Open Writing

Trembling with shock, Ingrid held the birth certificate in front of her, certain that someone must be playing a joke. She took in the window with its view of the twinkling lights of the town to the south, wondering if someone were, at this very moment, waiting for her to realize it was a prank.

But no, it was Tracey’s birth certificate all right. Dated 2 October 1987, it cited Warren Alexander Steele as her father and somebody called Nadine Solomon as her mother. But who on earth was Nadine Solomon?

Ingrid felt panic rise in her. She knew she must do something but she struggled to think what. It would be no use destroying the document since it represented the mere tip of a much bigger threat. Barging into Alice and Vernon's house to demand an explanation would only make things worse. She could run away - the most appealing option in her present state of mind - but it would create more problems than it solved. The only appropriate response was to investigate further.

Acting by instinct more than reason, Ingrid slid the birth certificate back into its envelope. She had no idea why Warren had left it in the box with their identity documents but she knew she couldn't leave it there. What if Tracey should find it? The girl had grown up secure in the conviction that she was the daughter of Alice and Vernon Steele. To discover otherwise could wreck her fragile state of teenage motherhood.

Ingrid put the envelope in a folder along with her teaching certificate and curriculum vitae where she was sure no one else would be interested in looking. The folder lay in a box at the bottom of the pine cupboard with other folders containing old bank statements and school reports. She knew it wasn’t ideal because, if anything happened to her before she'd decided what to do, Alice and Vernon would never find it. Yet she needed time to think. She locked the safety deposit box, put back the key in its proper place and closed the study door with the sense of having crossed into loneliness.

It was hard to sleep that night. The house felt big and threatening. Ingrid was painfully aware that the bedroom she occupied had once belonged to Alice and Vernon which meant that the knowledge of Tracey’s real identity had lain within these four walls for years. The lampshades and curtains were the very ones that Warren's mother had gazed at in the dark, just as Ingrid gazed at them now. What urgent plotting had they been privy to? As her heart raced and her body burned, Ingrid felt as if she were reliving her mother-in-law's acute suffering in the valley of decision.

Oh Rosalie, thought Ingrid, I need to talk to you! Rosalie was her best friend from college days who'd recently emigrated with her husband to New Zealand. When Warren had suffered his breakdown, she'd felt free to confide her feelings because Rosalie was far enough removed from the situation not to be affected. It was an enormous relief to let off steam in an email and she knew she must continue to do so. If nothing else, writing would keep her thinking coherently.

Ingrid began to compose what she would say. "It's frightening to discover the world you once knew and loved has gone completely," she whispered in the darkness. "For the past few weeks, I've imagined my life as a length of wire that's come off the roll and got tangled. I thought all that was needed was a little nudge and things would go back to the way they were but … I guess I didn’t reckon on the strength of the force that's intervened …"

All night long, images of Warren and his mystery girlfriend tormented her. She pictured Nadine Solomon as one of the teenagers in Caroline’s youth group, fine boned and vivacious with a knack of making the boys hang on her every word. Had Warren been like that, she wondered? Not that he'd been a regular at the youth group when he was a teenager. Before Ingrid had come along, his antics had included daring jumps off the water tower, sprints through the railway tunnel ahead of an oncoming train and setting fire to a teacher's sleeping bag on camp. Yet never had there been, as far as she was aware, a sexual impropriety.

Then again, Alice and Vernon must have taken measures to protect their son. It was just like them to enforce an embargo on sensitive information. Recalling the kind of person she'd been when they'd met her, Ingrid realized she may even have unwittingly encouraged concealment of the truth. She'd come to Steelesbury like the embodiment of virtue. Her passion was teaching disadvantaged children and she'd been outspoken from the start about setting a good example for youngsters to follow. Warren’s parents must have looked at her and judged that it was worth a little subterfuge to ensure their son’s improvement.

Did she hate them for it though? No. Nothing could take away from the happiness she'd found at Steelsbury. Warren had been a considerate husband and an involved father. Alice and Vernon were loving grandparents and fine role models in the community. The family had generously created a position for her in the rose-growing business and given her everything she needed to succeed.

This thought remained with her as night turned into day and the birds began to call across the valley. Her life as Tracey's step-mother had begun.