Work Text:
Lisa found out on a rainy Tuesday morning.
Kit told her, awkward and long and out of place, and her first thought was – how would she tell Carla?
Carla arrived ten minutes later into the empty interrogation room that Kit had led her too, probably assuming she’d start crying and want some privacy.
“Lovey?” Carla said, as she knelt by her chair. “Kit called. He said – you'd had some bad news.”
It only took three words, in the end.
“My Dad died.”
Lisa heard Carla’s sharp intake of breath. Everything else was fuzzy at the edges, like nothing outside this room existed, but the sound Carla made was crystal clear.
“Oh, love –” Carla started, but Lisa interrupted her, not wanting to hear the platitudes that people said when someone died, she'd already heard them all before when Becky -
“I hadn’t – I hadn’t seen him in years.”
There was silence. Carla was looking up at her, rubbing her hand over her thigh, and Lisa couldn't quite meet her eye. “Let’s go home.” Carla murmured.
Lisa snapped her head up. “What? No, it’s barely eleven. I can’t leave now.”
“Lisa… your dad just died. You can leave work early.” Carla said, her voice soft, and Lisa bristled against it – she'd never done well with nice.
“He died a week ago. My brother had an old number, so he rang the station in the end.”
“You have a brother?” Carla said, her eyes wide. “I think we need to go home –”
“No.” Lisa stood up, and Carla stood up with her. “I’m going back to work. I’m sorry Kit called you.”
“Wait – Betsy’s at the factory – should I tell her what’s happened? She knows I came to see you – I can tell her, or I can just say you forgot your lunch or something –” Carla said, and her hands fluttering at her sides, and Lisa knew she was fighting the urge to reach out to her.
Lisa shut her eyes. She didn’t want to do any of this - not here, not anywhere.
“I can tell her, if you need me too, sweetheart. Whatever you need.” Carla said gently, and Lisa sobbed, covering her mouth with her hand. Why didn’t this hurt for her? Instead, she ached for Betsy, ached for the girl who didn’t know her own family and now never could.
“Let me take you home.” Carla pleaded, and Lisa shook her head.
“No, I’m okay –” She mumbled, then took a deep breath in and wiped her eyes deftly. “You can tell her, if you want. She barely knew him.”
///
Carla arrived back at the factory in a daze, unable to get the image of her wife’s vacant expression crumpling into a sob out of her mind. Betsy was still in her office, curled up in an armchair, sketching a design on a notebook, and she looked up when Carla entered.
“Hey! She okay? Did she forget lunch again?” Betsy hummed, as Carla dropped her bag down and sat down next to her.
“Lovey… I’ve got some sad news.”
“Is it Mum?” Betsy’s eyes widened, a look of pure panic crossing her face, and Carla shook her head quickly.
“No, she’s okay, but –” Carla took a deep breath. “Your Grandad – Lisa’s dad – he’s passed away.”
“Oh.” Betsy said, her expression unchanging.
“I don’t know any more than that, I’m sorry.”
“Is Mum okay?”
“No.” Carla said, and bit her lip. “I tried to get her to leave, but she insisted she finish her day. I think it might hit her at some point, so Kit’s going to call if it does, and he’s going to try and keep her at her desk.”
“Oh, right.” Betsy said softly. “I don’t – I don’t know if I ever met him, or maybe I did as a baby. Mum never talks about her family.”
“Did you know she has a brother?”
“Yeah.” Betsy said. “Did you?”
“I had no idea.” Carla said and sat back in her chair. “She never mentioned him.”
///
It was 8PM by the time Lisa got home, dragging herself through the door. She might have stayed later, staring blankly at her computer screen, but Kit had threatened to call DI Thompson if she didn’t leave, so she’d reluctantly made her way home.
Her family was busy in the kitchen, and they didn't notice her at first – Betsy was sat on the kitchen counter, stirring something in a bowl, Ryan had his head in the fridge and Carla was puzzling over a cookery book. They must be baking, Lisa realised, because there was flour everywhere, and Ryan cheered as he pulled something out the fridge.
"I knew we had cream cheese!"
"Mum?" Betsy had looked up, and Lisa was busted. Everyone stopped and turned to her.
"What's happening?" Lisa said, and Carla smiled at her softly.
"Thought we'd bake some banana bread. Ryan's making cream cheese icing."
“Right, okay.” Lisa said. “I’ll - uh – I need a shower -”
"Lise, wait -” Carla dropped the book, and made her way towards her. “Are you okay? If you need to talk -”
"What I need is a shower." Lisa snapped, then pulled back slightly. "Sorry." She mumbled, at Carla's hurt expression. "Sorry – I will. Talk. Just give me some time."
"We'll be here when you're ready." Carla said gently, far more gently than Lisa deserved, and Lisa could only nod.
When she came downstairs, in her pyjamas, her hair tied up in a loose, wet bun, it was much later, and the whole house smelt like banana bread. Perhaps naively, Lisa had hoped everyone would have gone to bed, and she could avoid the conversation they needed to have, but everyone had stayed up, sprawled out over the sofas and the armchair, eating the treat they just baked. Ryan noticed her first, giving her an encouraging smile, as Lisa padded down the stairs. Betsy and Carla sat up too, Betsy shuffling along to make space between them, and Lisa sat down gingerly.
"Any for me?" She said quietly, and Ryan nodded, and jumped up to get her some.
"Mum – are you okay?" Betsy said, somewhat apprehensively. "Carla told me... that your dad died."
"Yes, he did." Lisa said softly and took the plate offered by Ryan. "Well... not really. Sort of."
"I'm not sure I understand, lovey." Carla said gently.
“I'm adopted.”
There was silence.
Lisa didn't dare look up, just looked at her plate, the cream cheese icing slowly melting into the warm banana bread.
"What?" Betsy said, her voice small, then she continued, a little louder, an edge of anger in her tone. “You have literally never mentioned this.”
“It's not something I talk about.” Lisa said, her voice taut. “I found out by accident when I was eight. I found some documents I shouldn't have. My parents said they would have told me when I was twenty-one, and that - well, I shouldn't mention it. And I didn't. I still don't.”
“Is your brother also adopted?” Betsy asked, and Lisa shook her head.
“How old were you? When you were adopted?” Carla asked softly.
“Three. I think I can remember some things about being in care, but… maybe it's just wishful thinking.”
“You were in care?” Betsy's voice was higher now, and Lisa kept her gaze trained on the plate, everything else a blur at the edge of her vision.
“I was put into care when I was born.” Lisa said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I - uh - I looked her up, when I joined the force. My birth Mum. She was nineteen. That's all I really know.”
“But… why have you never told me this?” Betsy pressed. “Literally no mention -”
“Betsy, ease off -” Ryan spoke for the first time, and Lisa jerked her head up.
“It's not something I like about myself; it's not something I wanted you to dislike about me too.” Lisa snapped, and the room went quiet.
“Mum… it's not something that I could not like about you.” Betsy said. “It's just… a thing.”
“It's a part of you.” Carla said, and gently eased the plate out of her hands and put it on the coffee table, so she could thread their fingers together. “And - well, we all love you, all the parts. I don't think there's a part of you I don't love.”
Lisa looked up at her wife's expression – there wasn't any anger or apprehension, no revulsion or disgust - and it didn't make any sense, none of it did, and she swallowed back her tears.
"I'm sorry." She mumbled, not sure what she was apologising for.
///
It had been a strange few days.
That night, Carla had gotten Lisa to bed, then held her all night as her pain poured out of her, Lisa sobbing into her shoulder until she tired herself out enough to fall into a fitful sleep. In the morning, Carla had woken up to find Lisa was already gone.
They barely saw each other over the rest of the week, Carla receiving more updates about Lisa from Kit than she did from the woman herself, until Lisa forwarded her an email, containing the details of her father’s funeral, which was taking place that weekend.
It was then that Carla learnt his name - Geoffrey Swain, 1943-2026.
There was a brief biography – he’d married his wife, Linda, in 1971, and he’d been a headteacher at a secondary school for most of his career – and there were a few pictures too, including one of him, and what must be Mark, Lisa's brother, and his three kids – Betsy’s cousins – all girls, around her age, all brunette, just like Betsy was now. Lisa was only mentioned in the last paragraph.
Geoffrey leaves behind his wife, Linda, and his son, Mark, and daughter, Lisa, and four granddaughters.
Carla tried to talk to her wife about it, about any of it, but Lisa had taken an extra nightshift as overtime.
"Can I borrow something of yours for the funeral?” Betsy said, as she stuck her head in the room. It was early, much too early, and Lisa had only gotten back from the nightshift an hour previously and had gotten straight into the shower. They needed to leave soon to make it in good time to the church.
"Yeah, knock yourself out." Carla hummed, as she sat at her vanity. She’d already put on what she was wearing - slim black trousers, a black blouse – and was putting the final touches to her make up.
"I'm glad you wear so much black, I've got choices." Betsy said, her head in the wardrobe, pulling out a few options. "What's Mum wearing? Her smart police uniform?"
"Don't know, but she didn't get it dry cleaned, so maybe not? Is it just for official business?"
"She proposed to you in it, that was hardly official business."
Carla smiled softly. “You’re right there. Maybe one of her work suits then, the normal ones. She's got plenty to choose from."
"Where is she?"
"Shower."
"Right." Betsy said, then it her lip, and sat on the bed, a dress in her hands. "Last funeral I went to was Mason."
Carla turned around on her stool to look at her step-daughter. "It's never easy, Bets."
"The one before was Becky." Betsy's voice was soft and far away. "Obviously it wasn't real, I guess I was crying over a box of sand or summat. But it was real then." She took a deep breath. "It was awful. Really awful. I - I couldn't stop crying and people - mostly Mum's colleagues - kept coming up to me and saying how sorry they were, and I wanted to scream at them. I did, a bit, and Mum had to take me back to the car 'cause I was making a scene. It was the worst I've ever felt in my whole life."
"Oh, Betsy -"
"Just feels like a joke now, don't it? Crying for someone who doesn't deserve those tears."
"It was still real for you then."
"Yeah. I guess." Betsy said softly. "Can I borrow some earrings too? I think all mine are too casual."
"Yeah, 'course." Carla said, and gestured to her velvet jewellery box, sat on a chest of drawers. "Knock yourself out - not my pearls though, they're special. I'm wearing them."
"Why are they special?"
"I was left them by my Dad after he died." Carla said, her voice soft. "They were my Grandma's, originally. I never met the woman, and she never knew I existed, but I've got a picture of her somewhere. I wore them to my Dad's funeral."
"Oh, right." Betsy said. "I'm sorry. About your Dad."
"S'okay. Besides, it's not about me today, it's about you and your Mam."
"Me?"
"You lost someone too."
"I hardly knew him." Betsy said. "He didn't know me at all."
“That’s his loss.” Carla said softly, and Betsy looked at her, then shrugged.
“Maybe. Am I okay to wear this one?” She held up the dress, and Carla nodded.
"Not too long, okay? We need to leave soon. It's a long drive."
///
Lisa stood in the bathroom, applying the last of her mascara, then combing her freshly blow-dried hair into a low bun. Her outfit was hung up on the back of the door. She'd bought it online – the first skirt she'd owned in her adult life. As she put it on, it felt like putting on someone else's clothes, and in a perverse way, it helped – maybe this was all happening to someone else, and Lisa, the real Lisa, was safe and tucked up in bed with her wife. Lisa looked in the mirror and didn't recognise the face that stared back.
"Lise? Are you ready?" Carla called softly, and Lisa took a deep breath, pushing down the bile in her throat, and opened the door.
Her wife looked gorgeous, dressed in black trousers and a black blouse, just like the one Lisa had borrowed all that time ago, after Betsy had thrown water on her and she'd ended things, not even a full day after they'd started. How lucky she was, that Carla had given her a second chance after it all. There were pearl earrings glinting in her ears, and Lisa's breath caught in her throat – those were the earrings that Johnny had left for Carla after he'd died.
Carla's hands reached out for her, fixing the collar of her blouse, then her hair.
"Are you okay, darling?" Carla said softly, then her eyes widened as she took in the whole outfit. "A skirt?"
"Yeah." Lisa mumbled, then took a deep breath. "Maybe it's best if … if just me and Betsy go."
There was silence.
"Oh. Right." Carla swallowed, visibly wilting, and Lisa hated herself more than ever. "I mean - I can wear a dress -"
It wasn't that, but Lisa couldn't explain, there was so much she couldn't say out loud – that when her brother had found out that she'd kissed a girl at a party aged 14, he'd spat on her, the blob of saliva sticky and dirty on her face, how when she was eighteen, she'd told her Mum that the girl she'd been calling her best friend for two years was actually her girlfriend, and Linda had looked at her, resigned, and told her that she should never tell this to her father because it would break his heart.
Carla didn't deserve that, didn't deserve the stares or the whispers or the disappointed look from her Mum and the revulsion from her brother. It was better to keep her as far away from it all as possible.
"It's okay, I just - I don't want to be the centre of attention. Not today." Lisa mumbled.
"Yeah. I get that." Carla nodded, far more gracious than Lisa deserved. "Can I drop you off and pick you up again? I'll park down the road."
"We can get a cab -"
"I'd like to."
"Are we going?" Betsy said, emerging from the bedroom, putting in one of her earrings. She looked so grown-up – she was wearing one of Carla's dresses, Lisa recognised it instantly, it was simple, with a skirt slightly above her knees and sleeves finishing just above her elbow, and she was holding a pair of black heels, with her newly dyed brunette hair curled over both shoulders.
"Mum? Why … why are you wearing a skirt?" Betsy looked at her, a bit horrified.
"I just wanted to." Lisa snapped. "Let's go. We'll be late."
///
The drive was long and quiet. Lisa was asleep as soon as they got onto the motorway, likely exhausted from her night-shift, and Betsy was sat in the back, plugged into her headphones, and Carla was left alone. She looked over at her wife, curled in on herself, face creased with worry, and it hurt so badly, to see her wife struggling, to see her with her walls so high she could barely make eye contact with anyone, skittish and sleep deprived, but Carla knew Lisa like this, knew if she pushed too far, she would close down so completely there would be no coming back.
Lisa began to wake when they pulled off the motorway and made their way through the winding streets, Carla searching for a parking space.
"Here's okay. There's no parking at the church." Lisa said, her voice rough from sleep. It was the first thing she'd said since they left the house.
"We're here?" Betsy said, pulling off her headphones, as Carla parked up, the car engine rattling into silence.
"Yeah, we are." Carla said softly, and looked over at her wife, imploring her – let me be with you, let me stay by your side -
"Will you be alright here?" Lisa asked, and Carla nodded.
"Wait – Carla, you're not coming?" Betsy said, outraged. "You drove us here -"
"It's okay, Betsy, your Mum wanted -"
"If Carla's not going then neither am I." Betsy said, stubborn as ever, and Lisa snapped.
"Fine. We're already late. Do whatever you want."
Without another word, she got out the car and got out, grabbing her bag and slamming the door. Betsy got out, and Carla wondered if she was about to follow Lisa, but instead she moved round to the passenger side, yanked the door open, and sat in the front seat.
They sat in the car in silence, Betsy’s arms held tight around her, as Carla tipped her head back against the head rest.
“I don’t get it.” Betsy said, the sound bursting out of her into the quiet of the car, and Carla jumped. "I've never seen her in a skirt before. Never. Literally my whole life. I don't like it. What the hell is she trying to prove? Like anyone would care."
"I think she worries that some people would care." Carla said. "You should go with her, Bets."
"No! Not if you're not there -"
“She asked me not to be.”
“Why?”
"She doesn't want to make a scene at her Dad's funeral." Carla said softly.
"A scene? You guys are married! If anyone doesn't like it, they can shove it -"
"And you think my introduction to the family should be a blazing row in a graveyard? Making Lisa choose between me and her grieving family?" Carla bit her lip. "Look, Bets, I hate it. Of course I hate it. If I were a man I could go in and no one would bat an eye, but - that's it, isn't it? Your Mam doesn't want stares. She's just lost her Dad, and I think it'll hit her any moment that he's actually gone. She doesn't want to be looked at."
Betsy slumped back in the seat. "They'll look at me too. Lisa's kid who she had with a kidnapping nutter." She muttered.
"She wanted you there."
"You just gonna make me feel guilty?" Betsy looked at her, an eyebrow raised her eyebrow, and Carla shook her head.
"No, I'm just stating a fact."
"I don’t think I’ve even met most of them, the Swains." Betsy said. "It's not like any of them bothered keeping up with me or Mum."
"You're not going for them. You're going for Lisa."
"Who’s she going for?"
"Hopefully herself." Carla said quietly.
They sat in silence.
"Maybe I should go." Betsy said, her voice softer now. "I mean - she was there for me, for Mason's funeral. It was awful, but she was there. When I was so scared of people looking at me.”
"I think you should do what you think is right."
Betsy groaned. "This is gonna suck so fucking bad."
"Probably." Carla said, as Betsy turned to her.
"You'll be okay? On your own?"
"Brought my laptop so I can do some work." Carla said. "Text me when you're done, or if you need me."
"Okay. Thanks, Carla." Betsy said, and reached over and have her a hug. “Love you.”
“Love you too, kidda.” Carla said softly, and gave her a squeeze.
///
The church was grey and squat and familiar, a landmark from Lisa’s walk to school as a child, her hand clutched in her Mum’s - down the road and round the grey church and passed the pub with the greyhound on the sign, passed the corner shop where little Lisa was desperate to duck inside and buy a paper bag of penny sweets, and then the large school gates.
Lisa looked up the road. The sign of the pub was swinging gently in the breeze.
She flexed her hand, so used to holding Carla’s when she was nervous that she felt empty without it. She forced herself up the stairs of the churchyard to the church itself, fighting against her instinct to turn and bolt, to run back to the car with her wife in daughter and beg them to drive her home and away from this horrible place.
Her Mum, Linda Swain, was stood by the church door. She was dressed in a black dress and jacket, her steely grey hair shaped into a bob, pearls perched on her neckline. Her mouth was pulled tight, deep wrinkles at the corners of her mouth and eyes, and her hands were clasped in front of her, her diamond wedding ring glinting in the morning light.
Lisa reached for her own, subconsciously. Would she notice?
“Mum.” Lisa said softly. They hadn’t seen each other in years.
“Lisa.” Linda looked at her. “Thank you for wearing something appropriate. Where's Elizabeth?”
“Betsy couldn't make it.” Lisa said and bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from crying.
“Oh.” Linda said. “Well, go inside then. Everyone is waiting.”
Lisa's heeled boots clacked as she walked down the tiled floor, then slid into the pew. People were looking at her and whispering, the whole church buzzing with the sound of hushed voices.
That wasn’t unusual – the weeks Roy was in jail, Lisa couldn’t walk down the street without people staring and whispering, occasionally pointing, and now Lisa fully knew why – once, Roy had lost a crisp packet from taking out the bins, and after chasing it fruitlessly for forty minutes, he came to the station to report himself for littering. The idea he could murder anyone was absurd.
This was different. They weren’t talking about her poor judgement or recent arrest records, they were gossiping about her – the wayward child, the black sheep, the lesbian, the kid they’d saved from the orphanage who’d turned out to be such a disappointment.
Lisa sat in the row behind her brother’s kids – three almost-grown women now, slightly older than Betsy - Catherine, Charlotte and Madison. She’d never even met Madison, and now she was in front of her, a teenager surreptitiously on her phone before her older sister elbowed her to put it away. Miranda, Mark’s wife, sat on the end, her dark coat heavy with cigarette smoke.
No one else had sat in her row. People filtered in around her, filling up every other pew, looking and looking at her, whispering and staring as Lisa sat, her hands twisting in her lap, looking at the carved wood of the pew in front of her.
They weren’t a family that often went to church. Her Mum had gone through a phase of making them go when Lisa was nine – Mark groaned the whole time, fifteen and full of teenage indignation, and her Dad didn’t come at all – but Lisa had gone, eyes smarting from some argument about why she couldn’t wear trousers and had to wear her best dress, staring up at the saints in the window and wondering when the vicar would explain why it was so wrong to wear trousers in church.
The vicar was stood at the front, whispering to her Mum. It would be starting soon. Just before the doors shut, there was the sound of footsteps, and Lisa didn’t look up until they stopped at her row.
Betsy slid in next to her wordlessly, the pried her hand from where it was balled in her lap and threaded their fingers together.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Before she could say anything, the organ started up and the doors opened, and Lisa stood up and turned, her hand tight in her Betsy’s. She didn’t recognise most of the people carrying her dad’s coffin, but she recognised Mark, her brother, looking so much like her Dad it was painful. Mark had more lines around his face, his dark eyes framed by crow’s feet, his dark hair flecked with grey, and he was in a long, black wool coat, a black suit and leather gloves. Their eyes met briefly, but he didn’t react to seeing her.
The tears came then.
The pallbearers set the coffin down carefully, and Lisa could see the spray of flowers on top – pale blue petals, for Manchester City, and white roses and yellow carnations.
“Here.” Betsy whispered, and handed Lisa a pack of tissues from her bag, which she took with a grateful smile, and they all sat down.
The rhythmic words of the vicar washed over her, but Lisa couldn’t hear them, she was shaking, Betsy’s hand still clutched in her grasp. Instead, she focused on the paper that had been laid in her seat – the order of service. They’d used a nice picture of her Dad at least. He was smiling, he rarely did that – or maybe he did, and Lisa just hadn’t known him happy. She read and reread the eulogy, her brain stuck on the final paragraph -
Geoffrey leaves behind his wife, Linda, and his son, Mark, and daughter, Lisa, and four granddaughters.
Leaves behind. As if he hadn't left her behind years ago.
She blinked, and the service was over. They sat there was the church emptied out, until Betsy gently tugged her upright and they walked out into the bright sunshine.
“You okay?” Betsy said softly, and Lisa couldn’t respond.
“Lisa?”
It was Mark, and Lisa turned. He was surrounded by his family, his wife and daughters eyeing her curiously.
“I’m sorry, Lisa, but the car’s full. To go back to the house.” Mark said, his hands in his pockets. “Are you okay with walking? Do you know the way?”
Lisa nodded, mute.
“C’mon Mum.” Betsy said softly. “Let’s go.”
///
It wasn’t a long walk, back to her childhood house. Lisa knew it by heart.
They didn’t speak, just walked arm in arm, separate from the other mourners, until Lisa’s heart rate picked up when she made the turn onto the street that the house was on.
“This is where you lived? From when you were a kid?” Betsy said, and Lisa could only nod. “Is your bedroom here, from when you were a kid?”
“They’ve probably redecorated, Bets.” Lisa said softly.
“What was it like?”
“Purple.” Lisa said. “Lots of books.”
Betsy started to lead them up the garden path, but Lisa stopped, suddenly able to go any further.
“Bets, can you -” Lisa swallowed. “Why don’t you go inside and get some food, okay? I just need a minute.”
“Yeah, sure.” Betsy said softly, squeezed her hand, then disappeared into the house.
Lisa ended up sat on the wall, watching as people meandered into the house, all in black.
Would it smell the same? Was the kitchen still pine, with the curtains with a blue swirl pattern? Were there still the brown couches in the living room, the same stain on carpet where Lisa had, aged five, spilled her hot chocolate and tried to hide it by moving the rug? Could she still climb the stairs in three strides, could she still fit on the windowsill in her bedroom, her arms around her knees, and look out over the back garden to the fields beyond?
Lisa blinked, there were tears on her cheeks, and she squeezed her hands tight against the rough texture of the brick wall, but it didn’t help, and she bent forwards, sobs suddenly wracking her chest.
What if everything had changed? What if nothing had?
Her hands found her phone in her purse, and the screen lit up. Her background was a photo Ryan had taken on the day of the wedding – bathed in multicoloured lights, she was dancing close with Carla, their foreheads pressed together.
Carla didn’t belong here, in this stuck place, in the place she’d left at nineteen and never looked back, and Lisa squeezed her eyes tight shut. She didn’t want to mix them, her past and her future, but her heart was breaking and she ached for Carla, ached for her wife to come and hold her and make it all better.
She looked at the photo again and took a deep breath. Carla would want to be there for her. Carla was sat in her car three streets away because that’s the closest she could be, and all Lisa had to do was let her in.
Lisa pressed the call button, her head shaking, tears still streaming down her cheeks.
“Lisa?”
“Will you come and get me?”
Carla sighed, her relief evident even over the phone.
“Of course, baby, of course I will. Can you tell me where you are?”
“I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Carla, I don't want -” Lisa sobbed, and she couldn't stop, couldn't catch her breath, her phone clutched in her hand like a lifeline. “I'm so sorry -”
“Breathe for me, Lisa, darling, just breathe. Take a deep breath for me – you can follow my voice, can't you, lovey? In for one – two – three -”
Carla's voice washed over her, the sound comforting, and Lisa was able to catch her breath.
“Okay, lovey?”
“I'm okay.” Lisa mumbled.
“Where's Betsy?”
“Filling up on sausage rolls and pringles, probably.”
“Oh, a girl after my own heart.” Carla said, and Lisa smiled, just a little. “Do you still want me to come?”
“Yes please.” Lisa swallowed. “I should never have asked you not to, I should never have done that - ”
“It's okay, darling. We don't have to talk about it now.” Carla soothed. “I’ll be two minutes, okay? Keep taking those deep breaths. I love you.”
“Love you too.” Lisa mumbled, then hung up.
Maybe it was because she knew her wife was nearby, but Lisa felt like she could breathe for the first time since she heard the news, and she looked up at the warm blue sky, and let the tears roll down her cheeks as people dressed in black wandered into the house behind her.
Carla parked slightly down the road, and Lisa watched as she got out and walked down the road, her handbag on her shoulder, and Lisa couldn’t help but smile. When Carla reached her, Lisa wrapped her arms around her wife and let her gently wipe her tears away with her thumbs, her gentle ministrations soothing away her heartache.
"There. Still just as gorgeous." Carla smiled, and Lisa laughed, a small, tear-filled sound.
"Really? Even after I've cried all my make-up off?"
"The whole reason I married you is because of how unfairly beautiful you look without make-up."
"Really?"
"Yes, lovey, really. You can also poach eggs and that's dead handy because I never learnt."
Lisa felt her shoulders relax, bit by bit, and she could almost believe they were at home, rather than sat on the wall in the garden of the house she grew up in, at her father's wake. "You've never let me teach you."
"Because eggs are expensive and we would waste a dozen before I could get close." Carla said, a soft smile on her face. "Besides, how else would you impress me at breakfast?"
"Maybe I'll make fresh croissants every morning."
"Oh, Lisa, baby, you can't, I'd feel like I was cheating on Roy."
"Carla!"
Lisa turned, and Betsy was there, holding two paper plates. "You're here! You should have said, I'll go get you a plate -"
"No problem, I can steal from you. What did you get?" Carla said, and gently let Lisa go, but kept an arm on her shoulder.
"Bits and bobs. Sorry Mum, had to mix sweet and salty on the same plate. I know you hate that, but if I carried out four plates they'd all think you weren't feeding me." Betsy said, and Lisa took the plate that was offered. It was a weird mix – a sausage roll, some crisps, a fondant fancy, a few strawberries and a chocolate covered pretzel. She didn't feel particularly hungry, but she was well aware she hadn't eaten anything all day, and fainting wouldn't do anyone any good. She picked at the crisps.
"Good choice, Bets." Carla said, and picked up a sausage roll.
"I have great taste. Don't eat my fondant fancy though." Betsy hummed. "Are we going home?"
"It's up to Lisa." Carla said, her tone even. "And you know I love a fondant fancy, I can't believe you didn't get me one."
"I thought you were in the car! I wrapped one in a napkin and put it in my bag for you, but I might have squished it with my phone."
"Aw, step-daughter of the year." Carla grinned. "Thank you."
"You can have mine. I'm not that hungry." Lisa said softly.
"Halves?"
"Lisa?"
Lisa turned, and her happy bubble was broken. Her mother was standing there. She put the plate on the wall and stood up, brushing the crumbs off of her neckline.
"Uh, Mum – this is Carla. My wife."
She moved her hand down and interlocked it with Carla's, who gave her hand a squeeze. The words seemed monumental, but Linda's face remained infuriatingly impassive.
"Could you come inside, Lisa?"
"What?"
"We've run out of glasses, someone needs to wash up."
"Oh, well, I can do that." Carla offered, before Lisa could say anything.
"Can you?" Betsy raised an eyebrow, and Carla shot her a look.
"I can! Unless you're offering?"
"No chance."
"I think Lisa would be better -"
"Lisa's still eating." Carla squeezed her hand. "I'll be inside, okay? Give me a minute.”
She turned back to Lisa and cupped her face in her hand. “I’ll be in the kitchen, okay? Close.” Carla murmured, then turned to Betsy. “Look after your Mam, kidda.”
“Yeah, ‘course.” Betsy said softly.
Then, she was gone, and Lisa watched her walk into the house she hadn’t been brave enough to enter yet.
///
It seemed so... normal.
That was the strange part, and Carla had to stop herself from gawking at every normal thing as she walked through Lisa's childhood home through the small crowd of mourners. It felt a bit like when she was little and she'd go round Michelle's house for tea, and they had matching crockery and photos up on the walls and if she got herself some milk from the fridge, it would be so full she'd stare at it until Paul told her she was letting all the cold out.
Perhaps naively, she'd assumed Lisa's childhood had been normal and boring, and she'd just grown apart from her parents in adulthood. She'd only asked once, when they were first wedding planning, and Lisa had given her some vague answer about not being close to her parents so she didn’t want to invite them, and Carla had assumed she hadn't wanted to push, so as to not remind Carla that she was an orphan.
She'd never expected ... this.
Lisa's Mum, not even asking if she was okay, just asking her to do the washing up.
The kitchen was pristine. Linda stood in front of the sink, and gestured to the pile of glasses on the sideboard. "There is a dishcloth in the drawer, and soap is on the side." She said curtly, and Carla stepped back slightly as she turned to leave.
"Uh, I know Lisa said, but – we should probably have a proper introduction, ey? I'm – I'm Carla. Carla Connor-Swain."
Linda's expression gave nothing away, and Carla filled the silence with her own words
"We actually only got married three weeks ago. I - uh - I've got some pictures, if you want to see?" She said, and dug out her phone and pulled up an album she'd made especially, then turned it slightly to show her new mother-in-law. "That's - well, that's the ceremony, my friend Roy’s taking the photos - there's Betsy, and that's Ryan, my nephew -"
"Your nephew?"
"Yes, he lives with me and Lise. He's the son of my sister-in-law."
"Your… sister-in-law?"
"Uh - ex-sister-in-law, from my first marriage."
"Your first marriage?"
If this old bat responded to any more of what she said with a vaguely accusatory question, Carla was going to lose it, but she took a deep breath. Lisa needed her on her best behaviour.
"Yeah. First marriage." She said, then swiped. "We had the reception at my factory -"
"Your factory?"
Was it a disease? This woman couldn't stop!
"Yes, I make high end lingerie." Carla said, and Linda's eyebrows shot to her hairline. Carla clicked her phone shut. "Look, I just - I care about Lisa. So much. All I want is to make her happy, and Betsy too, and give them the best life we can have."
Linda looked at her, mouth set in a hard line. Maybe that's where Lisa got the urge to bottle everything up from, Carla thought. There certainly seemed to be a lot Linda couldn't say.
"I'll wash up then." Carla muttered, and turned to the pile of glasses. When she looked up again, Linda was gone.
///
After the washing up was done, Carla dried her hands and snuck back out to the wake. Lisa was nowhere to be found, but her eyes landed on Betsy, fiddling with her phone, stood by the fireplace. She looked up when Carla sidled next to her, and her expression softened.
“I didn’t know you knew how to wash up.” Betsy teased.
“If you tell the factory lot, I’ll dock your pay.” Carla said, and Betsy grinned. “Right, give me the lowdown then. Who's who?”
"Well - that's Linda, my Grandma, but you've met her." Betsy said, pointing to the woman in the corner. "She's between Mark - that's Mum's brother - and Miranda - that's his wife. They've got three kids - uhh - Catherine, Charlotte and Madison?"
"With Elizabeth, you all sound like you're on Downton Abbey." Carla said, and Betsy elbowed her.
"I honestly don't know many other people. I think that's Mum's Uncle Peter? In the brown suit? But I don't think I've met anyone else. People keep talking to me like I'm Catherine or Charlotte, then getting weird when I say I'm Lisa's kid."
"Good to know I'm not the only one getting funny looks." Carla muttered.
"People keeping asking me about my Grandpa too, like I'm going to have happy memories of him or summat." Betsy said. “Pretty sure I never even met him.”
"Well, he missed out. You're a good kid."
"Hardly."
"Okay, you were a bit of a nightmare between aged 16 and about two months ago, but now you're great!"
Betsy laughed, and a few people turned to look, and she quickly hid the laughter behind her hand. "Stop it!" Betsy hissed, then took a deep breath. "Should we … I dunno, mingle?"
"Probably. Don't let the side down, okay?"
"As if I would." Betsy said. "I think I like our side the best. The Connor-Swain side."
"So do I." Carla said, and stuck out her hand. "Best behaviour?"
"Best behaviour.” Betsy nodded, and shook it. “Unless Uncle Mark starts bragging again about how Charlotte got into Cambridge again, then I'm out of here."
"Deal. Come find me and I'll give you the car keys."
"So I can drive away?"
Betsy had not long passed her driving test, and it still left Carla reeling a bit, seeing how grown up she was. She couldn't imagine how Lisa felt about it all.
"So you can sit in the back. As if I'd let you drive my car." Carla snorted, deciding it was better to make a joke out of it, and Betsy flashed her a smile.
“You’ll have to let me drive sometime, Carla, the government says I can."
///
After some truly excruciating small talk – Carla was sure she’d never talked about the weather so much in her over fifty years of life - she finally let out a sigh of relief when she saw Lisa, stood in the doorway. Her wife noticed her too and made her way over.
"I wondered where you'd got to." Lisa said softly, and Carla was desperate to reach out to her, to hold her hand and fix her hair, but she wasn’t sure where the boundaries were in this oppressive house.
"Just chatting. Where have you been?"
"Oh, well, Dad's golfing buddy Bryan wanted some legal advice? I couldn't really help him, sounds like he definitely defrauded all those investors." Lisa blew out a breath. "Are you okay?"
"Shouldn't I be asking you that?"
"I'm okay." Lisa said softly, and she shifted uncomfortably in the skirt. "Do you need a drink?"
"I'm fine. Ey, are there any pictures of little Lisa around? I don't think I've seen any." Carla said.
"There might be on the memorial table?"
The dining table had been covered in photos, a man’s life in a series of pictures. Carla couldn’t see any of Lisa at first, until she saw one in a silver frame: Lisa was around two or three, sat on her Dad's lap on the sofa, her hair a wild mass of blonde curls, and it must have been a birthday party, because she was in a pink princess dress, surrounded by balloons, her face covered in chocolate cake, her Dad holding her there, looking at the camera, his face impassive.
"Oh Lise – you look identical to Betsy! Has she seen these?" Carla said, amazed at the similarities.
"I don't think she'd take it as a compliment." Lisa said, in a self-depreciating tone, but she hadn’t taken her eyes off the photo, and they suddenly filled with tears.
"Hey, you're okay. Deep breaths." Carla soothed, her voice quiet, just between them. "You're doing so well."
"Sorry." Lisa mumbled, and looked at the photo. "You're right, Betsy looked just like this. Covered in chocolate cake an' all."
"I can imagine." Carla said. "If it weren't for the eyes..."
"Yeah." Lisa said, as she put the picture down, and Carla looked at the rest of the pictures - almost all of the other photos were of Geoff and Linda or Geoff and Mark.
"I used to hate having my photo taken if I was wearing a dress – when I got older, anyway. That was the first argument I had with him – I didn't understand why I couldn't wear what Mark wore."
Carla looked at her wife, shaking with the effort of holding it together, and seeing her in the skirt felt even worse now, like she was trying to appease someone who’d just been buried.
"Was Betsy the same?" Carla said softly, as she tried to turn the conversation back to safer ground.
"Hardly." Lisa smiled softy. "She needed everything to be pink and frilly until she was seven, then she got into fashion, and pink and frilly was the worst. Keeping up with the fashion whims of a seven year old was a harder job than being a copper."
"I can imagine." Carla said.
“I should… well maybe I should do some research now, to keep up with her when she goes to college?”
“I can help – but we will need to spend more on magazines. For research, of course.” Carla said softly, and Lisa finally smiled at her, her eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Lisa?”
Their happy bubble was broken, and Carla turned to see Mark. He looked tired.
“Mark?” Lisa said, her voice full of trepidation.
“Can we talk?”
“I’m Carla.” Carla said, sticking out her hand, determined to try, despite everything. “Lisa’s wife.”
“Right.” Mark said, and shook the offered hand without looking her in the eye. “Lisa, meet me in the study. Alone.”
///
After giving Carla an apologetic look, Lisa followed her brother through the room, until she turned in the hallway and went up the stairs. It was much quieter up there; the murmur of the party lost somewhere beneath the floorboards.
Her Dad’s office was still the same. It probably hadn’t been touched since the day he died – papers everywhere, books piled high on the shelves, a pen uncapped on the desk, and Lisa could picture her Dad, writing something down before the stroke that took his life tore through his brain.
Mark was stood in the middle of it all, his jacket unbuttoned, and he rubbed his hand over the faint stubble on his chin.
“Mark.” Lisa said, her voice curt.
“We need to talk.” Mark said.
“About what?”
“The future. Mum. Mum’s future.” Mark said, gesturing vaguely to the house. “She’ll need more help now - it's not fair it all falls to me."
"Do we have to do this now?" Lisa snapped, and Mark looked down at her.
"When else would we do it? You're never here."
"You know why I'm never here -" Lisa hissed. "And you know why I left."
"Well maybe Mum would be more okay with that if you didn't flaunt that woman at Dad's funeral -"
"You mean my wife?" Lisa's hands tensed into fists. "Carla is my wife. I'm no more flaunting her than you're flaunting Miranda."
"It's different and you know it -"
"No, Mark, explain it to me. Explain to me why it's different."
"I'm not doing this Lisa." Mark said, and ran his hand through his greying hair. "I just meant today, of all days -"
"But it wasn't just today, it was all of my life." Lisa said, tears suddenly on her lashes. "I knew I should never have come back here.”
"So that's it then? You're running away again? From your family, from Mum?”
“Oh, you know she would have sent me back if she could.” Lisa spat, and Mark stopped. “Mum made her bed, and she can bloody well lie in it.”
It was too much, Lisa couldn’t be in here anymore, and she turned and left. Across the corridor, she found herself outside her bedroom door, and as she heard Mark push the office door open, she pushed open the door and shut it behind her.
The walls were still purple. The furniture was still the same – a bookshelf, a desk, a wardrobe, a single bed. There was nothing else in the room, it was stripped of everything that might have told you a girl spent sixteen years of her life in there – all the books on the shelves were gone, the photos she'd tacked on the wall taken down, her trophies gone – and when Lisa pulled open the wardrobe, it was full of old coats.
Lisa sat on her bed and held onto the duvet.
A memory came to the front of her mind – her Dad, sat on the end of her bed, reading her a chapter from whatever book she'd picked out from her shelf - the Secret Garden, Matilda, Ballet Shoes. He would still be in his work shirt, his tie loosened, his dark hair flecked with grey in the way Michael's was now, and Lisa would sit, swallowed in the duvet, totally enraptured, begging for one more chapter. As soon as she could read chapter books, she would read ahead under the covers, but she pretended she hadn't so he would still come up and read her a story. It only took one parents evening and she was rumbled, and her Dad stopped reading to her as soon as he knew she could read them herself.
Betsy loved a bedtime story. So many things were Becky's domain, things Becky did better than her, but Lisa held fast on bedtime stories, and she would race home after working late to make sure she would read to Betsy before she fell asleep, cuddled together as Betsy fought sleep just to listen to a little bit more. She kept reading, even when Betsy could read on her own, until Betsy had arrived home from a sleepover, declared she was far too big for bedtime stories, and Lisa was left a little bit broken hearted.
How had Geoffrey felt, as he read to her? Had he missed it, when, aged seven, she could read her own chapter books? Lisa didn't know, she'd never understood her Dad, always felt like there was something between them – was it because she was a girl? Was it because she was blonde in a family of brunettes, was it because she liked to play football rather than with the doll's house in the corner of her room? That had been the worst part about finding those papers, as she rooted around in her Dad's office for something to do her drawings on, and she hadn't understood all the words but she'd understood their meaning – she was an outsider in her own home. That's why Mark ignored her, why her Mum didn't like her, why her Dad never looked at her, all in one word – adopted.
Lisa wiped at her eyes. She felt exhausted, wrung out from crying, and she turned to look out the window. The fields at least had stayed the same, green fluttering under the blue summer sky.
When Betsy was arrested for trashing Tracey's van, when she had insisted Becky had taught her to drive in Freshco's car park, Lisa hadn't known what to believe, because she was an outsider in that home too, with Betsy and Becky having plenty of their own secrets and inside jokes and ways of being. It was like that when she came back, too – Becky would push forward, be the one to comfort Betsy, be the one to give her advice, and Lisa was more aware of the difference, because she'd never felt like that with Carla. Carla, who made sure she was included in everything, didn't try to take over with Betsy but just helped her, Carla, who never let her feel like she didn't belong.
Lisa could picture her younger self in here, curled up under the covers on a rainy night, reading with her teddy bears, or sat at her desk, intently colouring and drawing, then as a teenager, hiding away from a family where she never quite fit, looking out over the hills and dreaming of university and a city where she could finally be herself. If Lisa could talk to her now, she would tell her – you find it, it takes you a long time, but you do, you find it – the place you can be yourself.
She stood up, smoothed the covers on the bed so it was neat again.
More curious than anything, Lisa opened the small desk drawer to find it empty, and she slid it out all the way and turned it over, and there it was, in her tiny, loopy, childhood handwriting – Lisa Caroline Swain.
This would be the last time she would ever be in this room, Lisa realised. She could never come back here.
She replaced the drawer, and went to find her wife and daughter.
///
"Are you hiding in here?"
Carla looked up from the sink, and Betsy was stood in the doorway, her arms crossed. Carla shrugged.
"Maybe. Your Mum went to talk to Mark."
"He's been so weird with me." Betsy said, and she picked up a dish towel and started to dry a glass. "I was chatting with Charlotte – she's actually really nice, she's only a few months younger than me – and he basically pulled her away from me. Like, physically pulled her."
"He couldn't get away from me fast enough." Carla muttered. "Sorry, Bets."
"It's Mum I feel sorry for, having a homophobe for a brother." Betsy said, and picked up another glass. "Must have been worse as a kid."
Carla stayed quiet, but she'd thought the same thing, it was what had sent her into the safety of the kitchen, rather than making small talk with people she didn't care about, whilst her wife was alone with a man who looked at her like she was dirt on the bottom of his shoe.
"I never really thought about her life before." Betsy continued. "Like... before she was my Mum. I knew I had grandparents and an aunt and uncle and cousins, but I didn't question why we didn't see them. I've never even been here before."
"Strangest part about growing up, realising your parents are just people in the end." Carla said softly.
"Yeah, I guess." Betsy said, her voice far away, as Carla passed her another glass.
"You're doing a great job of helping her, y'know."
“Am I?”
“Yeah, you are. Just being for her – helping her see she’s not on her own in all this.” Carla said softly. “She knows – whatever happens in this house – she's got our family to come home too.”
Betsy looked at her, then bumped their shoulders together. "You've gotten really mushy since you got married, y'know."
"Me? Have I ever!" Carla said, and flicked a clump of bubbles from the sink at her step-daughter. There was a cough from the doorway, and they both turned to see Linda, carrying a pile of plates.
"Oh, hi." Betsy said. "I thought I'd help Carla wash up."
Linda nodded, and deposited the plates.
"If you see Mum, could you tell her we're in here?" Betsy said.
"I haven't seen her." Linda said brusquely.
“She was talking to Mark.” Carla offered, but Linda had already turned and left.
“I really don’t think I missed much, not having her as a Grandma.” Betsy snorted, and Carla sighed.
“Honestly? Not my worst mother in law though.”
Betsy gasped. “Oh, yeah, you’ve had loads! Please tell me some of those stories -"
“Okay, to start, I need to say - please never marry into the Platt family.” Carla said and grinned as Betsy burst out laughing.
///
After Lisa had searched almost every room in the house, even the garden, she found Carla and Betsy in the kitchen, drying the dishes, laughing over something, and she had a few seconds of bliss watching them before Betsy noticed her.
“Mum?”
"We're going." Lisa said, her voice stronger now.
"Thank fuck, your Mum kept bringing me more and more washing up." Carla sighed, and dropped the towel.
"And you managed to get Betsy to help?"
"It was either drying up or having to stand awkwardly with some Aunt who's trying to hide the fact she didn't know I existed ten minutes ago." Betsy shrugged, and put the mug down. "But if we're leaving I'm very down for that. Can we get tea on the way back?"
"If you're up for it?" Carla turned, and Lisa nodded.
"Yeah. Will you let me have a kebab?"
"In my car? Fat chance!" Carla said, then her features softened. "Well... maybe just this once."
"How are we gonna get a kebab in the M6 services?" Betsy raised an eyebrow.
"We'll figure it out - now shift, before Linda brings me more washing up." Carla said, and just as Betsy stepped into the living room, Lisa felt as Carla pulled her into a gentle hug. "You sure?" She said softly, and Lisa nodded, and felt herself melt a little. She knew Carla would hold her up.
"I'm sure." Lisa said softly. Words always became harder the more emotionally exhausted she was, and she was sure she was only one more piece of bad news away from not speaking for the rest of the week. She leant back, and Carla started to fix her hair, her fingers soft as they pushed the strands back behind her ear.
"Okay. Do you want to say goodbye, or sneak out when no-ones looking?"
"Just my Mum, I think. Mark knows how I feel." At Carla's raised eyebrow, Lisa sighed. "I'll tell you about it when we’re home, I promise."
As soon as they were out the front door, Lisa felt the weight on her chest lift, suddenly able to breathe again. She looked up at the faintly orange sky, and smelt smoke, and turned to see her Mum quickly putting out a cigarette with her shoe. She stepped forward.
"Are you leaving then?"
"Uh, yeah. It's a long drive back and we've all got work in the morning." Lisa said.
There was silence.
"It was nice to meet you." Betsy said. "I'm sorry for your loss."
Lisa looked at her daughter, awfully diplomatic towards the woman who hadn't asked after her once in her whole life.
"I'm glad to have met you, Mrs Swain." Carla said, then turned to her. "Lise – we'll wait in the car, okay?"
Then, it was just the two of them, stood on the garden path, the sun setting behind the trees.
“I’m not coming back, Mum.” Lisa said softly. “I never really fit, did I?”
Linda’s face was impassive, but there were tears in the corner of her eyes, the first flicker of emotion she'd shown towards her in years.
“When you’re ready to accept Carla and Betsy, when you’re ready to accept me, give me a call. Then we can talk – but not before.” Lisa said softly. “Bye, Mum. I’m sorry about Dad.”
Then, she turned and left, down the garden path and towards her wife and daughter. She didn't look back.
///
The drive was quiet, the radio humming in the background. Betsy had shoved on her headphones and was typing away on her phone, evidently needing to catch up after having it on silent all day, and Carla just drove, and didn't push or make small talk, and left Lisa to look out the window at the slowly darkening sky. She jumped when Carla spoke.
“Ready to get some tea?” Carla said softly, and Lisa nodded, and they came off the motorway and into the service station car park.
“I hate this thing.” Lisa said, and shifted uncomfortably, tugging at the skirt, regretting that she'd still be in it for a few more hours, until she could get home and change into her pyjamas. Carla parked up, yanking up the handbrake, and Betsy finally removed her headphones.
“Oh, well, bob to the loo and get changed. I packed some spare clothes for us, in case you didn't want to stay in your funeral clobber all day.” Carla said softly, and gestured to the holdall on the seat next to Betsy. “I put jeans and trackies in for you, darling, so you could choose.”
Lisa felt tears welling in her eyes suddenly, and she tried to bite them back. She’d cried enough today.
“Carla, you brought my trackies that shrunk in the wash!” Betsy said from the back seat, holding up the offending garments, and Lisa laughed, a wet sound.
“If they shrunk, why did you keep them?” Carla said, turning to face her.
“I was going to give them to Mum!”
“Betsy, no one wants your old trackies.” Carla said, and Betsy sighed.
“Oh, sorry for thinking about the environment!” Betsy rolled her eyes. “Now I'm going to have cold ankles the whole way home -”
“Might as well be the end of the world.” Carla huffed. “Right, where are we going for food?”
“I want Maccies.” Betsy piped up.
“I'm not eating a MacDonalds, they put anything in it.” Carla wrinkled her nose. “Lise -”
“I'm not hungry, don't decide because of me.” Lisa said, finally finding her voice.
“You have to eat something.”
“She can eat MacDonalds.” Betsy pointed out.
“If I give you cash, you can go buy yourself some MacDonalds, and we’ll buy what we want, okay?” Carla said and started digging in her purse, before handing Betsy a twenty. “Get changed too, if you still want to -”
“Cold ankles are better than wearing this all the way home. I dunno how you do it Carla.” Betsy sighed. “Right, I’ll go get my Maccies then – bye, boomers!”
Betsy was out, and the door slammed, and Lisa sighed. "I think that means 'thank you' in Betsy language. I swear I taught her better than that."
Carla laughed. "I know, Lise. It's only to get some tea."
"She'll be keeping the change."
“Oh, I don’t doubt it.” Carla snorted. “Right, c’mon. We’ve got fifteen free minutes before she starts pestering one of us for cash for a magazine.”
"I am grateful, y'know." Lisa said softly, and realised she needed to elaborate at Carla's raised eyebrow. "For taking her on. She's lucky to have you."
"Sort of think I'm the lucky one." Carla said softly, and reached over to squeeze her hand. "C'mon, chickie. Let's go find something to eat."
Once she'd changed, Lisa felt so much more relaxed. She'd felt faintly ridiculous when Carla had bought her some lounge sets, but she had to admit they were very comfortable, and she felt like she could be herself again, that horrible skirt banished to the bottom of the holdall.
Carla had offered to get her something from a noodle place that let you make your own bowls, and Lisa had agreed, far too emotionally strung out to make decisions like broccoli or beansprouts. Instead, she found Betsy sat in teh food court, happily tucking into her meal, a fashion magazine already on the table.
"Betsy, you have to give Carla back her change!" Lisa admonished, but her daughter just shrugged.
"She can take it out my wages. Do you want some chips?"
Lisa shook her head. "Thank you though."
"More for me then." Betsy said, and looked up at her. "Are you okay?"
“I will be.” Lisa said softly. “I'm sorry for bringing you there. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“Do you think you’ll ever go back?”
“No, probably not.” Lisa said, her voice soft. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t mind.” Betsy said softly. “I never had grandparents before, I don’t think I need them now. Besides, I’ve never had so much family – it used to just be us, but now we've got Carla, so we've got Ryan, Connie, Bobby – even Roy. That’s better.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, ‘course. I think the best families are the ones with the people we choose in them.” Betsy said softly and bumped their shoulders together, as Lisa swallowed down her tears, and decided to steal a chip from her daughter after all.
///
After their tea was eaten, they got back on the road. It was fully dark now, and Betsy was fast asleep as soon as got onto the motorway, her headphones on and her magazine lost somewhere in the footwell. It made Lisa smile, her first proper smile all day, because Betsy could never stay awake in a moving car, and Lisa could remember driving around for hours in the middle of the night when she was a baby just to get her to sleep.
The motorway was quiet, it being so late.
“I could have drove.” Lisa said softly, and Carla shrugged.
"Figured you wouldn't be in the mood."
They lapsed back into silence.
"Are you going into work tomorrow?" Carla asked softly, and Lisa sighed.
"Maybe. Maybe not. Thompson said I can take bereavement leave. Three days."
"Three days." Carla echoed. "You should take it. Never say no to free leave, babe."
"I think I'm meant to use the time to grieve, or summat." Lisa said, her voice quiet so as not to wake Betsy.
"You still could."
"Don't really know how to."
"You can try, darling." Carla said, and looked over at her, just for a moment. "I'm here. If you wanted to try."
Silence came over them again. The streetlamps bobbed by outside the window.
“Mark never really liked me.” Lisa said softly, as she curled up in the front seat, toeing her shoes off into the footwell. “He was nine when I was adopted. I think I disrupted everything, all because Mum wanted a girl. I don’t think – I have no idea what my Dad thought. I think he would have been happy with no kids, just a lifetime of birdwatching and Sunday papers.”
Carla nodded but stayed quiet.
“Mum didn’t really get what she wanted, in me. She gave up trying to change me when I was about ten, and then I was just...left alone.”
“Left alone?”
“Yeah. Latch-key kid.” Lisa said softly. “I - I moved out when I was nineteen.”
Carla reached over and gave her hand a squeeze, but kept her eyes on the road, which Lisa was grateful for – she couldn’t say all this with Carla looking at her. “Maybe that’s part of it – Betsy's going to be nineteen in a few months.”
Lisa looked in the backseat at her daughter, draped across the holdall of spare clothes. She looked so grown-up, hair dark, but without make-up and in her comfy clothes, her face relaxed from sleep, she also looked like a child. Lisa’s eyes pricked.
“I never understood that – as soon as I held her – how could anyone turn away their child? Not love them? I’d known her two seconds and I would have moved heaven and earth for her, and that’s never changed. It never mattered to me that I wasn't the one who'd given birth to her.” Lisa couldn’t stop the tears then, even as she wiped them with her sleeve, and Carla noticed, of course she did.
“Oh, sweetheart –"
“I’m sorry, I never should have asked you not to come – I never should have –" Lisa said, pushing the words out passed her tears, and Carla used her free hand to rub her thigh.
“Hey, it’s okay.” Carla soothed. “I can see why you didn’t.”
"I still shouldn't have. I'm sorry, darling. I'm sorry."
There was silence, and then Carla spoke up. “You know it’s their loss, right?”
“What?”
“Their loss – your family. That they never really got to know you.”
“Carla -”
“I’m serious.” Carla looked at her softly, a smile on her face. “I think I might be the luckiest woman in the world, to be your wife. It’s their loss, that they never took the time to get to know you.”
Lisa swallowed, and wiped her eyes one last time. "I think I'm the lucky one, darling."