Blood Loss by Kerena Swan (good beach reads .txt) 📕

the person I’m meant to be. It’s been hard getting any time alone with my mother now that Jenna isn’t working, but since my last thwarted attempt at telling Fiona who I really am, I decided to get my passport first. Then I can show her I’m officially a Winterbourne. If she lets me live with her, then Mark can go to France without me and maybe I’ll join him later. If she doesn’t accept me into her home, then I’ll move abroad now. I won’t be happy if she says no, though. I won’t be happy at all.

The passport has arrived with perfect timing as Jenna is going out with her friend Nisha today and I’m looking after my mother. I think Jenna’s crazy to want to waste a single moment with her, let alone a whole day, but Fiona said she looked tired and under too much strain and insisted she go. No one thinks to ask if I’m okay or under strain. Still, if I’d been told to take a day off I would have refused.

I let myself into the Old Barn with growing excitement. Jenna is coming down the stairs looking like a new-age hippy in her long patchwork skirt and hand-knitted jacket, her dreadlocks and pathetic strings of beads. Lucy’s right when she says it’s about time she grew up. It doesn’t matter, though, because I’ve made other plans for Jenna.

‘Hi, don’t you look lovely?’ I say.

‘Thanks.’ She flashes me a bright smile. ‘Nisha and I are going to Brighton to wander around The Lanes and look at all the old shops. Then we’ll eat hot chips sitting on the beach.’

‘That sounds amazing.’ Yes, a whole day before anyone will miss you. ‘Won’t it be a bit too chilly to sit on the beach, though?’

‘The chips will warm us. I’m off now,’ she calls up the stairs. ‘Bye, Mum. Love you.’

‘Goodbye,’ I say. And good riddance.

I set a tray with a single, pale pink rose in a vase, a nutrition shake and some cheese straws as I know Mother manages to eat them occasionally. She’s lying down when I push the door ajar, but opens her eyes when she hears me approach. I set the tray on a side table and help her to sit up, plumping pillows and arranging them behind her back. She takes a few sips of the shake and a nibble of a cheese straw.

‘That’s a beautiful rose,’ she says. ‘Is it from the garden?’

‘Your roses have finished now. This is from a shop. There are more downstairs for you. Shall I bring them up?’

‘No, I’ll try to come down soon. I don’t want to spend all day in here.’ Fiona leans forward and grasps my hand and I fight the urge to lift it and hold it to my cheek.

‘Grace,’ she says, ‘you do so much for me and I don’t thank you enough. No one could wish for better care. I want you to know that you’ve helped make these last few months more bearable, and I’m so grateful to have you with me for the last part of my journey.’

I lift my chin and swallow the tears that are gathering behind my eyes and in my throat. I can’t cry in front of her.

‘Can I sit with you?’ I ask. My voice is thick with emotion and she watches me with surprise.

‘Of course. I’d like nothing more.’

I climb onto the bed and prop a pillow behind my back. This is it. At last, I have my opportunity to tell her who I am but I can’t speak. I’m shaking. I breathe in and out slowly to compose myself. ‘I need to show you something.’

I reach into the large front pocket of my hoodie and pull out my new passport. She takes it from me, a puzzled look on her face.

‘Open it,’ I say.

She flicks through the pages until she’s near the end then pauses as she studies the information. ‘It’s a good picture of you, Grace. My passport photos are always terrible.’ Her wonderful, infectious laugh rings out and I store it in my memory along with other precious moments.

‘Winterbourne? Grace Winterbourne?’ Now she’s noticed the name. ‘I don’t understand. I thought you were Grace Cavendish.’

This is definitely it. My moment. My voice is low and unsteady. ‘I was born on 29th October 1995 in Milton Keynes hospital. I was called Jenna for three days.’ I watch her carefully as she processes the information.

‘Jenna? Three days?’ Understanding dawns on my beloved mother’s face. She lifts a fluttering hand to her throat. ‘Are you… are you Sarah?’ There’s hope in her face now and her hand moves to mine. Possessively, I think. Claiming me as hers. Her precious daughter.

‘I am. I’m your real daughter.’ It’s Jenna who’s the fake. ‘You came looking for me but I was in Manchester and missed you, but then I found your letters.’ My voice breaks and I can’t contain the tears any longer. They roll freely down my cheeks and drip off my chin.

Tears well in my mother’s eyes too then we’re reaching out for one another and crying into each other’s arms. We weep and laugh then pull back and look deep into each other’s eyes, and for the first time ever I am complete. I’ve been in the dark my whole life but now her love is bathing me in pure brilliance.

Mummy, I whisper to myself. I’ve found you. I’m a small child again with a grazed knee, but this time I’m not told off for being clumsy. This time Mummy is here to soothe my pain and my body is filled with liquid gold. She leans forward and gently places her lips on my forehead, and it’s as though I’ve been kissed by God himself.

Her strength is slipping away so we slide down the bed a little and she rests her head on my chest. My fingers gently stroke and soothe her hair and she drifts into sleep.

My