Twenty-five years ago
‘That’s pretty,’ says Andrew, peering over my shoulder.
I lower my brush and watch him take in the scene I’ve painted of two little girls on a beach, with buckets and spades, blonde hair streaming from sun hats.
‘Who are they?’
‘My sister and me.’ He knows I’m painting a series of family pictures for an upcoming exhibition, and wouldn’t suspect for a moment both girls are my daughters.
He doesn’t see Colleen everywhere, like I do, the shadow sister who walks beside Ella, copying her every move. After I confided in him about the baby I gave away, not wanting us to have secrets, I’d promised never to mention her again.
My confession upset him, though he tried to hide it. I thought it was about what I’d done, or maybe he couldn’t bear the idea of my daughter growing up without her mother. I’d wondered if he might suggest bringing her to England, but instead, he grilled me about Reagan, his eyes dark with jealousy.
He said he couldn’t stand that I’d loved someone before him, so I lied and said I hadn’t; it was a holiday romance that got out of hand, that was all. He was quick to believe me, to demonise Reagan, turning him into a rat who’d taken advantage and abandoned his responsibilities.
‘His loss is my gain,’ he’d said tenderly, drying my tears and pressing his lips to mine.
I closed my eyes and let myself believe it.
The truth was, I’d loved Reagan from the moment we met. I knew he wasn’t the settling-down type. He had plans to travel, plans for his music. So I told him I had plans too.
Had I secretly hoped he would change his mind when I returned to Ireland to break the news that I was pregnant? I wanted to tell him so many times that I loved him, but knew he didn’t feel the same. He’d already moved on, arranging to visit America later that year. He couldn’t wait to go. His eyes grew distant when he thought I wasn’t looking.
I would have given up everything, abandoned my life in England, to go with him, but he never asked. Instead, he asked that I let his sister raise our baby.
‘That’s a great idea,’ I agreed, wanting to please him, a smile masking my pain. Poor Celia, so desperate for a child of her own. I convinced myself it was better that way. I couldn’t terminate the pregnancy, but couldn’t keep the baby either – it would have been a permanent reminder of Reagan’s failure to love me. The child would have a good life with Celia, and I would get on with mine.
I handed her over under Reagan’s approving gaze, and when Celia cried with joy, I was filled with a deep satisfaction that went some way towards easing the deep ache inside me. She would call her Colleen, if I didn’t mind. I said I didn’t. If I’d chosen a name, I would have been claiming the baby as my own – I would have been lost.
Back home, I acted like nothing had happened. Reagan left for America to pursue his music career. I returned to my studies and eventually started teaching art at the university, where I met Andrew.
My painting had been a lifeline. Andrew was older and had some contacts in the art world. I began showing my paintings in exhibitions. They sold well, and to my surprise I became quite sought-after. I was commissioned to paint some portraits, and families became my specialty. Ironic, really.
It wasn’t until after Ella was born that I began to yearn for Colleen. The milky happiness of holding my newborn baby was shadowed by a sharp sense of loss. With everything I did for Ella came a reminder of what I’d missed with my firstborn.
How was she? I wondered. When I left Ireland, it didn’t occur to me to stay in touch. There would have been no point. The child was Celia’s now. Reagan had written once – not the love letter I’d hoped for when I left him my address, but a formal note, letting me know where Celia was living, along with a photo of me holding Colleen that I didn’t remember him taking.
I hid them in a shoebox, along with the hospital wristband I’d kept, worried Andrew might find them, but when Ella was a year old, I dug them out and took a trip to Ireland. Andrew doesn’t know. I told him I was visiting my sister Tess in York. I’d always been close to my sister and knew he wouldn’t question it.
He was worried about looking after Ella on his own, but I thought it might help them bond. Sometimes, he didn’t appear to like sharing me, even with his own child.
The trip was a mistake. Celia was hostile, fear in her flinty eyes.
Looking past her, I saw Colleen, playing in the hallway of the old house in Cork, the debris of a doll’s tea party spread around her on the polished floorboards, the sun slanting through the doorway, turning her hair to gold.
She was an older version of Ella, her limbs elongated, pale and skinny where Ella’s were plump and dimpled, but the dusting of freckles across their noses was the same. I pushed my foot over the threshold with a desperate desire to go to her, and Colleen rose, clutching a floppy blue teddy. There was something vulnerable in her elfin face and wide eyes that called to me. I wanted to pick her up and run. I lurched forward, but Celia pushed me hard, strong for someone so small – or, maybe fright lent her strength.
‘Please, Celia, I just want to see her.’
‘It’s not what we agreed.’ Her voice was harsh. ‘You signed her away.’
Signed her away.
Those words rang in my ears all the way back to England, and I hoped Colleen hadn’t heard or understood. I’d signed my daughter away. I’d forfeited my right to be involved in her life the day I gave her up. Celia was her mother now.
I had no idea if she was in touch with her father. I never heard from Reagan again, and gradually my love for him leached away, like colour from an old photograph.
This painting will be the last time I think of Colleen. I owe it to Andrew and Ella to be there for them, to be fully present in a way I haven’t been lately. I can’t alter the past, but I can be a good mother now. A good wife.
Andrew goes back to the house to make coffee, and I carefully add a sprinkling of freckles to the girls’ noses with the tip of my paintbrush. This is how I will always picture Colleen: frozen in time, smiling, playing happily with her sister on the beach, as I once did with my own sister.
When I’ve finished, I turn the painting over and write E&C in the corner. I’ll leave it to dry before putting it up in the attic with the others. I’ll never show it to anyone.
I hope one day my darling Ella will find it, and the shoebox in the wardrobe. Maybe she’ll be braver than I was and find her sister – bring her home.
I hope they know how very much I love them.
I hope they will forgive me.
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