Not My Daughter. Suzy K Quinn

warmth against my chest and the weight of Dee’s chubby hand.

      Dee’s voice becomes urgent. ‘Come on, Lorna.’ She reaches to take the baby.

      ‘NO.’ My arms lock in one tight muscle and the whole room widens its eyes. ‘Just … give me a second.’

      In one swift ‘pulling off a Band-Aid’ movement I get to my feet.

      The registrar smiles. ‘It’s okay. Registering a birth isn’t an interrogation. Just a bit of form-filling.’

      Dee puts an iron-bar arm around my shoulder. I feel like I’m on a rollercoaster – the part where the ride starts and you can’t get off.

      The registrar leads us into his office. There is a UNISON mug on his desk and a half-eaten Trio bar beside it. Two segments left. Trio bars are a peculiarly British sort of candy; too teeny-tiny to ever be popular in the States. I feel homesick, suddenly, for giant Charleston Chew bars.

      ‘The father couldn’t be here today?’ the registrar asks. ‘Or …’

      ‘There’s no father,’ says Dee.

      My hands make fists around the baby.

      There are chairs either side of the desk – sort of like a police interview room. The window overlooks a half-empty parking lot and a green fir tree.

      I drop into the chair, feeling baby Reign against my chest, our heartbeats finding each other – hers like a fluttering leaf, mine like a tribal drum.

      ‘So you have your forms with you?’ the registrar asks.

      ‘Here.’ Dee shoves our envelope to the registrar like it’s a biting animal. Her hand drops on my shoulder and I feel she’s shaking too.

      The registrar opens the folder and flicks through. He makes a clucking sound. ‘You’ve cut this very fine. If you’d left it any later …’

      I nod, but my throat is too tight to reply.

      Then the corners of the registrar’s mouth drop down. ‘You’re only seventeen. You have some support here, do you? Your mother?’

      ‘She’s in the States,’ I say. ‘And she’s not much of a support wherever she is.’

      Dee manages something like a laugh, but her hand is still tight on my shoulder.

      There is a pause, then the registrar says, ‘You had a home birth?’

      I nod, my voice leaving me again.

      He squints at the form. ‘And your sister …’

      ‘She … uh … witnessed the birth.’

      ‘Yes,’ says Dee.

      ‘It was just the two of you at the birth? The father—’

      ‘He’s not in the picture,’ says Dee.

      The registrar hesitates for a moment, and I can tell he wants to ask something else.

       This is it. The part where I break down and lose this baby …

      I risk a glance at Dee. She won’t meet my eye.

      And then it happens.

      The registrar writes my name in neat black ink.

      Mother: Lorna Miller.

      I feel Reign’s warm body in my arms and dampness from Dee’s palm.

      The registrar’s pen moves to the next box.

      Father: unknown.

      It was that easy. Who’d have guessed it would be so easy?

      ‘You’re entitled to benefits,’ says the registrar. ‘Worth looking into. There’s no shame in getting benefits. Especially at your age.’

      ‘It wouldn’t feel right,’ I say. ‘I’m not from here originally. I grew up in the States.’

      ‘What about healthcare?’ Dee asks. ‘My sister … she had cancer, sir.’

      I make urgent eyes – what are you doing? Dee makes apologetic I had to ask eyes back.

      ‘You’ll be entitled to free healthcare,’ says the registrar. ‘What kind of cancer did you have?’

      ‘Bowel,’ I say, just as Dee says, ‘Breast.’

      We look at each other.

      Dee clears her throat. ‘Um … she had both.’

      ‘I’m fine now,’ I insist. ‘Really. Not worth talking about.’

      The registrar glances at me for a moment, then moves to the next box.

      ‘What’s the baby’s name?’ he asks.

      There’s a long silence. Too long. My mind is wrestling with itself. Trying to pin down thoughts.

       I can’t call her Reign. It’s too distinctive. Why didn’t I think of this before?

      ‘Liberty,’ I decide. ‘Like the Statue of Liberty. Freedom.’ And then more words tumble out. ‘She’ll have a middle name too. Liberty Annalise.’

      Dee’s hand clenches my shoulder, her nails digging in. ‘Are you sure you want that name? Annalise? I mean, really?’

      I nod.

      The registrar looks between us. Then he hands me a pen to write the names. Next comes the hard thunk of an official stamp.

      As we walk out of the registrar’s office, I kiss the baby’s soft head over and over again.

      Liberty Annalise Miller.

      It’s official.

      Dee won’t look at me.

      That afternoon, I buy a heavy-duty safe with one-inch-thick steel sides. It costs £150 and takes twenty minutes to carry upstairs.

      I put Liberty’s birth certificate inside the safe, along with all my medical records and lock it up tight.

      The documents are still in there now.

Lorna – Sixteen years later

       ‘Well, well,’ said the old woman, peering out with a crafty look. ‘Haven’t you got a sweet tooth?’

      – HANSEL AND GRETEL

       Why isn’t Liberty home?

      I’m in my workshop, legs crossed in paint-stained yoga pants, gluing tiny hairs into a foam-filled werewolf head.

      Yoga pants? Leggings, Lorna. Leggings. You’ve been in this country seventeen years now. Butt is bum. A knob isn’t always a door handle. And never say ‘move your fanny’ unless you want to cause offence.

      The workshop door is open and I can see our front gate, thick as a fist, the wood warm in the sun.

      Warm.

      Not hot. It’s never hot hot in this country.

      I grew up under scorching California sun, but I’ve learned to love these softer British summers. Diet summer. Summer lite.

       You know Liberty will be late today. All the students will be talking about their mock-exam results.

      These werewolf hairs are a bad job to do while I’m waiting for Liberty. Way too fiddly. But filming starts next week and this guy needs to be ready. It’s ironic that I make monsters for movies, given my past. As ironic as my occasional bacon sandwich with Liberty’s vegan spread. But life never goes like a fairy tale, right? Maybe these teeth could do with more saliva.

      I tap my laptop. The screen