-Ellie-
Well, that went well. No really, I think it did. OK, so Will is pretty upset. And we’re running pretty fast – I’m going to have to slow him down soon, I’m not meant to get out of breath. But at least he knows the truth now. Or at least, most of it. Apart from whatever other stuff there is that his non-parents know. Because while Will was doing all his – totally understandable – shouting, I heard what they were saying, quietly to each other. And so I know that there is more. There’s something else going on here, some other explaining to be done. Apart from what I already knew. Which I need to finish telling Will. At some point, when he’s ready. Because he doesn’t know all of it yet. About Max Reigate.
But I want Gillian to know that I know there is more. More than just her, frankly, evil over-mothering, her creation of this whole fictive life that’s, like, imprisoned Will. And of course she wasn’t going to tell him the truth before. Sly fucking bitch. Because then he’d be able to leave her, to find his real mother, this Sophie Travers woman. So as we’re running away from the house, I turn round to Gillian while she is still in sight, and I put my fingers up to my eyes and then turn them back to her in an ‘I’m watching you’ gesture. Although, actually, I never want to see the woman again. Quite a bonus, actually, that it was adoption not just an affair with Max Reigate, because Will is never going to fucking forgive her, and we might never need to go back to that house again. Even though she is starting to make sense to me now, with her ‘Give Will a family’ comments on the eve of our wedding. She meant a real family. She knew, in her heart of hearts, that she didn’t count.
But now, now that we’ve lost her, I need to slow Will down. Or we’ll lose Leo too. And I’ll just be Ellie again. Which isn’t really what I want. I suppose.
“Will,” I breathe. “Will. Stop.” I squeeze his hand too, to give my words some weight.
Gradually, he slows down. We stand next to each other, panting.
Then he turns to me, and he just says the most tragic thing: “I don’t know who I am.”
But I do know who he is. And I tell him. He’s my husband, soon to be a father, a wonderful medical academic, the son of Max and Sophie Reigate.
He shakes his head.
“But my core,” he says. “In here.” He thumps at his chest, where I guess he imagines his heart to be. “Who am I? What are my values? What’s my history? I thought it was all in that house. But that house was all a lie.”
“They should have told you,” I agree. “Years ago. But you’re still you. You’re lovely, kind, strong, sexy, clever you. And I love you.”
I put my arms around him. He stays rigid for a moment then he hugs me back.
“Thank you,” he says.
And slowly, slowly, we walk home. Will doesn’t talk. I talk. I prattle about how great it is that he knows the truth and can find out more about his real parents, how we can move on from that bitch Gillian and her stooge John, about how wonderful parenthood will be. There is no response. His head, I think, must be full. There is no space for my words too.
But it was for the best. A brutal way to find out. Yet they wouldn’t tell us any other way. They wanted to keep him captive in his fake life forever. Wanted to be the ideal parents that they could never be. Partly because they were fake. Imagine living in a house with such a secret. Where every act, every form to fill in, every request for a birth certificate, is a challenge to stop ‘your son’ finding the truth. I could almost feel sorry for Gillian, and the strain it must have placed on her, if she weren’t such a witch. But partly because of that oppression – over-bearing protectiveness of a false life is one thing. Over-bearing protectiveness of a real little boy, a real teen, a real adult is another. Sure, I didn’t see him in those first two stages, but I can imagine. If her smothering affection is anything to go by now. My mum, she always got it just right. She was there when I needed her, but drifted away into the background when I didn’t. Like she’d cease to exist for a bit. But she did always go on existing, throughout, presumably. As Caroline. As a wife. As a woman. As a nurse. Even if I only saw her as Mum.
When we get home, Will goes straight to bed. I help him undress, then pull the covers over him as he clambers into bed. I think he is asleep, but then I see his eyes on me as I undress. I climb into bed next to him, facing his way before we get to our customary spooning. “It was better to know,” I say, and he nods.
I roll over and he clasps me tight in our usual position, him right up against my back, arms round my front. His body is shaking. Tears. “It will all be all right in the morning,” I whisper. I feel the lie of it, as Mum must have done, sometimes. He must do too, because the shaking continues until it is rocking me to sleep.