I know it’s important. This is the last time it’s going to be just the three of us. It’s going to be so different being four. So weird. And a part of me wishes I could just turn the clocks back. Maybe if I tried hard enough I could turn them right back to Alfie and find a way to keep him alive.
We hold hands and I try really, really hard to block everything else out. I try to push away the sick burning in my throat, and the stupid thoughts and the whirring damselflies and tight skipping-rope knot in my tummy. I try to focus. I cross my toes and hope that Anna and Luca or Izzy and Scarlett won’t walk in, because they’ll think I’m a total freak if they see me like this – and a freak is much, much worse than a dork.
“I just want to say thank you,” Mum says, looking at me and then at Dad. “You know… for being my family. For loving me even when I’m all anxious and panicked. For being patient when I’m shut up in my studio making mermaid sculptures for hours.”
Dad doesn’t say anything, but a lump the size of a frog keeps bobbing up and down in his throat. He gazes at us one at a time and gently squeezes our hands. Then his voice croaks open. “I love you, my special girls.”
Tears well up in my eyes and I can’t help it. I forget about Anna and Luca and looking like a dork and I forget about all the crazy thoughts spinning through my brain because I know deep down that none of that really matters. I know that my mum and dad love me.
“Thank you too,” I say. My voice goes squeaky and fat silver tears spill over and leave snail trails on my cheeks. A huge wave of love pulls through me. “You’re the bestest parents in the world, even though you worry about me way too much. I love you. And I’m glad that when I was a tiny star I chose you to be my mum and dad.”
Mum’s cheeks flush pink and Dad can’t stop smiling through his tears. And I want to smile and cry too because I mean what I say. But there’s this earthquake rumbling beneath me, this empty place growing bigger inside.
“Dad,” I say, “do you think adopted children pick out their birth family and their new family when they’re just tiny stars in the sky? Do you think they know deep down what’s going to happen to them?” And I can’t help adding, “Do you think Alfie knew he was going to die?”
“I’d like to believe that’s the case, sweetheart,” he says, “but no one really knows, not absolutely for sure.”
We drift like clouds into our own private thoughts and I stare at my slab of coffee-and-walnut cake. I hope Dad is right. Because then somehow dying or getting adopted wouldn’t seem so bad. Somehow, whatever’s going to happen to me wouldn’t worry me so much because it was all meant to be.
I just wish someone would tell me if it actually is true or not, or that I could zoom up to the stars and ask them, or up to heaven and ask Alfie.
We drive into the city and when we arrive at Cat’s foster home, 14 Navy Way, my legs turn to jelly. Dad knocks at the door and a kind-looking lady with a very big bottom, soft green eyes and three little kids clinging to her legs appears.
“Hello,” she smiles. She looks at me. “I’m Tania and you must be Maya. Lovely to meet you.” She bustles us all down the sunny hallway. “Come on, come on in.”
Then we get to this other door. It’s painted white and has little black chip marks and sticky grey fingerprints all over it. Tania stops at the door then looks at me and smiles.
“Ready?” she says.
My tummy starts flipping and twisting and knotting because I know that Cat is on the other side of the door. I cling to Mum’s hand. My knees are virtually knocking against each other and I wish Alfie were here too. Tania opens the door and a girl on the sofa with beetle-black hair and cherry red lips half stands up then sits back down. She makes a little wave at Mum and Dad and then starts twiddling her fingers, keeping her eyes stuck fast to the floor.
“Here she is,” says Tania. “Come in and say hello.”
We shuffle in and sit down. My heart is drumming in my ears so loud all the other sounds disappear.
“Hello, Cat,” says Mum. “This is Maya.” Her eyes start brimming over with tears. “And, Maya, this is Cat.”
Cat flicks her eyes up to me then sticks them back on the carpet, like the pattern is suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. She keeps twiddling and twiddling. Mum sits down next to her on the faded green sofa and gently shuffles a little bit closer.
“Hi,” mumbles Cat.
“Hi,” I say, my voice cracking open.
And then my legs wobble and I stare at the carpet too. I’m feeling so dizzy that the pattern starts swirling around, making me feel sick again. I don’t know what to do. I should say something friendly or serious because this is a really serious moment in my life. This is my sister. My sister!
I’ve waited for her forever and here she is in front of me and I’m just standing here like a dummy. I take a breath and try to say something, but my mouth’s gone dry and my tongue keeps sticking to my teeth. The words in my head start fluttering around like snow in a snow-dome, whirling in the wind and I can’t sweep them up together to make any sense. They keep bundling and sticking in my throat like damp litter. I’d like to hold on to Mum’s hand, or Dad’s, but I’m frozen to the spot. I’m scared, if I move, the coffee-and-walnut cake will come back up and make big mess on Tania’s carpet.
Meeting your new sister for the first time isn’t something you can prepare yourself for. It’s not something you can read about in a book or have a lesson on at school. I thought today would feel really special, like when people bring a new baby home from the hospital, bundled up in a blanket.
Tania coughs. “How about some tea?” she says.
Cat glares at her.
“There’s no reason to wait around,” she says. “I’ve been in this dump long enough.”
Tania sighs and wipes a smile across her face. Then the silence looms again and all we can hear are breathing noises and Mum dabbing a tissue at her stupid quiet tears of joy.
“OK,” says Tania. “Yes, well…”
Then Dad coughs too and I wonder if we’ve all caught some kind of cough infection.
“Come on, girls,” he says. “Let’s go and get some lunch.”
Back in the car we head out of the city towards the pizza place on the beach. Pizza is Cat’s favourite, but she doesn’t look excited or anything, she’s just lolling her head on the window and staring off into space. She’s clutching on to a big book that says, ‘My Life Story Book’, on the front. She keeps twisting it around in her arms as if it’s a baby she’s trying to settle down. I wish I could peep inside and find out more about Cat’s life. I twiddle her present in my hands and roll her name silently around my mouth. It chinks on my teeth like silver. Cat, Cat, Cat. My sister, Cat. My sister. Cat. I dare myself to say it out loud. I really want to.
My sister, Cat.
I want to touch her beetle-black hair because it’s the shiniest I’ve seen and smells vanillery, like custard, not flowery like mine. I want to know what she’s thinking about because I’m scared she’s thinking about us, about Mum and Dad and me, and if she likes us or not. If I could see her eyes properly I might be able to tell, but she’s too busy staring out the window. I wonder what it’s like for her being in the car with us. What it’s like moving to somewhere totally new, to a place where you don’t know anyone.
What is it like being with strangers who are your new family, who are taking you to live in their house where you don’t know stuff, like where the Sellotape lives or what they have for breakfast?