I went to the kitchen to make the sandwiches. I had fashioned a sling out of an old scarf of Dad’s to carry Toby as close to my heart as I could. I told him about our expected visitor. I asked him again who ‘S’ was. I didn’t expect an answer, but it was nice to talk to him. I didn’t feel alone.
When I answered the door, Aunt Christine was there, carrying a large bouquet of flowers.
‘Darling! Oh my, it’s been too long. You are so tall! And beautiful!’
Aunt Christine used to look like a stylish version of my mum. But now, she was disappointingly old. I nearly said it. The skin around her face had all fallen downwards, though her eyes were bright with golden eyeshadow and spiky lashes. That made sense. Mum was dead so long. I felt comfortable with her until she reached out to touch me and I backed away. ‘Sorry!’ she said, putting her hands in the air as if she were under arrest. ‘You used to let me hold your hand, you know.’ This was true, but I was out of practice.
We went to the kitchen and I turned on the kettle and set about making tea. I watched her. She looked at me and smiled. ‘How are you? I see you don’t have any decorations up?’
‘No, Dad and I agreed they were for children.’ Aunt Christine frowned.
‘I got all these letters,’ I said. ‘Some people want to be my friend. Some people hate me. They wrote that I was a spawn of the devil.’