For Our Children's Sake. NATASHA OAKLEY
exactly what it felt like to want the world to stop turning and everything disappear into blissful darkness. She’d thought she’d never recover from the agony of losing Michael and yet this was unbelievable. It was as though he’d died all over again and had taken with him the one thing—the one person—who’d been able to console her. The person who’d given her a reason to go on living. Breathing in and out until one day she’d suddenly felt alive again. Happy, even. And yet here she was back in a blackness she hadn’t even imagined existed.
‘This must be a mistake,’ she whispered. ‘This can’t be happening.’
Dr Shorrock lowered his eyes, as though he couldn’t bear to see the pain in hers. ‘I’m confident from the tests we’ve undertaken so far that there was a switch of embryos at the implantation stage. Possibly there was some confusion over the names. And yet—’ He broke off and shook his head in apparent disbelief. ‘I can’t give you accurate answers about how this might have happened. Not before we’ve undertaken a full investigation and I’ve received the report. While that’s still pending I want you to know the head of the unit has been suspended with immediate effect and all the appropriate authorities have been informed.’
As if she cared. The people at the clinic were people she didn’t know, didn’t care about. But still he went on, his face a picture of professional concern.
‘Obviously there’ll be many questions that need answers and I will be assiduous in asking them. The—’
‘What happens now? To Chloe and me?’
His cheeks puffed out. ‘Naturally we must have the well-being of the girls at the very centre of everything we do. There’s no definitive ruling on how a direct switch of embryos should be dealt with, although all rulings do suggest you will continue to have guardianship of Chloe during her minority.’
Guardianship? What did that mean? Chloe was her daughter. Had been from her first breath.
‘While the legalities are being debated in court you, yourself, will need to consider what you want to happen. Do you want access to your biological child or not? Ultimately there will have to be a legal ruling on who these children actually belong to.’
His words continued but Lucy was no longer interested. In her heart the words were pounding over and over again. Chloe’s not my daughter. Not my daughter. And yet she was. In every way that mattered Chloe was her daughter. She’d been the little warm figure who’d cuddled up in that lonely double bed during thunderstorms. She’d been the toddler she’d stayed up all night with when she’d had chicken pox. She was hers. Absolutely. And she would fight for her. With the very last breath she had in her body.
And her other baby? Hers and Michael’s. The baby who’d grown up being cuddled and cared for by other people—strangers. Slowly she felt the pressure on her heart increase in a tight, painful grip.
There were no easy answers to this. She felt the trickle of warm tears as they began to fall down her face. She was crying. She didn’t mean to be crying but the tears came without any help from her. One after another, pouring down her face—and yet soundless.
Dr Shorrock pushed a box of tissues across his desk. ‘I do realise how difficult this is for you, Mrs Grayford. For the time being I think you should give yourself a chance to assimilate everything I’ve told you. Meanwhile I will set in motion some of the things we’ve agreed upon.’
Agreed? Had they agreed on anything? Lucy really didn’t know. She pulled out a tissue and wiped the tears from her face. Pointless, really, as others soon replaced them.
He stopped to write something down in a large manila folder. ‘A nurse will give you a cup of tea and sit with you a while. I can only offer my sincere apologies on behalf of my colleagues and tell you I shall be in contact very shortly.’
Dominic Grayling sat on the graffiti-covered wooden bench outside the hospital, his gaze following the movement of people in and out without any real focus. He shouldn’t have come, and yet the temptation to be here had been irresistible. He’d told himself a million times since last Friday that the date and time he’d seen marked down on his file might pertain to anything, to anyone. And yet he hadn’t believed that, not deep down in his soul. As soon as he’d read what was written it had become inevitable he’d be here. Waiting.
He glanced down at his watch, and then back again at the doors to the hospital. It was late now. Perhaps he’d missed them. He’d been so sure he’d be able to recognise them when he saw them. They’d look like he had when he’d first understood what had happened. They’d be lost. Hurting.
He didn’t mean to talk to them. To make any sign at all. He just wanted to know what they looked like. Whether they were nice, he supposed. If he could imagine his biological child living with them and being happy. That would be enough. Surely that would be enough?
The doors opened with an automatic swish and he heard the soft brogue of an Irish accent asking, ‘Are you sure you don’t want to wait a while longer? I don’t like to see you leave like this.’
‘I just want to go home. I need to go home now.’
The other voice was strained, choking. It was a voice that touched him. Spoke to the hurt deep within himself.
He turned almost automatically and saw her. She was beautiful. Even though she’d been crying. Was crying, he noticed. She was still beautiful, with brown hair alive with auburn highlights. Curls softly framing an oval face. Exactly like his Abigail.
Dominic forced himself to look away and muttered a short expletive under his breath. He was beginning to go out of his mind. Seeing similarities where there weren’t any. London was full of women with dark hair. He might as well stand in Covent Garden and hold up a banner for all the good this was doing. He was looking for a couple.
And yet he was alone.
He turned back to watch the woman. Her olive-tinted colouring was similar to Abby’s and there’d been no one else who’d seemed possible. She’d pulled her black coat closely around her body and was desperately searching in her pocket for something. A tissue? And all the while her tears continued to fall.
It was her pain that made him watch her. It simply radiated from every pore. It felt like a mirror being held up to his own emotion. The devastating pain he had no words to describe accurately.
Her hand came out empty and she put her fingers up to her eyes, wiping away the trails of moisture. He couldn’t bear it—to see her pain and do nothing. He stood up and walked towards her hesitantly, before handing her a starched white handkerchief from his overcoat pocket.
She saw the flash of white before understanding what he was offering. ‘I’m sorry…I…I’ll be fine in a minute. I’m sorry. It’s just I…’
‘Take it. It’s just a handkerchief,’ he said curtly.
‘Thank you.’ Her fingers closed about it and she wiped at her eyes. Then, with a little confusion, she offered it back to him.
‘Keep it.’
She looked back down at the damp fabric in her hand. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said, before saying helplessly, ‘Thank you.’
‘It’s nothing. My name is Dominic Grayling.’
She looked at him blindly. His name obviously meant nothing to her. Why should it? He wasn’t arrogant enough to assume she’d recognise it from the television documentary he’d made two years previously, and even if she were one half of the couple he’d hoped to see there was no reason she should know his name. The hospital had been scrupulous in keeping that information secret. He tried another tack. ‘Is there anything I can do to help you?’
She’d begun to shake her head even before he’d finished speaking. ‘Nothing. I’ll be fine. Thanks for this, though,’ she said with a small brave smile, before turning away to walk down the steps.
It was something in the way she smiled, or turned, perhaps, but he couldn’t let her go. Dominic quickly walked