Being Lara (30 page)

She glanced over at her mother, asleep on the chair. As much as she'd liked having her around, she was pleased Mama would soon be returning to Nigeria. Omolara had spent a whole day with Mama yesterday, while Yomi had stood in the background like a naughty child. And if she were really honest, Yomi hated the way Mama looked at her with more disapproval each day. Her anger toward Yomi and what she'd done was far from diminished.

“You denied me my granddotter! You denied a man time with his granddotter before he died!” she'd shouted, palms pressed on top of her head as she let out long drawn-out howls. That was how she'd reacted
the very day she was told by Yomi of her granddaughter's non“death” just before collapsing. A terrible day that was.

Of course she hadn't done that since, but Mama's anger and hurt could be clearly seen in every look and every action, whenever Yomi watched her interact with Omolara, as if to say “This needn't have been the case. Omolara could have grown up in Nigeria, with us all—Daddy, your brothers and sisters—instead of with strangers who didn't even know how to cook amala and cow feet.”

Mama opened her eyes and slowly leaned over to retrieve her phone. Postslumber clumsiness ensued, but her eyes widened as she navigated her way around the phone. “This is stoopid. Why can't they make phones with bigger numbers? We old people can't read these stoopid numbers. By the time I have found the name, seen the number, and dialed, the raining season has already arrived in Lagos. Ah ah, I am fed up o!”

Yomi knew she was trying to call Omolara. Perhaps to fix a time to meet again—without her. The two of them conspiring, talking, whispering without her involvement.

Mama sucked her teeth and muttered something under her breath, and Yomi gently took the phone from her and scrolled to “O.” Olu 1, Oyin 2, Olumide 3. But no “Omolara.”

“Mama, where have you stored her name?”

“I don't know. I just gave it to the child and she tap, tap, tap and gave it back to me.”

Sure enough, “Lara” appeared among the “L's.”

“She has put it under Lara,” said Yomi irritably.

“Don't be making your face like that, child. It is her name now.”

And Mama gave her “that” look again.

Pat stood across from the small semidetached house, looking for signs.

A sign that she perhaps shouldn't be there. A sign someone was home. Or perhaps a sign that would go some way to convince her to cross the road, knock on the door, and wait. But nothing came. Just a sign that the once blue sky was edging toward a murky gray and that it could rain at any given moment. She shifted her weight onto the other foot and glanced at her watch. She'd been standing in the same spot for over half an hour, her mind conjuring up many different outcomes, some positive, some ending in the police being called. But that was just silly.

She wondered if this was how Yumi had felt standing outside their house in Essex, just three weeks ago. The not knowing, the uncertainty of what she'd face. And suddenly, Pat felt a new respect for the woman.

An older lady, clutching the smallest dog Pat had ever seen, walked by eyeing her suspiciously; the dog did also.

This wasn't Pat's first visit. There'd been a handful over the last twenty-seven years. Once when Lara was small she'd stood on this very spot, clutching her tiny daughter's hand, willing herself to walk across and knock on the door. Lara had been impeccably dressed in a lovely blue pinafore dress and blouse, looking every inch adorable as Pat swelled with pride beside her. But as she'd put one step forward to move toward the house, Lara shouted out, “I need to pee!” Usually cute to hear, but at that moment, bad timing. So instead of knocking on the door of that house, the two of them had dropped into the nearest café, after which Pat and her baby promptly hopped on a bus and went home.

Another one of her visits had coincided with Barry's first health scare. At the time, she'd felt almost swallowed whole with anxiety and Pat had needed more than Maria's “He'll be fine! A cigarette now and then won't hurt him!”

She'd needed her mum.

Pat stared at the top window. No sign of life. She wondered if anyone was home and feared the worst. No, if something had happened, she'd certainly have heard from a distant relative, if distant meant a person who lived five miles away but who only communicated with her once a year via a Christmas card. Or she would have been contacted by one of the neighbor's sons, whom she saw down at the market from time to time.

She definitely would have heard
something.

Pat felt a droplet of rain land on her nose. A sign to head back home, perhaps. Yes, she would come again another day. But as she turned to leave, weighed down with a heavy feeling of disappointment with herself, a car slowly pulled up outside the house. A woman wearing a shift jean dress climbed out of the front and leaned into the back to retrieve what looked like a baby dressed in sky blue. The woman didn't look familiar to Pat, but the man who jumped out of the driver's seat did. He couldn't have been more than twenty-five years old.

The family of three headed to the house Pat had grown up in, and all at once she realized her own family clearly didn't live there anymore.

The young couple pressed the buzzer, waited, until the door quickly flew open and they were greeted by a stooped, short lady with silver bouffant hair. Each planted a kiss on her cheek. The lady smiled, the baby wriggled in its mother's arms, and the door shut behind them.

Pat wiped another raindrop, or perhaps a tear, away from her eye. Her heart rate had accelerated, her smile had curved into a gigantic bittersweet smile—all because she had just seen her mother.

The last time Pat saw her mother was twenty-seven years ago and during one of the most important times in her life. It was during that first fraught week with Lara, seven days that were slightly less idyllic than she'd imagined. Lara wasn't sleeping well, waking up in the middle of the night and choosing to be reassured by that smelly piece of cloth she clung to instead of Pat. It was a few more days before Lara
even allowed herself to be held by Pat, preferring Barry's reassuring cuddles if she fell over in the garden or just wanted some affection. But after the rocky transitional period, when everything seemed to be rolling along smoothly, Pat arranged for both their families to meet Lara. Agnes, Brian, and the kids arrived with a huge blond-haired doll on roller skates. At the sight of it, Lara quickly ran behind Pat's legs, bursting into fearful tears. Maria and more of Barry's family arrived, but there was no sign of Pat's brothers, sister, or Mum, their absence totally noticeable. Perhaps their RSVPs had gotten lost in the post. Pat's brothers were never one for posting letters, but Pat's mum always got her football pools in on time. Lara looked beautiful in her blue-and-white dogtooth dress with braces, white socks, and huge pink bow in her hair (even though Pat hadn't managed to comb her hair out, due to Lara's heart-wrenching sobs). But it didn't matter; everyone was smitten with their new addition, even if Agnes and Brian's kids kept looking at her with wonderment and stroking her “bushy” hair.

Pat waited a while before dialing her mother's number.

“Mum, Lara's in bed by seven and I thought it would be nice for you to spend some time with her. Meet your new granddaughter properly. Everyone's mad about her already. When are you getting here?”

“Your brother can't drive me over,” she said simply.

“Why didn't you say? Barry can come and get you.”

“Never mind. I'll give it a miss tonight.”

“But what about seeing your new granddaughter?”

“Another time. You get back to your do.”

The next day, Pat paid her mother a visit.

“So are you going to tell me what happened last night, Mum?”

Her three brothers appeared, their sister trailing behind them holding her youngest child on her hip. Pat hoped one day that Lara would be much closer to her cousins than she'd been with her siblings. In fact, she'd make sure of it.

“What's all this then?” asked Pat, at first about to make a joke about
a cavalry and then realizing the looks of seriousness on their faces. Her mother, however, had her face turned to the stove and away from Pat's questioning gaze.

“What's going on?” asked Pat.

“We don't like all this stuff we've been reading about in the paper.”

And they continued.

“You shouldn't be adopting African kids.”

“You're English.”

“You're supposed to be a Smith.”

“What will people say?”

“Have you thought about the future?”

“It's not right.”

“They're not like us!”

It was a lot to take in. The words, the accusations, the lack of understanding. This unwillingness to listen to her point of view, which couldn't be whittled down to anything less than love. She loved this little girl called Lara. Had done so since the first day she'd spotted her at the Motherless Children's Home. This wasn't about politics or culture or color or what they perceived as right—this was simply about love. Plain and simple, nothing fancy: love. Was it so hard for them to understand this?

Of all the people who stood accusingly in the kitchen that day, Pat had expected her mother to understand. She had raised all these children almost single-handedly on next to no money and never got any thanks for it. That was love. Her mother would understand.

“Mum?”

But her mother merely looked at her and then her sons, the daughter playing it cool in the background.

“They have a point. Is this fair on the child—”

“So, you, too?” Pat's voice broke, not actually wanting to believe what she was hearing from her mother. After swallowing hard, she stood and headed for the door, her brother's deep voice booming behind
her: “Don't bother coming back, all right, Pat? DON'T EVER COME BACK HERE, YOU HEAR?! And keep that Nig-Nog away from here, too!”

Pat stiffened.

But instead of anger she was weakened with the grief of realizing she hadn't a clue who her mother was anymore; she closed the door behind her without a single word.

She wondered whether she should wait for the young couple to leave. Or perhaps that would just fall into another of her excuses and the next time she found herself outside that house would be in another five, ten, fifteen years. But time wasn't anyone's luxury. Her mother had looked so different, so much older than when she'd last seen her. Pat had imagined an extra gray hair or two, a few extra pounds—but nothing prepared her for the woman at the door who resembled the Queen!

She knew this time had to be different. That instead of running away she'd have to—needed to—go in and face whatever it is she'd been hiding from for over two and a half decades. Things were different now, not only because she'd caught a glimpse of her mother but also because her own daughter was confronting her own past and she as a mother should be leading by example.

She wanted to wait until the youngsters had left, but an hour later, the door still hadn't opened. The rain, once only droplets, now fell down in a downpour around her. She'd forgotten her umbrella. She had to go in.

She knocked at the door once, and it immediately swung open to reveal the young man.

“Hello,” she said. Again, Pat felt a pang of familiarity.

“Hello,” he said with a friendly smile.

“Can I speak to—”

“Are you looking for my gran?”

Gran?
thought Pat. She steadied herself, then spoke. “Yes.”

“Come in,” said the boy. Pat was surprised to see the paisley-patterned carpet still in its place, although the walls were now wallpapered with gray diamond shapes. Completely not her mother's style, she thought. But then what did she know about the evolution of her mother's tastes? As Pat walked through, she noticed the knot in her stomach, the aching and longing for a time of Johnny Mathis and Gracie Fields records, the smell of freshly made marmalade, and the squabbling of her siblings. She'd missed her family. She'd so missed her mum.

In the familiar kitchen where the young girl and the baby sat, Pat quickly felt at home, especially as her mother was bending down to retrieve a dish from the oven.

It felt as if she'd never left.

“Who is it?” said her mother in that voice. Pat became worried the hot dish she was about to retrieve would fall with the shock of seeing her. She didn't want to take that risk so spoke quickly as her mother moved her hand into the oven.

“Mum?” she said.

Two sets of eyes darted to Pat as her mum slowly pulled herself up, her hands covered in mitts.

For a moment, nothing, and then her mother turned to her and said, “What are you doing here?” Which probably wasn't the welcome Pat had hoped for. But this was undoubtedly her mum whom she hadn't seen for a very long time and for that, she was beyond happy.