do you think she did it?’
‘I don’t know, Greg.’ There would be plenty of time to consider why Mum had hidden something so important – so life-changing. Right now, all I could think about was how I’d longed for a sibling growing up, and now it appeared I had one; half-sister or not, we shared a mother. We had her blood running through our veins. ‘Oh, Greg, this is the best news I’ve had in ages.’ Unable to sit still any longer, I skirted the mess on the floor and dashed to the window, my heart beating too fast. ‘Maisie has an auntie,’ I said, watching my daughter circling the lawn, her arms stretched out to the sides. Charlie was chasing her, his pink tongue lolling out, while Dad watched, hands dug deep in his corduroy trouser pockets. Seeming to sense my gaze, he turned and raised his arm in a wave.
‘I need to talk to Dad,’ I said, with a rising sense of urgency. ‘Now.’
‘Ella, wait.’ Greg’s hands circled my upper arms. ‘You’re getting ahead of yourself,’ he said. ‘Your dad’s still grieving, and there’s a lot we don’t know. There’ll be hoops to jump through before you can think of finding this … finding her.’
‘Colleen,’ I said, already possessive of her name, liking the feel of it on my tongue. My sister, Colleen.
‘She might not be called that anymore.’ He turned me to face him, sounding more like his assured self now that the shock was wearing off. ‘Most adoptive parents give the child a new name.’
‘I didn’t think of that.’ I felt a sagging inside. ‘There must be a record somewhere, of the adoption.’
Greg hesitated. ‘Yes … if it was done formally,’ he said, sliding his hands down my arms and wrapping his fingers around mine. ‘The truth is, Ella, we don’t know what happened back then. It could have been a casual arrangement, or money might have changed hands.’
‘Oh, don’t say that.’ I wrenched away from him. Squatting down, I began rifling through the items on the carpet. ‘There might be something else here.’
There was a tortoiseshell hair slide, a train ticket, a theatre programme, a pressed rose – its crispy petals the colour of blood – but apart from the wristband, photograph and letter, there was nothing else linking Mum to the baby.
I read the letter again, my eyes sliding over the words, and turned it over as if there might be some new ones on the other side. ‘I could write to this address,’ I said, looking up at Greg. ‘Explain who I am.’
‘They’ve probably moved by now. That letter was written years ago, and they might not want to be found.’ He knelt beside me, a dark stain on his jeans where the coffee he’d brought me had spilled. ‘She might not even be alive, Ella.’ His voice was sombre and I felt a pinch of hatred at him for spoiling things.
‘You’ve got a sister and a brother,’ I said. ‘You’ve no idea about being an only child.’
‘Hey, steady on.’ He held up his palms. ‘You’ve always gone on about what a happy childhood you had. Don’t start twisting things.’
‘But I still used to wish I had a big sister.’ I wanted him to throw caution to the wind, to be excited for me, instead of the voice of reason. ‘I just want to try and find her, that’s all.’
‘I will help, of course I will.’ He plucked the letter from my hand, his gaze unbearably gentle. ‘But maybe we should sleep on it first.’
‘I’m not going to change my mind,’ I said, my brain tingling with questions. Did she look like me, or Mum? Or her father, Reagan? Was she happy; married with children? Tall or short? Outgoing or quiet?
I leaned against the bed and hugged my knees. ‘This kind of makes up for losing Mum.’ I felt a wobble in the pit of my stomach as I said it.
Greg’s eyebrows lifted. ‘You think you’re owed a sister to make up for losing your mother?’
‘Why not?’ I countered. ‘There’s a kind of balance, don’t you think?’
He exhaled, seeming lost for words. ‘I think you’ve had a shock.’ He rose and dusted his hands on his jeans. ‘I’ll go and make some more coffee while you finish up here.’ He touched my hair. ‘We’ll talk again at home.’
I sat for a while when he’d gone, listening to him moving in the kitchen below, calling something to Dad through the window, and I heard the low rumble of Dad’s response. Greg was right, this wasn’t something to be rushed into, but nearly thirty years had gone by without me knowing my sister and I couldn’t bear to waste another minute.
I tried to locate some outrage – some horror even – but the truth was, I felt elated. Feelings that had been lying dormant since Mum’s funeral were flowing back to life. I could feel the blood fizzing through my veins, like champagne. I wanted to know … everything.
Scrambling up, I rummaged past the detritus on the bed for my bag and yanked out my phone. After switching it on, I drummed my fingers while it connected to the inefficient Wi-Fi, then signed in to my Facebook account.
I tapped in Colleen Brody Ireland knowing it was silly – pointless, in fact. It was an Irish name, there were bound to be hundreds and I remembered Greg’s comment about her maybe having a different name altogether.
A whole list of Colleens sprang up and my breathing grew shallow as I scrolled through them, hands shaking. There was a learning consultant, a teacher, an artist and a lifeguard. One was even a man, and several of them were too old. A couple had no identity at all – no photos, no details, just a blank avatar.
I mainly used social media for keeping up with old friends and for networking in my job as a food photographer, but I hadn’t posted anything for a while. My profile picture was a professional shot that deepened my eyes to a smoky grey and made the most of my cheekbones. My hair looked sleek and shiny and my smile mysterious; not like my usual sunny self – ‘sunny’ being the word most often used to describe me.
I wondered what Colleen did for a living. The possibilities seemed endless.
Reluctant to log off, I scrolled up and down the list again more slowly, examining each face. One in particular leapt out. I hadn’t looked properly the first time, but now I felt a flash of recognition.
It’s her.
She was gazing directly at the camera with a serious expression, and something about her reminded me of Mum – the same long straight nose and curve of her upper lip. Her hair was the same pale honey-blonde shade as mine, but wavy where mine was straight. She looked about the right age too and although it could have been an old photo, I felt a deep connection in the pit of my stomach that was almost chemical.
This is my sister.
My fingers felt fat and clumsy as I tried to access her page, but it was set to private.
Downstairs, Maisie was calling. ‘Mummy, Mummy, I want you!’
‘Coming, darling!’ I was rigid with excitement and couldn’t stop looking at the picture, searching for clues to her personality. Who had taken the picture? A husband, a relative, or had she taken it herself?
I clicked on the message box and quickly typed: You don’t know me, but I
