The Happy Family by Jackie Kabler (electric book reader txt) 📕

‘Look, this is really none of my business,’ says the doctor, ‘but if your mother has a tattoo and this lady doesn’t, well, that’s very strange. I’m not accusing you of anything here, Mrs Holland, but it’s starting to sound as if you’re not entirely sure about this lady’s identity, and with the difficulty we’re having in tracking down her medical records, well … we need to be a hundred per cent sure of who she is, especially considering her serious health issues.’

‘What?’

I think I might actually start screaming in a minute. What the hell is going on here?

‘Look,’ I say, and it takes everything I’ve got to say the words calmly because my throat is tight with anger and frustration. ‘I don’t understand the tattoo thing any more than you do but I can assure you that I am one hundred per cent sure that that is my mother. OK?’

The doctor’s eyes bore into mine for a long moment, then she looks away, glancing at her notes again. And then, quite unexpectedly, she gasps, her eyes fixed on the page in front of her.

‘Oh!’ she says.

‘What? What is it?’

She looks up, a strange expression on her face.

‘Last night, when you came in, we took some of your details, do you remember? You were in deep shock, and we were a little concerned that you might need treating too, so we took a basic medical history?’

I nod, a vague memory of someone asking me questions resurfacing.

‘Yes, I remember. And?’

She looks at me quizzically, then looks back down at her chart.

‘Your blood type is O, is that correct?’ she says.

‘O, yes. Why?

‘And you say this is your mother, your biological mother? You weren’t adopted or anything?’

‘No, of course I wasn’t adopted.’

‘Right.’

A pause.

‘Your mother is blood type AB,’ she says.

I shrug.

‘OK. And?’

The two women exchange glances.

‘Well,’ says the doctor, then pauses again.

‘So, this is the thing. A mother with blood type AB cannot produce a child with blood type O, no matter what the father’s blood type. She can only produce a child with blood type A, B or AB.’

‘What?’

I’m starting to shiver. Why is the room suddenly so cold? I look at the bed again, at my mother, and at the empty place on her collarbone where her tattoo should be. Then I look back at the doctor.

‘What?’ I whisper.

‘Mrs Holland …’

She looks back down at her chart again and sighs, and then her eyes meet mine.

‘I’m so sorry, but if you’re absolutely sure about your blood type, it’s just not possible. This woman is not your mother.’

Chapter 36

My legs crumple. As I fall, the doctor and nurse each grab one of my arms, and then somehow I’m sitting in a chair, my head between my knees.

‘Breathe. Deep slow breaths. You’re OK,’ the doctor is saying, and I try to obey but my heart is thumping and my body is bathed in sweat.

What did she say? Did she really say Mum wasn’t my mother, that she couldn’t be my mother? She’s got it wrong; the blood types must be wrong. I’ve made a mistake, or she has. This can’t be right …

I gasp and sit up, swaying as a wave of dizziness hits me, then look across to the bed where Mum is still lying motionless, her gown back in place now, concealing the place where her tattoo should be.

‘You’re wrong,’ I croak. ‘You’ve got this wrong. That’s Alice Armstrong, my mother. Please, help me sort this out.’

The doctor’s kneeling in front of me now, her brow creased, the look in her eyes sympathetic.

‘I don’t think we’ve made a mistake, unless you’re wrong about your blood type? But I’m so sorry; this was not the way you should have found out about this.’

There’s sweat running down my forehead and into my eyes, stinging them, and I blink.

‘I’m totally sure. I’ve always known my blood type. I can’t even remember why really. I know it as well as my shoe size. But this doesn’t make any sense. I don’t understand.’

I’m struggling to get the words out; my voice is a hoarse whisper. She nods and puts a hand on my knee briefly, then stands up.

‘It’s confusing enough for me. I can’t imagine what’s going on in your head. Look, I’m so sorry, I’m going to have to get on with my rounds, but I’ll try and pop back later. Didn’t you mention a half-sister? Could she shed any light on this, do you think?’

‘Yes!’ I sit bolt upright.

Liv, of course. I need to call her anyway and now, well, now I have so many questions. Could I be adopted and Dad’s never told me? Would Liv know that, if so? And where is Mum’s tattoo? Did she have it removed at some point maybe, after she left us, and decided to use a fake one when she came back? Why bother though? But what other explanation can there be?

My mind is racing; my thoughts are tumbling over each other.

I need to speak to Dad. But hang on, I’m not adopted; I can’t be. I remember photos – loads of them – before he burned them all. Pictures of Mum pregnant, a neat bump under a long floral dress. Pregnant with me. A photo of her and Dad sitting in a hospital ward with me in her arms and both of them beaming.

‘You’re just an hour old in this photo,’ I remember her saying to me, a dreamy look on her face. ‘Just one hour. Can you imagine being that young, that new?’

She gave birth to me. She did. But the blood type thing, it makes no sense …

‘I’ll call Liv now,’ I say, and the doctor smiles and nods, lifting a hand as she heads for the door. When she’s gone I grab my phone and dial Liv’s number. Voicemail, again. Where is she?

‘Liv, it’s Beth. I’m so sorry to leave a message, but I can’t seem to get hold of you and, well, don’t panic but something awful has