Diary 17October
Ive been trying not to dwell on what happened, but the mind has a way of circling back. Laura, my wife, never says a word about it; she simply looks at me and says, You know I know you know. She caught me stumbling, and that was enough. A man weighed down by guilt is far easier to steer. Laura, ever the wise one, seems to read that in me.
Her eyes are a deep, endless greennothing Id ever seen before, not in any crowd, past or present. One glance and you feel yourself falling, swallowed by that abyss.
From the moment I first saw Beatrice, I was hooked. It was instantaneous, irrevocable. She burst into the lecture hall a few minutes late, just as the professor began, and, by some twist of fate, we ended up in the same tutorial group. Suddenly the world seemed to recede, everything else fading into the background while I stared at her, unnoticed.
If only she had returned even a fleeting, curious lookperhaps a question or a halfhearted joke. She never did. Beatrice simply wasnt interested in me, Nicholas Stevens, despite my decent looks and the fact that I fit the current male ideal.
That was my first real disappointment. At school Id been the top lad in the village, never short of attention from girls. Yet all of that felt trivial when this new, fierce feeling took hold. It felt like what people call true love.
A small consolation was that she seemed oblivious to the rest of the lads in our cohort. I often imagined, If this ever happens, I dont know what Ill do with it! As the third year rolled on, my affection for her remained unchanged. Then, as if spring had melted the ice, she started laughing at a classmates jokes and my heart surged.
One evening we rode the Tube home together. In my head I sketched a whole life for us, a happy shared future. I finally asked her out, and, surprisingly, she said yes. Beatrice began to like this cheeky, slightly shaggyhaired Nicholas, who reminded her of a cartoon character. I invited her for coffeethose days when pop songs seemed to be playing from every kitchen radio. We had a wonderful time, and then we kissed. My dream was finally taking shape.
By the end of our third year we were a couple. By the start of the new academic year Beatrice was pregnant. It happened on her birthday, 9June, when I visited while her parents were away at the cottage. In the heat of the moment we didnt use protection, assuming itll be fine. It wasnt. Soon she realized she was carrying a true, regal gift.
We spent the holidays with our respective families; not everyone owned a mobile then, so the young father only learned the news after his brother returned from the south in late August. Beatrice was anxiousabout two and a half months along, already needing decisions.
Nicholas was equally bewildered. Neither of us knew what to do. Lying in bed felt romantic, but the harsh reality stared backgreen eyes, a looming crisis. Marriage seemed premature; he was still a lad, and his parents would never be pleased. An abortion? That would cost money and required Beatrices consent.
Beatrice, as if hit by a sack of dust, seemed ready to accept any outcomeanything, just do something! I promised Id act, and then I did. What shocked everyone, including myself, was that I missed the first day of term on 1September. Id simply ducked out, halfheartedly avoiding responsibility.
If anyone had told me such a turn could happen, I would never have believed it. I took some documentsno one knows where they went, perhaps to another university. Beatrice was left alone with her dilemma. Our classmates were baffled; I vanished, never answering calls. My parents claimed Id moved into a rented flat without a phone.
In the end, Beatrice was erased from my life. The fear of losing freedom outweighed even the purest love. Years later Im happily married, my son now twentytwo. I never learned what became of my former love; she passed away, and I never asked.
Regret gnaws at me now. Perhaps I was too hasty. I did love Beatrice, and I would have loved the child she carried. My wife Laura is dear to me, but its a different kind of lovesteady, without fireworks, more like a warm hearth after a long day of sledding.
Saturday came, and Simon announced hed bring home a girl; wed decided to marry! Though my son was still young, his parents didnt objecthe lived on his own in a flat his grandmother gifted him, financially independent.
When I opened the door for my son and his girlfriend, there she stoodBeatrice, as if the years hadnt passed. Not exactly her, but a perfect double, a clone perhaps. Shed returned that August evening, a reminder that boomerangs always come back.
I quickly realized she wasnt my former lover but her daughterperhaps also my own. That meant she was my brothers halfsister. Could I marry my own sister? The thought paralyzed me, a cold dread in my chest, heart thumping over a hundred beats per minute. It felt like divine retribution.
I tried to act normally, smile, make conversation. Laura, noticing my distress, asked, Do you want to lie down? Let me check your blood pressure. I agreedit gave me a chance to slip away from the table.
My dad, didnt you like Emily? my son asked after the wedding. I saw you didnt even look at her. Is it the pressure? My blood pressure had spiked; I took a tablet.
My dad, you wont marry her! my father shouted. Why not? Simon demanded. Because shes my sister? I left her mother pregnant twenty years ago!
Admitting that was beyond my strength. I could only say, Ill marry her anyway, and walked away.
Laura, ever sensible, said, Whats happened to you? Youre acting like a madman. I thought, If only I could go back. The next two days were a torment; I even called in sick with a hypertensive crisis.
At dinner, Laura tried to calm me: Its not her. I pressed, What do you mean, not her? She answered, Its not Beatrices daughter, if thats what you thinkjust a lookalike, same type.
She reminded me of a photo that had surfaced, taken during my passionate phase with Beatrice, showing a striking resemblance. Isnt it possible? she asked. Dont they have lookalike contests? She laughed, Her mothers name is also Lena, just like me. Were meeting them Saturday. So, will you let your son marry?
The shock eased a little. I could finally give my blessing. Yet, the uncanny similarity lingered. Later, scrutinising the girl more closely, I saw the differenceshair colour, eye shade. It was not the same miracle.
I keep trying not to think about it. Laura never brings it up, but she knows. She watches my husbandlike guilt with a wise smile, never accusing. She understands that everyone needs secrets, especially those tied to dark deeds best left unremembered.
If she hinted that she knew, it might shatter the respectable image Ive cultivateda man who solves family problems in a single bound, the husband everyone admires. That would not help any marriage, least of all ours, which, thanks to Laura, remains steady.
Saturday dawned, and Simon introduced his fiancée, Emily. My son opened the door, and there she stoodanother mirror of Beatrice, a perfect double. The realization hit: perhaps shes his halfsister. The thought left my throat dry, my heart racing, a cold sweatperhaps it is some sort of divine reckoning.
All I could do was try to smile, keep the conversation going. Laura asked if I wanted to lie down, Let me check your blood pressure. I obliged, using it as an excuse to slip away from the table.
Now, writing this down, I see how tangled my life has become. The past, the choices, the secretsall swirl together. I hope tomorrow brings a little clarity, or at least the strength to face whatever comes, with Lauras steady hand beside me.
