The Secret Sister. Karen Clarke

I headed towards the bedsit address, the rain eased off and my thoughts drifted to Celia. I couldn’t call her my mother anymore. Not after what she’d told me two weeks ago, during one of my rare visits.

      ‘It’s time you knew the truth, Colleen.’ That’s how she’d started the conversation, out of the blue.

      We’d become estranged over the years, but I made the effort to see her now and then. We would sit in her dark kitchen – it was always dark, even with the lights on – and she would make tea, a mug for me, and always a cup and saucer for her. We’d sit at the old pine table, barely saying a word, until it was time for me to leave.

      But it had been different this time.

      ‘I’m not your real mother,’ she’d said, fiddling with her spoon, not looking at me. There was no preamble. No preparation. The words sounded surreal, as though she was trying them out to see what they sounded like. As if it was a game. But Celia never played games.

      ‘What are you on about?’ I said, with a laugh that didn’t sound like mine – not that I laughed often.

      She put down her spoon. ‘She died six months ago,’ she said. ‘Your real mother.’

       Just like that.

      I’d stared at her for what felt like an hour. She kept biting her lower lip with her small teeth, her eyes looking anywhere but at me.

      ‘And you tell me this now?’ My brain couldn’t form a coherent thought. ‘Now I’m thirty-three?’ I paused. ‘When my real mother is dead? Christ, Mam.’

      ‘Don’t blaspheme, Colleen.’

      Seconds passed. I rose and began pacing, questions flooding my mind. Who was my father? Why did my mother leave me with Celia? Was Bryony adopted too? But I knew better than to mention my sister.

      ‘I only found out myself because her death was reported in a magazine.’ Celia’s voice cut through my frantic thoughts, and I stopped pacing. ‘She, Anna, is … was … a successful artist.’

      I sank back down in the chair. ‘Go on.’

      ‘I should have told you a long time ago, I know that,’ she said, her fingers twisting together. ‘I should have given you a chance to find her.’

      ‘Too right, you should have.’ My heart was beating so hard I was surprised she couldn’t hear it.

      ‘I’m sorry.’ Her eyes shimmered with tears, but this was nothing new. Celia spent nearly every moment on the edge of a nervous breakdown. And the truth was, now her words were sinking in, finding out Celia wasn’t my biological mother wasn’t such a shock, not really. It explained so much.

      ‘I wouldn’t have wanted to find her,’ I said, anger bubbling up. ‘Any mother who could give up a child—’

      ‘But you don’t know why, Colleen,’ Celia cut in. Her voice was soft, and her green eyes – eyes I’d thought were like mine – darted around the kitchen as if looking for a quick escape. She rose from the table, smoothed her apron, and went to look out at the garden. It had grown wild since her second husband walked out, years ago, but she had recently cultivated a little vegetable patch. It had made me wonder if she was improving, if her depression of so many years was finally lifting. ‘I want to tell you who your da is too,’ she said, not turning. ‘It’s time you knew everything.’

      ‘Jesus, you’re full of news today,’ I said, my mind reeling. I’d always believed Celia’s first husband – the man we’d lived with in Cork until I was five – had been that man: my father. But Celia was about to destroy that belief too.

      She crossed to a kitchen drawer, opened it, and took out a photo. ‘His name is Reagan Brody.’

      ‘Wasn’t Brody your maiden name?’

      She nodded and sat back down. ‘Reagan’s my brother,’ she said. ‘He lived abroad for a long time, but he’s back now. He’s living in Sligo.’

      ‘Your brother?’ I cried, covering my mouth.

      She nodded, her straight grey hair hanging limply on either side of her face.

      ‘So, I’d have called him Uncle and Da, had I ever met him?’ My voice was rising. ‘What a bloody mess. Jesus Christ.’

      ‘Please don’t take the Lord’s name in vain, Colleen.’

      ‘So he – my father – knew where to find me all along?’ I snatched the photo, hands shaking. It was too much to take in. I stared at his face, trying to convince myself there’d been a terrible mistake. Unable to take in that he was part of the family, and yet he’d never bothered to contact me.

      ‘We thought it was for the best,’ said Celia, her voice calm.

      As I stared at his image, something tugged at my memory. His tanned face, that fair unruly hair, his cheery smile. He looked familiar. Or maybe it was just that I’d inherited his green eyes, not Celia’s.

      I felt so many things, all blended together so they were indistinguishable, my mind buzzing with thoughts. But Celia closed off after her confession, as she so often did; never quite living in the real world.

      Yesterday, after I walked out on Jake, I went round to see her to say goodbye and let her know where I was heading. She’d slipped a piece of paper into my hand.

      ‘I’ve never used it,’ she said, as I read the email address she’d written down. ‘It’s Reagan’s. He sent it to me a couple of years back, in case I needed to get hold of him.’

      She clammed up again after that. I wasn’t even sure she’d heard me tell her where I was going.

      Now, after settling into the bedsit, which was as grubby as I’d feared, I pulled out a bottle of vodka I’d picked up at a nearby off-licence. It wasn’t a good idea, but I still had a throbbing hangover from the night before. I would only have the one little drink, something to smooth the jagged edges, while I thought about finding my father.

       Chapter 2

       Ella

      ‘I didn’t realise Mum had so much stuff.’ The heap of clothes, shoes and boxes looked wrong in the middle of the bedroom.

      Greg came through from the landing, running his hands through his light brown hair. ‘That’s because it was all hidden in cupboards and drawers for years,’ he said, reasonably. ‘And don’t forget there’s at least thirty years’ worth here.’

      ‘Oh God.’ I covered my face with my hands. My earlier optimism that I could clear out her things without feeling upset was fading fast. I wished she hadn’t insisted that I do it. ‘Where am I supposed to put it all?’

      Greg came over and pressed a kiss on top of my head. ‘Unless there’s anything you want to keep, bag up the clothes and shoes for the charity shop. We can shred or burn any paperwork that’s not relevant.’

      ‘It sounds so clinical,’ I said, dropping my hands. ‘I wish I could just leave everything as it was.’

      ‘She knew your dad wouldn’t be able to cope with it,’ Greg reminded me. He was unusually dishevelled, his hair falling over his forehead. ‘Remember you said he’s been sleeping on the sofa.’

      ‘But why get rid of it all?’ I was suddenly close to tears. ‘I thought he’d want to keep Mum’s things around him.’

      ‘That doesn’t work for everyone.’ Greg tilted my chin with his fingers, his hazel eyes sympathetic. ‘After my dad died, Mum couldn’t bear the reminders. That’s why she sold the house and moved abroad.’

      ‘Jesus.’ I shook my head, taking in the familiar sight of