Lifesaving for Beginners

adoptive mother, I mean.’
    Something twists inside. A feeling. Sympathy, perhaps. For this woman who keeps turning into a real person, no matter what I do.
    ‘She died in that car crash. The one you were in. Isn’t that strange?’
    ‘That’s . . . so strange.’
    ‘Perhaps it’s fate.’
    ‘You don’t believe in fate.’
    She doesn’t respond to that. Takes a drink of wine instead. Then she says, ‘She found out she was adopted afterwards. By accident, really.’
    ‘Her parents never told her?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Why would they do that?’
    Mum shakes her head. ‘People make odd decisions every day.’ I glance up but she’s not looking at me. She says, ‘I’m sure they had their reasons.’
    I nod. I don’t know what else to do.
    Mum says, ‘You have to contact her.’
    ‘I thought you didn’t do this.’
    ‘Do what?’
    ‘Interfere. You say you don’t believe in interfering in people’s lives. People can make a mess of their own lives without any help from you. That’s what you say, isn’t it?’ My voice is louder than it has any need to be. I try to get a hold of it.
    She says, ‘This is different.’
    I don’t say anything.
    ‘Faith is my granddaughter.’
    She looks like a grandmother when she says that. There is something frail in her bearing. As if she might break a hip if she fell.
    I say, ‘Did you see her? In the hospital, I mean?’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘The day she was born. Did you see her then?’
    ‘Of course I saw her.’
    ‘I didn’t. I never saw her.’
    ‘What do you mean? You must have seen her.’
    ‘I didn’t. They took her away. And then I signed the papers. And then you drove me home.’
    ‘You must have seen her. You gave birth to her.’
    ‘I didn’t even know she was a girl.’
    ‘You must have known.’
    ‘Why do you keep telling me what I must have seen and must have known? I’m telling you I didn’t. I told them not to tell me. And I’m not being fanciful . I’m merely stating a fact.’
    Mum opens her mouth, then closes it. She reaches for her glass. Changes her mind. Looks at me. Says, ‘Maybe if you’d seen her, you might have changed your mind.’
    ‘I never made up my mind. You did that. You made all the arrangements, remember?’
    ‘I only did what I thought was best.’
    I say, ‘When did you decide? About the adoption, I mean.’
    ‘I . . . as soon as I found out. When Ed brought me round to Mrs Driver’s house and I saw you, on the couch.’
    ‘You were very composed.’
    ‘Somebody had to be.’ She seems angry now. She hurls the words, like stones. Throws them at me.
    ‘I was scared. I was fifteen years old.’
    ‘You were old enough to know better.’
    ‘I was a child. I didn’t know anything.’
    ‘You knew enough to get yourself into that state in the first place.’
    ‘That’s charming, so it is.’
    ‘Somebody had to take charge. Make a decision.’
    ‘You could have discussed it with me.’
    ‘You were in no position to discuss anything. You were hysterical.’
    ‘I was in labour.’
    ‘Somebody had to come up with a plan.’
    ‘Well, you certainly did that.’
    ‘I thought it was for the best.’
    ‘You keep saying that.’
    She glares at me but says nothing.
    I take a drink. Put my glass down. Pick it up again. Take another drink. A longer one. I say, ‘And now what? You’re disregarding all that and you think I should make contact with her and we’ll be like the Brady Bunch and live happily ever after?’ My voice shakes. I think I’m angry. I feel like breaking something. Hurling something heavy against a window. There’s an ashtray somewhere. A Waterford Crystal one. That would do.
    For the first time since she arrived, she looks at me. Really looks at me. Looks at my face. She says, ‘Yes.’
    I say, ‘No.’
    She puts her head in her hands. For a moment, I think she’s crying.
    ‘I’m sorry, Mum. But I can’t. I just . . . I can’t. I wouldn’t know what to say. Where to start. I wouldn’t be able for that.’
    She nods. Her head is still in her hands but I see now that she’s not crying. I am glad. I can deal with anger and resentment. But sadness is a different animal altogether. Sadness can encourage you to make promises you can’t keep.
    She takes her hands away. Bits of her face are red where her fingers have gripped too tightly. She stands up. ‘I’ll go.’
    I stand as well. My legs shake and I think it might be relief. She looks at me. ‘You’re not going to