The Test

Robert had to bite his lip again. His mother had already complained about the local Tesco dumping the regular butcher but keeping the one for halal meat, insisted that the family next door only pretended there was a medical problem with their hyperactive seven year-old, and used the word ‘woke’ three times in the past five minutes. Now she was turning it onto him.

“It was probably better that you and Elaine didn’t have children,” she said.

“I think we would have handled it after we split up.”

“But I don’t think you would have been very good at it, even if you had stayed together.”

She looked down at her coffee cup, the usual trick to avoid eye contact immediately after one of her insults. And she had hated Elaine before the split, always claiming that she was dragging him into a “tabloid lifestyle”, whatever that was. Robert stared at her silently for about twenty seconds as she kept her eyes down, then thought it had achieved something as a response: she was unwilling to push it any further.

He endured another twenty minutes of small talk punctuated with harsh silences, based on the usual assumption that he shouldn’t say anything to upset her. There had been occasions in the past when he had reacted, shown a flash of anger, but she had a lethal way of responding in a calm voice that he needed to respect other people’s opinions and control his temper. And remember that she was his mother. When he thought he had been with her for long enough he said he had to get on his way because he was out in the evening.

“Where are you going?”

“Meeting somebody for dinner.”

“Anyone I know?”

“I don’t know her yet. She’s the cousin of a friend, a blind date.”

For moment he thought he saw a smile on his mother’s face.

“Well I hope you treat her nicely.”

Meaning that she didn’t think he could. Thank you Mum. She saw him to the front door, he turned to kiss her goodbye and she turned her face a little so the kiss touched her cheek not lips. She never does that when Michael or Susan kisses her. Then he stepped outside with the usual sense of relief and the thought that he kept trying to push away. He had never felt part of it, what there was between his mother, brother and sister. Maybe it was there with his father but he had been dead for fifteen years; and maybe it was a false memory that they had been closer. He walked towards the bus stop and tried to get his head right for a blind date.

 

It hadn’t been bad but hadn’t been particularly good. Jacqueline was nice, stylish but not flashy and seemed to be a liberal minded type, but they didn’t watch any of the same TV shows, listen to any of the same music, and were not interested in going to any of the same places. He couldn’t help thinking of his mother’s old criticism of Elaine, about the “tabloid lifestyle”, then silently rebuked himself for letting it into his mind. They had parted with a quick kiss, no embrace, and a vague but non-committal comment about meeting again. He didn’t think they would.

So it was one of those Sundays at home alone, not interested in the football showing at the pub, or by any movies in town and having seen the exhibitions at the local galleries; and it was wet and windy and not good for a long walk. So Robert read a book for a while, looked for something to watch on TV and saw there was a movie he fancied due to start in forty-five minutes. That left some time for checking on the news and social media. Someone had contacted him through Messenger.

Sorry for bothering you, but are you the Robert Philps born at St Luke’s Hospital in May 1982? If you are, I would like to communicate.

He was, and he didn’t know the sender. Sally Jarrett. He looked at her profile. She looked close to his age, and a quick scroll revealed that she had a husband, two teenage daughters, and liked trips to the theatre and walks in the country. She was smiling, apparently without effort, in all of her photos. He considered that there could be something dubious going on, but left the page open and thirty minutes later messaged her back.

That’s me. What can I do for you?

It was after he had watched the movie that she replied.

Probably best that I keep this in text to give you a chance to think.

My mother gave birth to a son at St Luke’s on the same day as you. Eighteen months ago he took a DNA Ancestry test and found out he had a big streak of Scandinavian in him. We only knew of our lineage from three generations back so didn’t think much of it, but he became obsessed and started pressing me and my sister to take one. A few months later we agreed, found out our DNA is different to his, so he couldn’t be our brother.

Now we haven’t seen him for over a year now; he moved away and doesn’t want to see us. He said he’s not one of our family. Our mother has been very upset, but she also said there was something weird going on between a couple of nurses in the maternity ward when he was born that made her uneasy. She kept quite about it over the years, but since the result of the test she’s said that there was always something wrong inside her. She loved my brother, but felt that part of herself was missing.

Robert closed his laptop. He guessed where this was going and didn’t know if it was a good idea. It was the following morning that he read the rest of the message.

A while ago I started to do some research, hired an ancestry detective, and after some legal wrangling I was able to see the General Registry’s Office records on the babies born at St Luke’s on that day. Yours was one of them.

I don’t want to get ahead of myself, but I wonder if you’ve had a test?

Sorry if this is all a bit intrusive and scary, so I won’t say any more for now, and if you don’t get back to me I won’t trouble you again. Thanks for reading this.

It didn’t prove anything but left one loud word in his mind. Wow!

 

This time he needed a couple of days to think, mulling over a lifetime of slights from his mother and the little differences between how she treated him compared with his brother and sister. They were five and seven years older than him, and since he was young had got on OK with them but never been as tight as they were with each other. There was a possibility in the message from Sally that could explain things, but something frightening in the idea that he wasn’t who he had always thought he was. At one point he thought he should ask her to leave him alone, but didn’t even begin to write the message. Then he thought he could avoid a reply and block her from contacting him, but didn’t do that either, sensing that she really needed something from the meeting. Then he came up with an idea that made him more comfortable, replied that he wasn’t sure if it was a good idea to take the DNA test, but maybe it would be useful to meet up and see where that took them.

The following weekend he took a train to London and met Sally outside the Festival Hall. They had a coffee together, maintaining eye contact, and he guessed they were asking themselves the same question, whether they looked like brother and sister. The answer was maybe. There wasn’t a striking resemblance, but there was enough for anyone to believe they were related. Then they went for a short walk and had a beer and burger beside the river. She was a little nervous, smiling with a hint of pain, but didn’t get too emotional and seemed friendly by nature. She said her parents and sister knew she was seeing him, that none of them took anything for granted, but hoped he could help explain what had happened in the hospital.

“Am I the only person you’ve contacted?” he asked.

“You were the only other boy born in the hospital that day. Two others, both girls.”

“What about your brother? You say he’s not in touch anymore.”

“That’s right. It hurts, and if he wants to come back we’ll all be happy, but he was traumatised. And Mum said she’s always felt there was something wrong in her life, vague but strong.”

“You got any pictures?”

She took out her phone and showed him a series of photos of a couple in their sixties, bright eyed and smiling, and herself with another woman in her late thirties, obviously sisters.

“None of your brother?”

“Do you really want to see one?”

He thought for a moment then decided against it.

“What about you?” she asked. “What’s it like with your family?”

He was silent for long enough to make clear it was an awkward question.

“My dad passed away fifteen years ago. I still see my mum, brother and sister. We get along.”

It was bland enough to hint at a lot more. They stared at each other for a while and came to a silent understanding that they wouldn’t take that subject any further. Then they drifted on to talking about other things, that they both enjoyed their work, both liked going to art galleries and watched some of the same shows on TV, but she didn’t like jazz and he couldn’t get into country music. They found it a reason to laugh and just enjoyed each other’s company for an hour. It was when they walked back towards Waterloo, preparing to go in different directions out of London, that he raised the big subject.

“I’m still not sure, but I’ll have a think about taking the test.”

They shared a glance that revealed a glimmer of hope in her eye. She gave him the name of the company her family had used, asked if he could do the same and he agreed. As they parted there was an awkward, as if they might hug, then both pulled back. They shook hands and Sally said she wouldn’t chase him up, but that if it went further he could contact her.

 

Robert ordered the test online and a couple of days later received a package with a tube for his saliva and a prepaid return envelope; but he didn’t use it. An uncertainty was lodged in his mind, a feeling that there was something self-destructive in confirming that he wasn’t a biological part of his family. The following day a mini-crisis blew up at work, demanding concentration and keeping him at his desk into the evenings all week. It was a good excuse to push aside the decision on whether to take the DNA test; and as it receded, he decided to put anything off until after the next visit to his mother.

He began to daydream about asking her some awful questions. Did anything strange happen in the hospital when I was born? Were any of the other mothers in distress? Have you ever wondered if I’m really your son? Even as he drove to her flat he didn’t know whether he was going to ask, but felt sure that if he did the result would be a big emotional mess. It would come with an implication that, whatever she had said to him in the past, he was ungrateful for the effort she and his father had made in raising him. It was scary, maybe too much.

When he rang the doorbell there was no reply. She had known he was going to see her and was always reliable in being she was expected to be. Another ring and no reply, so he let himself in with his spare key, went through to the living room and found her unconscious on the floor.

It led to fourteen hours in a hospital emergency room, a diagnosis of a heart attack and his mother sporadically opening her eyes, mumbling something he couldn’t hear then slipping back into sleep. Michael and Susan arrived and they shared quiet, on-off conversations acknowledging that she had drunk a little too much, never given up cigarettes and not done enough exercise. The doctors told them it was hard to foresee how things would turn out but that she would be in a hospital bed for days, maybe weeks. She was taken for X-rays then moved into a cardiac ward with tubes in her arms and monitors on her chest. Her children sat quietly, felt useless together and waited for a sign that she would know they were there. It came at around 2.00 am. She opened her eyes and turned her head a little.

“Mum. We’re all here.”

She looked at them for a moment, then pushed quiet sounds through her lips.

“Micheal …. Susan ….” Then a gasp. Robert told himself that was meant to be his name. His mother kept her eyes on them without speaking for a few seconds, then closed them again and turned her head back. Susan squeezed her hand and they sat silently with her until a nurse appeared and advised them to go home for some rest.

The following day they coordinated who would go in when, so late in the afternoon Robert sat by her bed alone, watching an occasional flicker in her eye, occasionally saying something without receiving answer. He kept thinking of the day before, when she had muttered his siblings’ names and wondered if she really had followed it up with his. After an hour by the bed, and ten minutes without sign of her being awake, he allowed the question onto his lips.

“Mum, when I was born, did anything happen in the hospital? Was there anything to make you think that maybe I wasn’t your baby?”

For a moment there was nothing, but then her hand twitched and moved a little towards his. He moved his own to touch it, then her eyes opened and she squeezed out a semblance of words.

“Don’t know…. Mine, or …. Baby …. Love ….”

She slipped back into sleep. He sat with her for another twenty minutes, then kissed her on the forehead and left.

That evening he messaged Sally.

My mother is very ill in hospital. Sorry, can’t do anything for now.

He sent it before he realised the significance of saying my mother, and told himself that must have made up his mind.

Within minutes Sally replied: I understand.

 

The following morning he received the call that his mother had passed away.

 

The next three weeks were filled with conversations with family and acquaintances, making arrangements for the funeral and dealing with the administration of a death. The will was what he had been told to expect, an even split between himself, Michael and Susan, most of it in the value of his mother’s flat. It came with a swirl of emotions that Robert managed to keep in check without really feeling in control. He kept working, glad for the distraction, and thoughts of the DNA test fell out of his head. It didn’t seem relevant; his mother had just died.

It was only on the day before the funeral that he felt a twinge of guilt at having kept Sally waiting and thought that he ought to tell her there was nothing happening. He would tell her what had happened, that he felt bad but couldn’t handle another big upheaval and it was better to stand back. He wouldn’t tell her that he couldn’t shake off the thought that it would be an act of disrespect to his dead mother. But he put off telling her anything, deciding that a couple of days after the funeral would be a better time, for the sake of his own mind.

The day came and the service was what he expected. Michael and Susan stood with him on the front pew of the chapel, their spouses to either side and teenage children in the row behind, with another thirty or so people scattered on the benches behind. They listened to a celebrant make respectful remarks about person she had never known, and while Susan read a eulogy that praised qualities in his mother – kindness, a gentle sense of fun, tolerance of others – that he didn’t recognise. He didn’t have to fake his sad face and, as they began to leave the chapel, he kissed his fingertips and touched the coffin. Then he joined in the rounds of shaking hands, kissing cheeks and accepting condolences, wondering how many were heartfelt and how many purely polite. Then they went to the function room of a pub near their mother’s flat for drinks and a buffet. People began to leave after an hour and within another thirty minutes they were down to a dozen and everyone seemed in the mood to go home. It had gone on long enough to be respectable. Robert paid the drinks bill, Susan told the manager she could place the uneaten food on the pub bar, and they stepped outside for their lifts home. Susan approached and gave him a brief hug, then Michael appeared and shared an ever shorter embrace. Robert turned away and shook the hand of a cousin, reckoning he was ready for a walk to the train station. Then he looked back and saw that Michael and Susan had fallen into each other’s arms and stood in a long, grief stricken embrace. There were quiet sobs, sympathetic faces around them, and he knew that he wasn’t part of it ….. especially now his mother was gone.

 

That evening he thought about Sally and the possibility that she was his sister. The following day he swabbed the inside of his mouth and placed the stick with his DNA inside the plastic bottle, then placed it into the envelope and walked to the local post box.

 

Image by geralt CC0 via Wiikimedia Commons

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