Tell Me Lies (short story)

The winding drive to the nursing home was lined with vibrant, red Escallonia, like lipstick. Rita knew she should have waited twenty-four hours to calm herself before confronting her mother. White hands gripped the wheel as she roughly ground the gears into reverse. I’m not waiting another moment.  If this is all true, she didn’t spare me any trauma and I’m not going to spare her.

She found her mother in the dayroom watching an afternoon show, with the TV turned up really loud. The tea-trolley was rattling down the long corridor and two other old ladies bookended the fireplace in upright chairs, one of them asleep, a doll strewn across her lap. 

‘Rita, I wasn’t expecting you today.’  Her mother’s face transformed into a radiant smile as she leaned forward in her chair.

‘Can we go to your room, Mum?  I need to talk to you privately.’

‘Susan’s eyes opened wide.  ‘Ok, dear. Is there something wrong? I’m coming, I’m coming. Hold on till I get my handbag.’

The journey upstairs seemed to take forever.  Susan’s walking-aid squeaked its way along the linoleum floor, and when she stopped to talk to the receptionist telling her she was going upstairs with her daughter, Rita strode ahead to the lift and pressed the button firmly. 

Susan’s single room was on the first floor, quite close to the lift shaft. The conflicting smell of disinfectant and ammonia made Rita feel queasy again. She held her breath until the door closed behind them before blurting out:

‘Mum, am I your daughter?’

The three seconds of silence answered that question, before Susan, flopping onto the bed, covered her eyes saying:

‘Oh, I really hoped I’d be dead before this came out.’

Rita leaned her head against the windowpane and clenched her fists tightly. Autumn leaves were swirling around outside, and flocks of birds were landing on the neat furrows made by a distant tractor.  Letting Susan’s words linger in the air for a few moments, Rita said louder than she meant to;

‘Well, you’re not dead and you have some explaining to do. I need the truth and I need it now, so start at the beginning.  Who am I?’

With that the door opened and a nursing assistant walked in looking accusingly at Rita. ‘Is everything ok in here?’ She addressed the question to Susan, who was still sitting with her head lowered. 

‘Yes, yes, it’s fine.’  

‘Would you like your daughter to come back another day, Susan.  You look a bit tired.’  

‘Actually, I would.  Rita, would you mind coming back tomorrow?  I’ll think about what you’ve asked, and we can talk about it then.’ 

Her voice sounded weak, like the day she found her husband dead in the back yard with the dog licking his face. The assistant remained motionless, holding the door ajar, and Rita knew she had no option but to leave.

**

Rita’s high heels echoed through the foyer as she made her way to the front door, past George, the old man who always sat near the door, with whom she usually stopped to chat. But not today.  He looked up from his newspaper expectantly, but she just raised her left hand slightly to wave, while punching in the code on the keypad to get out. Striding to the car and 

sitting into the driving seat, for the first time since hearing the news, she allowed herself to cry.

Emerging onto the main road, Rita turned the car in the direction of Sarah’s house, calling her on the car phone to check she was home.

‘Hi, Rita. I was just thinking about you.  How are you doing?’

‘Are you on your own, Sarah?’

‘Yeah, why? Is everything ok?’

‘No, it’s anything but ok,’ Rita answered. ‘I’m on my way over.’

‘Ok. I’ll have the kettle on.  Drive carefully, Rita, whatever it is.’

‘I will.’

Sarah was waiting at the door when she swung the car through the gateway. Walking out to meet Rita, she reached up and put her arms around her. Normally Rita would be the first to pull away, but she rested her head on Sarah’s shoulder and sobbed.

‘Let’s go inside,’ Sarah said, and closed the hall door behind them.

Over three consecutive cups of coffee, Rita told Sarah everything the social worker had said and about the aborted conversation in the nursing home.  Sarah, who sat beside her every day in secondary school, was almost as shocked as she was to hear that Will and Susan were not her real parents. Much of her teenage years were spent in Rita’s house and she even went out with Michael, Rita’s brother, when she was thirteen.

‘Is Michael adopted too?’

‘Oh my God, I never thought of that. The social worker didn’t say.’

‘Would it be worse for you if he wasn’t?’ Sarah asked.

‘I don’t know. I bet he isn’t. He looks like Dad and he was so much better at school than I was.  I was the odd one out.  How did I not think of it before? I was always too tall and too dim. God, I must have been stupid not to think of it.’

‘Hold on, Rita.  Go easy on yourself.  How could you possibly think of it when you have a birth cert that says you’re Rita Foley, for God’s sake.  Lots of people are taller than the rest of their family.  They’re not all adopted!’

Silence hung between them for a few seconds like a heavy cloud before Sarah spoke again. 

‘Forget about whether you want to meet your real mother for a minute, or how angry you are with your parents. Just think, what would you really like to know?  What questions do you want answered?’

‘Oh my God, there’s so many. Like, who was I before I was Rita? How did I come to be with my parents?  And the big one, why did nobody tell me?’

Sarah was writing frantically on a piece of paper.

‘Is there anything else?’

‘Let me see. Yes! Do I have health records?  Oh my God.’

‘What?’

‘The doctors have always told me that Aoife’s heart problems could be genetic, but I said there was no history in either family.  They probably ARE genetic. God, I’m so angry.’  And she began to cry again.

***

It was a week before Rita felt ready to visit the nursing home again. This time she rang her mother first and arranged to meet her in her room. The conversation was business-like, and Rita’s tone was like crushed ice.

Susan was sitting in a wing-backed chair with her slippered feet on a footstool when Rita arrived.  She pulled the only other chair in the room over so that they were facing each other and sat down.

‘Not even a hello for your mother?’ Susan smiled in an attempt to break the tension.

‘It seems you’re not my mother.’

‘Oh Rita, don’t be so harsh.  I’ve always been your mother.’ Susan’s eyes looked watery, but Rita wasn’t going to allow herself to be distracted.

‘Mum, I need answers.’

‘Ok.  I’ll tell you what I know.’

Through tears and pauses and forgetting bits, only to go back on them again, Rita learned that she was handed in a hold all bag to Susan in a hotel foyer at three days old. Having pretended to be pregnant by tying cushions to her stomach and wearing loose clothes, the arrangement was facilitated by an obstetrician who worked with Susan’s sister, Aunt Mary, a matron in a private nursing home.

‘But who gave birth to me?  Who is my real mother?’

‘I don’t know. She wasn’t married.  She was giving you up for adoption and we wanted a baby.’

‘But what about my birth cert?  How come it says I’m your daughter.’

‘Oh I can’t tell you about that.’

‘Mum, you have to!’

‘No, I promised I never would.  Mary would get into terrible trouble.’

‘Mary is an old woman, Mum.  She doesn’t work anymore.  You have to tell me.’

‘Well, I won’t. A promise is a promise.’

‘I’m going to see her myself if you don’t tell me. You had no problem deceiving me all these years.  The least you can do is to tell me the truth now.’

            Susan’s head sank onto her chest for a minute.  Rising it slowly she said; ‘It was Mary and Professor Collins. They told me if I ever said anything, they’d go to jail and you’d be taken from me.  But I suppose none of that is going to happen now.’

’So, who is my mother?’

‘I really don’t know that. Honestly, Rita. There was a terrible stigma around unmarried mothers then. It’s not like now, Rita.  I know it’s hard for you to understand, but it seemed like the best solution for everyone.’

‘And what about Michael?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Is Michael adopted too?’

‘Oh no.’ She shook her head. ‘That’s the strange thing. As soon as I got you, I found out I was expecting Michael.  Such a surprise.  But we always loved you both the same.  You know that don’t you.’

‘Except you didn’t lie to him.’

‘Oh Rita…’

Standing up, Rita ignored the pleading look on her mother’s face and the tiny tear on her cheek. 

‘I’ll be back another day, Mum. This is going to take time.’

And she touched her mother’s knee, before turning towards the door with her coat over her arm.

**

It took a month for the papers to arrive from the social worker, and when the large white envelope arrived, Rita settled herself at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee before opening it. There were three sheets of paper; her birth cert, a letter from her mother to the professor, and a bill from the nursing home marked ‘paid in full.’ Nothing else.

The birth cert was covered in black marks, with so much of the writing redacted that all she could make out was that her original name was Mary and she was born in St. Finbar’s Nursing Home.  The box for her father’s name was blank. Her face flushed with anger as she thumped the table so hard that two blobs of coffee landed on the documents. No father, and my mother couldn’t even be bothered to think of an original name for me.

The letter to the professor was ambiguous and the signature was redacted.  It had three hand-written lines saying ‘Thank you for looking after my situation. Please accept this small gift. It’s all I can afford.’ The bill from the nursing home was for £50, for 'services and accommodation.’ And that was it. She lifted the phone to call Sarah.

‘Hi Sarah.  The papers arrived.’

‘Oh great. Do you want me to come over.’

‘There’s no need. All I know is that I’m actually a Mary, and my birthday is on the 5th of May, not the 8th as those who lied to me all these years told me.’

‘Oh Rita. I’m coming over anyway. Put the kettle on.’

Poring over the documents together Rita and Sarah tried to glean as much information as they could.  

‘Your mother’s handwriting was beautiful.  No wonder you’re so artistic,’ Sarah said.

Rita ran her fingers over the letters of the handwritten letter.

‘Yes, it’s kind of like my writing, which is weird.’

‘Don’t you wonder what else you might have in common?  I know I would.’

‘Sarah, I know what you’re thinking, but how could I go and meet a woman who gave me away, and didn’t care enough to look for me until I was fifty years old?’

‘You don’t know that Rita. Life was very different then. Would you not give the woman a chance to tell her story?’

Rita looked at the documents spread out on the table and heaving a heavy sigh, said; ‘Ok, I’ll think about it, but I’m scared.’

‘Of what?’

‘Afraid I’ll cry and make a fool of myself.’

‘How would that be making a fool of yourself? I bet she’ll cry too, and then you’ll talk. And who knows where that will lead, but at least you’ll get the answers you need before it’s too late.’

                                                        **

The tall woman sitting in the corner was faced away from the door. Rita took a deep breath as she took in the silhouette that looked so like her own. This woman looks too young to be my mother, she thought. But, with that, the other woman looked around and stood up.  To Rita’s alarm, she felt a lump in her throat and an urge to hug the woman who gave her away, but there were no outstretched arms to meet her, just a smile and an invitation to sit down.

For a moment they just stared at each other, Rita breathing hard as if she’d just finished a race. Finally, the older woman spoke. 

‘My name is Kathleen.  I believe I am your mother.’

‘But you look too young to be my mother!’ It wasn’t the way Rita planned to open the conversation, but this woman looked to be in her sixties, and she expected to meet an older, more settled woman, similar in age to her own parents, not someone glamorous like this.

‘I was fifteen when I gave birth to you. I’m sixty-five now. I’m so sorry for staring but you look really like my sister, Jo.’

For some reason that triggered tears that Rita found hard to suppress. 

‘I’ve never been like anyone.’

‘I wanted to meet you to tell you why I had to give you up. It’s a story you might not want to hear, but I need to tell you.’

‘Before you start, can I just tell you that this has been really traumatic for me.  I didn’t know I was adopted until two months ago.’

Anne gasped, ‘They didn’t tell you?’

‘No. My mother and father, I mean adoptive mother and father, lied to me and even my birth cert was falsified.’

‘I looked for you on your twenty-first birthday and they told me you couldn’t be traced. This is my third attempt.’

Rita was rooting in her bag for a tissue now, angry with herself for being so emotional. Anne, on the other hand, was quite measured, making no attempt to touch or comfort, but continuing as if it was something she had rehearsed many times.

‘I was fifteen years old.  I barely knew where babies came from and suddenly, I had morning sickness and my stomach began to swell. My mother brought me to a doctor and I was sent to live with my aunt in Cork.  My friends were told I was in boarding school.  And when the time came, I was brought to a private nursing home where you were born.  I didn’t hold you. I barely saw you, and the next morning I was told to get up and go back to my aunt’s house.  Three months later I was sent to boarding school and told never to tell anyone about it. And I didn’t.’

‘But what about the father? My father? You must have told him.’

‘That’s the part of the story I don’t think you’re going to want to hear.’

‘But I do want to hear it.  I want to know everything. Is he alive?’

‘No, I’m happy to tell you he’s not alive. And I never saw him again.’

‘Were you in love with him?’

‘No, I wasn’t, Rita, it wasn’t like that.’

There was a long pause before Rita said, ’Tell me, please.’

‘I never lived at home again. In school holidays I stayed at my aunt’s house in Cork and as soon as I left school, I went to England to be a nurse.’

‘You never visited your parents.’

‘No. I couldn’t forgive my mother for what she did.’

‘But maybe she thought it was the best thing for you.’

‘It was the best thing for her, not the best thing for me. Because if I stayed at home, people might have guessed.  My father didn’t let us go anywhere except to school and home.  I didn’t have a boyfriend. Fingers would have pointed and, to avoid that, my mother sacrificed me. She sacrificed me for respectability.’

‘I think I’m missing something. So, who is my father?’

‘I know this is hard to take, Rita, but your father is my father. I thought of telling you that I didn’t know who your father was - that I’d slept with lots of boys and I couldn’t be sure. But I thought, no, I’m not going to sacrifice my reputation on top of everything else. You’re not a lovechild.  You’re the opposite of that. In different ways, we’re both victims of the same man, and all I can do to make it up to you is to tell you the truth - that you weren’t abandoned by someone who didn’t care, but by a young girl without choices.’

Rita, too stunned to cry or answer, sat back in her chair.

‘I don’t know what to say.’

All the questions she had been going to ask seemed irrelevant now. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know any more. Her right to be angry seemed to have been taken away, replaced by pity and disgust. Fixing her hair behind her ear she said quietly:

‘Would you mind if we met another day.  I don’t think I can continue this conversation now.’

‘That’s fine, Rita.  I know it’s hard to take in. Sometimes I hardly believe it myself.’ 

They both stood up at the same time, and, out of a need to do something formal, Rita reached out her hand and Anne shook it.

‘I’m sorry, Rita.’

‘So am I.  And you know what, Anne?’

‘What?’

‘I wish you’d lied.’