Amelia O’Donohue Is So Not a Virgin (12 page)

September 28th

Dear Rachel,

As soon as you left I regretted it. Not just letting you go, my darling girl, but our life here. The life you hate so much and yearn to escape.

We went to church yesterday and no one spoke to us. I don’t understand.

Oh Rach, we missed you so much last weekend. Camping without you is no fun.

Please ring me. Please write to me. Please talk to me when I visit.

I love you,

Mum.

• • •

October 12th

Dear Rachel,

At last I have spoken to your father. Spoken properly, without
any of the guilt and sadness I’ve felt since coming here. I feel really bad about this but I think we needed this time alone so we could face things, be honest with each other. You know it’s not easy trying to get on with a teenager. It’s not easy being thought of as a “retard.” (You really shouldn’t use that word, Rach. It’s a word that should never be used.) It makes you forget who you are. We needed to get to know each other again. We talked about the problems we had in Edinburgh. His work. My loneliness. Leaving it too late to have a sibling for you, someone for you to play with, laugh with. I told him outright. We must move on. We must forgive and forget. Please, I said. It was a dark time and we went and made it darker. We thought the island and the church would fix things. But they didn’t.

He cried. He reminded me of how happy we were in the city, before his job took him away all the time. Remember we used to argue for ages over who’d have the last Tunnock’s tea cake? Remember we used to have family cuddles, so soft and delicious, we’d all melt into each other for ages? Remember you used to call us the old fogies?

He loves you. You know that? We are both sorry now. We feel we have driven you away.

We love you,

Mum and Dad

• • •

November 3rd

Dear Rachel,

Why will you not talk to me? I don’t want to push myself on you. I don’t want to ruin your dreams, your huge magnificent dreams—I’m so proud of you for having them. I had them once. I wanted to be an actress!

Please, please talk to me.

Forgive me.

We love you,

Mum and Dad

• • •

January 7th

Dear Rachel,

It was so lovely having you home for Christmas. I wish you’d seemed happier to be here. Are you feeling okay? Are you
really
okay?

Last night at church the minister’s sermon seemed to be directed at us. When I looked into his eyes afterwards, I saw badness.

Can someone like that really save us?

We love you,

Mum and Dad

• • •

March 22nd

Dearest darling Rachel,

I miss you. I long to read you a story at night and tuck you in.

Do you get my messages? Miss Rose always says she can’t seem to find you when I call. I know you’re avoiding us. I’m not sure what to do about it.

Have we lost you forever? It feels like we have. It’s made us see things clearly.

We don’t say prayers any more, my love. We don’t go to church.

We believe in good. But there doesn’t seem to be any here.

We both feel the same way.

We love you,

Mum and Dad

• • •

April 26th

My little girl,

I’m going to leave you alone till your exams are over. I know how much it means to you. But please know that we support you.

We have forgiven and forgotten. We have moved on, sold the farm.

We’ve put in an offer for a three bedroom flat in the West End of Glasgow. It’s on the second floor. It has a view of the
University of Glasgow and the Kelvingrove Art Galleries. At night, the buildings light the sky. It’s truly beautiful.

Dad’s starting a new job in the city in a month. He’s going to be a reporter on the news! I have an interview next week. Rachel, I am so sick of sheep.

I understand if you want to live with friends, or in student accommodation, but the offer is there.

The new life is there.

Our old family will be there,

We love you,

Mum and Dad

M
y mum was back. Not my mother, but my mum. And my dad. I now remembered the endless arguments we had over the last tea cake, all three of us hovering over it, presenting our arguments as to why we should be the one to get it.

I am little and I need to grow
, I would say.

I am large and I can beat you up
, Dad would say.

I will pay you each £5
, and Mum would get the tea cake.

I remembered our cuddles—on the sofa, in bed, at the front door when I’d returned from school or Dad had returned from work. I remembered Dad used to take me to the park in Edinburgh, laughing as he piggybacked me through the gardens. I remembered that Mum used to make up plays in our flat. I would always be the princess and she would be the queen. I remembered I used to call them the old fogies, and they’d laugh like crazy then cuddle into each other and Mum’d say, “I love you, old fogie,” and Dad’d say, “And I love you, old fogie.”

I remembered how lonely Mum was when Dad worked
abroad. So lonely I could hear her crying at night when I was supposed to be sleeping.

I remembered the fight she had with Dad before he went away that last time.

“You can’t leave me here!” she’d begged. “I can’t cope without you! Take us with you, please.”

I remembered him ringing, her refusing to talk to him. “She’s busy,” I’d lie for her.

I remembered the new friend.

The bathtub.

The pinky promise.

Daddy coming home, at long last, to surprise us. “I’ve taken another job!” he said, hugging my mum. “I’m going to work here in the Edinburgh office. I’m so sorry.”

The celebratory meal afterwards. Lemonade and black-currant for me. Lots of wine for them.

And later that night, Mum tucking me into bed, happy-tears in her eyes.

Dad coming in afterwards, kissing me, saying, “I love you, my poppet. I love you so much. I’m sorry things have been tough. They’re going to get better. I’m going to be home every night from now on.”

“So you’re not going to get a divorce?” I asked.

“Of course not.”

“And Mummy won’t run away with the little red man?”

“Sorry?”

“The man she has bubble baths with.”

• • •

Loud fights. Tears. Doors banging. Long walks. A move to the island. Maybe the good lord would fix things.

We locked ourselves in a wet world without temptation. It was called forgiveness. It was called a fresh start. But it was neither of those things.

It was death for me, yes. But mostly, for them.

Mum had never blamed me. “It’s not your fault,” she’d whispered as we’d looked out of the ferry window as it approached our prison, our belongings crammed in a hired van on the deck.

But it was my fault. I’d told a secret. I’d ruined our lives.

We never spoke of it again. I whined and moaned about our new circumstances. Mum and Dad sank deeper into their depression, waiting to be saved by the good lord.

Why had I been so scathing of them as they battled their own demons? Why had I only seen my own unhappiness?

I would ring Mum and Dad as soon as English was over. I’d talk to them, properly. I’d tell them that the idea of a bedroom
overlooking Glasgow University (where I would go, if I got in…) would make me the happiest girl in the world.

But first things first. Breakfast…

And cryptic questions.

T
hat morning, I understood how frail elderly people might feel when putting on tights. There were so many steps involved. Turning them from inside-out to outside-in. Gathering one leg into my hand, stretching it over my foot, up my leg, oh dear, a snag—the process went on and on and on. And the buttons on my shirt appeared too big for the holes. By the time I’d dressed for breakfast I had to rest for a while before walking all the way downstairs and across the walkway to the dining hall.
Had the walkway changed?
I wondered as I willed myself to make it to the end. It seemed darker, the wooden trellis-style fence that edged it seemed more oppressive, like it was slowly moving inwards to crush me. I felt so sick I had to stop several times en route, but when Miss Rose saw me, I picked my shoulders up and pretended to be fine.

“How are you?” she asked. “Do you want me to fix that tie?”

I looked down and noticed I’d merely looped it around
my shoulders. Knotting it and tucking in my shirt, I realized that, despite great effort, I’d made a right mess of getting dressed.

Miss Rose looked very different from the night before. Her hair had settled around the contours of her high cheekbones. Her hippyish free-flowing skirt billowed below one of those empire-line tops that make most people look pregnant— GASP—but the top was so loose it was impossible to tell what her stomach might be shaped like underneath. If there was a post-birth swelling under there, I couldn’t see it.

“All better!” I said, checking out the boobs I’d never noticed before (large, round, not leaking as far as I could see) and then (remembering the questions we’d devised) added, “What about you? Are you feeling okay? Is there anything you’d like to tell me?”

“What?” she asked

“I just wondered…sometimes teachers…matrons…need to be looked after too. You’re so good to us, Miss Rose. So good, and I appreciate it.”

“Well thank you, Rachel, but there’s nothing…”

“Nothing at all?”

She looked at me suspiciously then said very matter-of-factly, “Nothing.”

• • •

When I got into the dining hall, all the girls were either seated or in the queue for toast. I stood at the front of the hall and banged a spoon against a plate. It took a few more bangs before everyone stopped and listened.

“It has come to my attention that someone in this room may require my services. As a result, an emergency
If I Tell
clinic will take place in my cubicle till the bell rings for assembly.”

• • •

I wasn’t hungry. In fact, I felt nauseated and faint and breathless. I just had a few more hurdles: the clinic, the assembly, the exam. Oh god, the exam. I was never going to blitz it at this rate. I sighed loudly as I staggered across to the dorms and almost collapsed when I got to my cubicle.

I lay on the bed, waiting for the culprit to arrive. Surely my announcement would make it clear that we knew. Surely she would come.

The clock ticked in the hall. The washing machine buzzed. Girls came back to the dorms to get their bags, their voices flitting in and out of earshot.

No one came.

It was 8:15. The assembly would start in three quarters of an hour.

I dragged myself from my bed, put on my cardigan and blazer, and noticed the flashing light.

Shite, he was awake.

• • •

Oh little boy. Little boy! Smiling already. Should he smile already? Was he smiling at me? I touched the fine brown hair on his soft head as he drank, waiting till the last drop of milk had disappeared from the bottle. I then changed his nappy, kissed his forehead, locked the room, put the key in my blazer pocket, and walked as fast as I could downstairs.

It must have been after 8:30. The dorms were practically empty. On the first floor, Miss Craig was packing up the medical equipment to begin her research work for the day.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Much better…Did many girls come in this morning?” I asked, hoping the mother had sought help.

“None. Would you believe it? I think exam adrenaline’s keeping the bugs away.”

“You’re probably right,” I said, sad that she hadn’t had the courage to come forward yet, but happy that this meant she was probably doing okay. I made my way downstairs to the ground floor…

…to see my mother, running towards the building.

M
y little girl!” she said, racing towards me and taking me in her arms. “You’re so sick. Oh dear, Rachel, you need help.”

“I’m fine,” I said, breaking the hug. I didn’t have time for this. I knew I needed to sort things out with her, but not now. I had so many other things to do.

She was like, “You’re not fine. You’re deathly white. And your buttons are all wrong!”

I looked at my cardigan. Indeed I had done it all wrong.

“Mum, I do feel okay, I promise. I really need to go.”

“Give me five minutes,” she said. “Sit here with me. Five minutes. Tops.”

I sighed then sat on the bottom step. She sat about four inches away from me. It felt like a mile.

“Are you nervous?” she said after an awkward pause.

“I was. I don’t know what I am now.”

“I wanted to give you this,” she said, handing me an envelope. I
opened it quickly, desperate for these five minutes to end so I could deal with the whole baby in the cupboard/speech/exam madness.

Darling Rachel,
it read,

Good luck with your exams. We’re dying to have you home again. A different, better home. It’s even bigger than the flat in Edinburgh.

Mumxxx

On the other side, Dad had scrawled,

We love you Rachel. There’s nothing holding you back now. Or us! Dadxxx

I put the card back in the envelope. “Mum? I have to confess something.”

“What?” Her eyes were wide open with worry. I realized I’d been over-dramatic.

“Oh, it’s nothing big, just…I didn’t read your letters till last night.”

There was a pause. Mum put her hand on mine.

“You wrote that you and Dad needed time alone. So…you were glad to get rid of me.” I didn’t want to look at her for some reason.

“Of course not. I didn’t mean that. I just meant we needed some space to get over…you know…”

“You shagging some garden gnome.”

“Well, yes…and after you told Dad…”

“Like
I’m
the baddy.”

“I’m doing this all wrong, aren’t I? Of course you’re not the baddy. I was. But I have to be honest and admit I did feel angry back then. You know, part of me thought if you hadn’t told then maybe everything would have been okay. I never loved that man. Not even sure I liked him. I was…I guess I was weak and lonely and stupid. I’m so sorry I ever put you in that position.” She
made
me look into her eyes, holding both my hands in both hers, holding them up high, reducing the four inches between us to nothing.

“Now I know that things wouldn’t have been okay. The guilt would have tortured me. Rachel,
I
would have told your father. I would have had to.”

She was tearing up. “I love you so much.”

She looked much prettier all vulnerable like this. And I hadn’t noticed till now, but for the first time in years she wasn’t dressed in old jeans and a woolly jumper. She had a striking patterned dress on and patent leather boots. Her mouth was loose and relaxed. Her cheeks had color. She wasn’t sighing and starting into space. She was looking at me, really looking.

“Do you?” I guess I wanted to hear her say it again.

“I love you. You are my beautiful, clever, funny,
determined
—and did I say
beautiful
—daughter.”

Thankfully, I hadn’t managed to put mascara on that morning. If I had, it’d have drawn a black-smudge highway all the way to my neck. She wiped a tear from my cheek.

“And I love your father too. He’s the love of my life, you know. I made a terrible mistake back then, but we’re going to be good now. We’re going to be great, and I want you to promise me you’ll never blame yourself for what happened. No one should ever ask you to keep a secret. I should never have asked. It’s not fair. It’s destructive. It wasn’t your fault.”

When we hugged, it felt alien at first, like a diary entry re-read years after the writing, once so familiar and full of emotion, now just words on a page. But then I melted into her and I remembered the feelings I once had as they came crashing into the present. I’d been so alone for so long, and I could feel it changing. I could feel myself opening up, un-bottling, letting her in.

“Will you do something for me?” I said, drying my face with her tissue. “Come with me to assembly? Help me get through this day? Not just the exam. There’s something else I have to do. Don’t make me go to the doctor yet. Please.”

She kissed my forehead, took my hand in hers, and walked me over to the atrium.