‘I can see I’m upsetting you.’ Veronica stood up.
‘Of course I’m upset. You’re threatening to take my daughter away from me for no other reason than my age and my gender.’
Veronica scrutinized me. ‘Dante, believe it or not, I am on your side. This really isn’t an official visit. And I can see that you’ve already bonded with your daughter. And I’m here to do whatever I can to help. But this requires a commitment from you for at least another eighteen years. Think about it.’
‘I have. And like I said, I’m already looking for a job.’
‘I’m not just talking about your employment,’ said Veronica.
‘What then?’
‘There are a number of other factors to consider.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like, where does Emma sleep?’
‘In a cot at the foot of my bed,’ I informed her.
‘And in five years time, where will she be sleeping?’
Huh? ‘I have no idea.’
‘My point is, she’ll soon be needing her own room,’ said Veronica. ‘I understand from Collette that this is a three-bedroom house. You, your dad and your brother each have your own bedroom. So where does that leave Emma?’
‘I can share my brother’s room and Emma can have mine when she’s old enough,’ I said. ‘My aim is to have my own flat at some point for me and Emma.’
I was aiming at a lot of things – my own flat, a good job, prospects and a good life for me and my daughter, but it’d be pointless to tell her all those things.
‘It’s not just that,’ said Veronica. ‘Have you taken her to your GP for a check-up? Have you even registered her at your doctor’s surgery? There are a number of things that need to be sorted out if you plan on having your daughter stay with you for any length of time . . .’
‘Well, I wasn’t going to make an appointment for Emma to see a doctor until she was actually sick with something, but OK, I’ll sort out a check-up at the doctor’s first thing in the morning. I’ll do whatever is necessary. But Emma’s staying with me. I’m not letting you or anyone else take my daughter away from me,’ I told her straight.
Emma must’ve picked up on the tension in me because she started mewing. Another few seconds and she’d be crying.
‘It’s to your credit that you feel that way.’ Veronica smiled. ‘Look, I’m going to leave my number. If you need advice or help, just give me a call.’ She dug into her handbag and produced a business card. I watched as she scribbled her mobile number on the back. She held out the card to me. I hesitated, but I took it. ‘I have another appointment now, but let me stress, we do everything in our power to keep families together. I really am on your side.’
Yeah, right.
‘Your daughter is beautiful.’ Veronica smiled at me. ‘And doesn’t she look like you.’
I said nothing.
‘Bye, Emma.’ Veronica put out a hand to stroke Emma’s cheek, but I moved us both away from her and led the way to the front door. Opening it, I stood aside so Veronica would have no trouble leaving. She held out her hand. I was holding Emma, so couldn’t reciprocate.
‘Take care of yourself, and your daughter,’ said Veronica, her hand falling to her side.
‘I intend to.’
‘I or one of my colleagues may be back within the next few weeks for a chat with you and your dad, just to see how you’re all doing.’
She headed off, her last comment ringing in my ears.
Was that a threat or a promise?
Either way, I was in trouble.
32
Dante
‘Stop panicking.’
‘That’s easy for you to say, Dad.’ I was practically shouting down the phone at him.
‘Dante, it wasn’t even an official visit,’ said Dad.
‘But Veronica still came here. She still questioned me. What if she tries to take Emma away from me?’
‘You’re getting way ahead of yourself,’ said Dad. ‘You said the social worker called that a last resort. The authorities wouldn’t take Emma away from you unless she was in danger, which she obviously isn’t. So calm down.’
All kinds of phrases I’d only heard on TV sprinted through my head wearing spiked shoes. Phrases like ‘on the at-risk register’ and ‘family court’ and ‘foster care’. The Dante who only a few weeks ago had sat at the computer looking up the procedures for putting a child into foster care wasn’t me. I looked back and I didn’t even recognize that person. What was that saying? Be careful what you wish for ’cause you might get it? I took a deep breath, trying to follow Dad’s advice.
‘Dad, I’m . . . worried,’ I admitted.
‘Look, d’you want me to come home?’
‘Why? Veronica has already left.’
‘I know. But I’ll come home if you need me.’
‘You would do that?’ I asked.
‘Of course I would,’ said Dad impatiently. ‘You’re my son, Dante. If you need me, I’m home in a heartbeat. Well, maybe two heartbeats depending on how the trains are running.’
‘No, that’s OK, Dad,’ I said, feeling a little less ruffled. ‘But thanks for the offer.’
‘Well if you change your mind, just phone me. OK?’
‘Yes, Dad.’
‘And I’m not working late tonight so I’ll be home around six thirty.’
‘OK. Thanks.’
‘Dante, don’t let this Veronica woman rattle you. Emma is with her family now and that’s how it’ll stay. See you later, son.’ Dad put down the phone.
It felt good . . . no, it felt great to know that Dad had my back. For the first time I thought about what all this must be like for him. It couldn’t have been easy bringing up me and my brother after Mum died, coping on his own with the two of us, plus a mortgage and bills. And now instead of two, there were three that Dad had to provide for. I needed to find a job in a hurry. I had to make this work, now more than ever.
But first things first. I had a phone call to make.
‘Hello?’
‘Collette?’
‘Speaking.’
I took a deep breath, trying to quell the anger that flared at the sound of her voice.
‘Hello?’ she prompted.
‘I’ve just had a visit from your sister,’ I said quietly.
‘Dante? Hi. How’re you?’
‘I’ve just had a visit from Veronica,’ I repeated.
‘Oh, good. She promised she’d go and see you.’
Another deep breath. It wasn’t working. ‘You told your sister about Emma and me?’
‘Well, yes,’ said Collette, surprised I even had to ask. ‘I told her how you weren’t coping.’
‘Why would you do something like that?’ The words were coming out faster and harder.
Another deep breath. Chillax, Dante. Don’t lose it.
‘I was trying to help. This way the baby can be taken into care or looked after by a foster parent and you can get your life back,’ said Collette. ‘I’ve only seen you three times since she arrived on the scene. She’s stopping you from doing all the things we’d planned and I miss the way things used to be.’
Collette spoke of my daughter like Emma was a fence which needed to be knocked down and trampled underfoot.
‘Collette, she has a name – Emma. And Emma happens to be my daughter.’
‘Not from choice.’
I had to restrain myself from answering for a few seconds.
‘What exactly did you tell your sister?’ I asked when I could trust myself to speak.
‘Only what you told me,’ Collette replied. ‘That Emma had been dumped on you and you didn’t want her.’
‘You had no right!’ I shouted.
‘Excuse me?’
‘You had no right to poke your nose in and interfere. You had no right to set your sister on me like some pit bull just ’cause you were feeling neglected,’ I said with scorn.
‘That’s not why I did it. I was trying to help you . . .’
‘By letting your sister take Emma away from me?’
‘But you don’t want her . . .’
‘Collette, get this into your head because I’m only going to say it once. Emma is my daughter and she belongs with me. She’s staying with me. If you don’t like that, then tough. Tell your sister I’m coping just fine and both of you can keep your bloody noses out of my business. Enjoy university.’ I hung up. Within seconds the phone was ringing. I accepted the call, then immediately hung up again. Hopefully now she’d get the message.
I headed back into the sitting room.
‘Come with Daddy, Emma.’ I held out my hand. ‘Let’s get you a drink.’
Emma waddled over to me and took my hand without hesitation. Her hand was warm in mine and so tiny. We shared a smile as I led the way to the kitchen. Popping her in her highchair, I poured out some diluted blackcurrant juice into her beaker. I stood and watched as she drank it thirstily. Grit or dirt or something was making my eyes smart. And I must’ve tried swallowing down my breakfast too quickly because it felt like there was a ball of concrete stuck in my throat.
‘You’re staying with Daddy,’ I told Emma softly. ‘I promise I won’t let anything or anyone change that.’
33
Adam
I can’t do this any more.
What I am isn’t wrong. How I feel is nothing to be ashamed of. But that’s how he’s making me feel. Why did he even ask me out? It was his idea for the two of us to get together, not mine. But I think he sees me as some kind of spotlight, shining down on him mercilessly and drawing too much attention.
I want to live my life out loud. He wants me to whisper my way through life like him. He wants to keep his true self hidden away in the shadows, hoping no one will notice him.
I can’t live my life like that.
I won’t.
I really like him but I think . . . I think it’s time to call it a day. I never realized it before now but he’s my worst-case scenario.
This is never going to work until he learns to be happy with who and what he truly is. I’m beginning to think that’s never going to happen. One thing I know for sure, it’s beyond anything I can say or do to make him accept himself.
And I’m getting fed up waiting.
34
Dante
The next morning found me third in the queue outside the doctor’s surgery, waiting for them to open. A sign on the door said that buggies had to be left in the porch area and couldn’t be taken past reception so I took Emma out of her buggy and held her with one hand, whilst folding up the buggy with the other. What was up with this nationwide hatred of buggies? Luckily I didn’t have to wait too long before the doors opened. The two people ahead of me made their appointments at the reception desk and headed straight into the waiting room.
‘Can I help you?’ asked the receptionist when I reached her.
‘Hi, yes. I’d like to register Emma here with a doctor, please.’
Emma was watching the receptionist with avid interest.
‘Are you already registered here?’ asked the receptionist.
‘Yes, I am.’ I gave her my name and address, watching as she stared myopically at the screen to her left. ‘And how old is . . . er . . . Emma?’
‘She’s one next Monday,’ I informed her.
The receptionist frowned at the screen before turning her frown on me. ‘Do you have her NHS card, her birth certificate and her red book on you?’
‘Huh? Er . . . no. What’s her red book?’
‘The book of her medical details to date.’ At my blank look, the receptionist elaborated. ‘It has information in it like all the vaccinations she’s had to date, her birth details, that kind of thing. And I’ll also need photo ID and proof of address from the person registering her.’
‘Photo ID?’
‘A passport or driving licence and a current utility bill showing your address.’
Damn! I thought I’d be in and out in about a minute flat. ‘I don’t have any of that stuff.’ I shook my head. ‘I thought you’d only need her name, address and date of birth and that would be it.’
The woman behind the desk gave me a pitying smile. ‘I’m afraid not. Maybe you could get your mum to come in and register her once she’s got all the appropriate documents together?’
‘My mum is dead,’ I replied.
‘Oh.’ The woman looked embarrassed. ‘Well, how about your dad? Would he be able to come in and register your sister?’
Oh God.
‘Emma is my daughter. My dad is her grandad,’ I said, trying to keep my tone even.
‘Your daughter?’
Here we go again, I sighed inwardly. ‘Yes, my daughter.’
‘And you’re . . .’ The receptionist turned back to her screen. ‘You’re seventeen.’
‘I’m eighteen in two weeks.’
‘Ah, I see. Maybe her mother could come in with the necessary documents and—’
‘Are males barred from doing this kind of thing then?’ I asked impatiently.
‘No. No. Of course not. I just meant that maybe her mother has access to the necessary documents and she could come in and—’
‘Emma’s mother isn’t around any more,’ I explained, resenting the hell out of the fact that I had to. ‘I look after my daughter and all I want to do is register her with a doctor.’
‘If you could come back with all the things I mentioned then there should be no problem,’ said the receptionist.
By which time all I wanted to do was repeatedly bang my head off the reception desk.
‘OK,’ I said, hanging onto my patience by a single thread. ‘I’ll be back soon.’
I turned and headed out, ignoring the curious and speculative glances from those who’d been eavesdropping behind me in the queue.
‘Well, Emma, this is going to be a right p.i.t.a.’ I told her as I reassembled her buggy and placed her in it. ‘That stands for “pain in the buttocks”,’ I explained.
‘Rannggghh . . . flluuuuffff . . .’ Emma agreed.
Once I got back home, I sifted through all the documents Melanie had left behind. I should’ve done it sooner. And now I thought about it, I remembered Dad telling me to do just that. There was indeed a red book with gold writing on the front which read ‘Personal Child Health Record’. Inside were a number of pages as well as various unattached sheets of folded paper. One sheet gave baby delivery details. I learned that Melanie had been in labour for seven hours and eleven minutes and she’d suffered a second-degree tear and blood loss. God . . . It sounded horrific. Who had been with Melanie when she gave birth? Her mum? Her aunt? Or had she been alone? No one should have to go through something like that alone. She should’ve told me, given me a chance to wrap my head around the idea and step up. I should’ve been there. Not just for Emma’s sake and Melanie’s, but for my own as well. Why hadn’t Melanie told me?
Was it that she thought I’d hit the ground running?
Would I have tried to persuade her to have an abortion?
Would I have washed my hands of the whole deal?
I didn’t know. I looked down at Emma, sitting on the carpet, playing with her teddy and I honestly didn’t know.
There was a whole heap of other stuff on the same sheet of paper that I was clueless about. Things like ‘Apgar scores’ and ‘Presentation: Occipito – Anterior’. Was that even English? I vowed to look up each and every word and phrase I didn’t understand. Flicking further through the book I saw all the immunizations Emma had already had. She was due for another one between twelve- and fifteen-months-old, which I hadn’t realized. There were developmental charts, weight and height graphs, pages of help and advice and a couple of pages of comments at the back of the book which I assumed were made by a nurse or maybe a health visitor or something. It wasn’t much when you got right down to it, but at least it filled in some gaps.
Immunizations, work, a place at a state nursery, checking out the local schools, developmental milest
ones – I had to get my act together and sort all of those out and more besides. I couldn’t afford to slack off, not if I wanted to keep my daughter.
And I did.
But I needed to find a way to make that happen.
35
Adam
Oh God! I wish he’d stop phoning me and texting me and bombarding me with emails and messages. It’s driving me nuts. It’s got to the stage where I’m afraid to even turn on my phone any more.
It’s over.
Why doesn’t he get that? Does he think any of this is easy for me? This isn’t what I hoped would happen. I thought that maybe . . .
I was stupid.
Why can’t he understand that I’m just giving him what he wants – an uncomplicated, straight-as-a-ruler, boring-as-hell life?
Why can’t he just leave me alone?
36
Dante
Emma had her first birthday, complete with a cake and one candle. We sang ‘Happy birthday’ to her and helped her blow it out. She loved that. And she loved the toys and clothes she got as presents from my dad, my aunt and my brother; yet more farm animals and an alphabet-block toy from Dad, a yellow dress with matching booties from Adam, and money from Aunt Jackie. Dad broke out his camera, the case of which was covered in dust, and took enough pictures to fill a dozen photo albums. It was just like old times. It made me smile to watch him at work with his camera again. We were all posed holding Emma, walking Emma, lifting her above our heads, rocking her, with Emma sitting on our shoulders (she really liked that one). You name it, Dad wanted a photo of it. And Adam loved it, of course. Turn a camera on him and he sparkled like champagne. But even he stepped aside when needed so that Emma could take centre stage. We all buzzed around her like bees – and she loved it.
It was a good first birthday.
A week later it was my turn. My eighteenth birthday arrived but I sure as hell didn’t need a cake and I didn’t want presents.
‘If you want to spend money, buy Emma something,’ I told Dad and Adam.
Dad didn’t need to be told twice.