Heartlines

by Susannah McFarlane

  So, we head off through the folder. There is a lot of legal stuff ‘in the matter of Florence Leuba’, but there are also handwritten letters: from Robin’s mother to the social worker in Melbourne, the one who was going to make it all go away; then Robin’s letter to the same; and later again, when she writes to confirm she will give up ‘the baby’. Even that I skim read. Oh, right, I think but then I move on, dream-like, barely connecting that I’m that baby.

  The only time I snap to and my heart pulls is when I see the letter Mum wrote to the social worker inviting her to a party to celebrate my becoming part of the family; it’s been a while since I have seen Mum’s distinctive handwriting and signature and it makes me sad. I miss her a lot.

  There’s other stuff too: copies of my hospital crib card, Robin’s bed card, my discharge form and then page after page of affidavits ‘in the matter of Florence Leuba’. It all passes in a bit of a blur.

  Every now and then Maddy asks how I am. ‘Yes, fine, I’m fine,’ I reply.

  But she persists. ‘What do you think about it all, Susannah?’

  No idea, I think, but I suspect Maddy thinks I should try a bit harder.

  ‘So, is she still alive?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes,’ confirms Maddy.

  ‘So, I can write the letter?’ The letter, the kinder letter that will make things better and draw a line under things. Everything will be resolved. And that will be that.

  ‘Yes.’

  I ask Maddy if she will contact Robin to ask if she will accept a letter from me. Maddy says she will and tells me to take care. She’s lovely to care so much, but I’m fine, completely fine. I sign the form to say I have read the folder, then I pick it up and drive home.

  When I get home I put the folder on my desk in my study and go into the kitchen to make dinner. Oskar comes home and asks how it went. I think I reply it was fine, that it felt a bit weird but it was fine.

  From my family there is mild interest at best: after all, the way I have told them about it, I am just writing a letter. I’m not going to meet her. How could it possibly affect them? And so we have dinner, and I recount the meeting with Maddy in the same amount of time as other people’s news of the day. I tell them my name was Florence. There is a group grimace and Emma suggests Susannah is more me. I tell them my birth mother’s name is Robin Leuba. They don’t have a view on that. After dinner, Oskar and the kids settle down to a TV show, but instead of joining them I go back up to my desk.

  And I Google Robin Leuba. Well, you would, wouldn’t you?

  There’s not much there, but there is an address. I Google that and find a picture of her house – it’s small and across the other side of the city in a suburb I’ve never heard of.

  I come downstairs for a glass of wine and tell my family as I pass through the living room to the kitchen that I have just Googled Robin and that she lives in Hadfield. There is a slight lift of the head by Oskar and a query as to where Hadfield is. My glass of wine and I go back upstairs and I Google some more.

  Next I find a book Robin wrote. A writer: that piques my curiosity. I Google on. Called All Things New, the book is a self-published memoir and, from the blurb on the publisher’s website, it seems to be a Christian testimonial. The last chapter has also been posted on the site. Am I going to read it? Yes, of course. Why not? Just to see. I might just get another glass of wine before I do it, though.

  I come downstairs again and tell the family, ‘She seems to be a born-again Christian.’ The head lifts are a little more pronounced this time. I think Oskar says something like, ‘But it doesn’t matter, does it? You’re just writing a letter.’

  ‘Exactly,’ I say as I walk back up the stairs.

  But already I can feel that something’s happening. There’s a slight tightening of my chest and a flushing of my cheeks. And as I read the chapter, the tightening tightens and my heart begins to pound. There’s been a lot of drinking, a lot of sleeping with men, then she finds God, and there’s still drinking and sleeping with men. She gets pregnant, thinks about an abortion but can’t square that with her faith, so keeps the baby. I am not that baby.

  My head spins a little. I don’t think I want to know all this, whatever this is, and yet I do. Except now I can’t find the other chapters. I Google on, ferociously looking for more of the book, but, being self-published, it’s not available for sale anywhere. Determined to read the book, my Googling takes me to the website of the State Library, where all books are lodged. The book is there, available for loan. I join the library online, reserve the book and decide to go into the city after my meetings the next day to read it.

  Urgency seems to have arisen in me. I don’t quite understand it but I decide to go with it. I also decide not to give my family any more updates for a while.

  Reading between the lines

  Robin, 26 August

  In the morning mail there is an official-looking envelope: ‘Sensitive material inside: open in private.’ What? I have no idea whom this letter could be from.

  FIND. Haven’t heard of it. I tear it open and read the words: ‘Your daughter, Susannah …’ then I almost black out. It seems Susannah has contacted the organisation and has expressed a wish to write to me. Would I accept a letter from her?

  This is incredible! It is only a few months ago that I consigned my dream of reconnecting with my adopted-out daughter to the drawer of oblivion!

  There is a number to ring and I go straight to the phone. ‘May I speak to Maddy, please?’ They tell me that she is currently in a meeting, so I ask if she could call me back as soon as she is available to do so. I think the girl on the end of the phone senses I am a little overwrought and possibly communicates this to Maddy, who rings back sooner than I had been led to expect. I tell Maddy I am extremely willing to receive a letter from Susannah.

  Susannah, 26 August

  My meetings over, I head off to the State Library, feeling both a little ninja-sleuth and a little sick in the stomach. The book is waiting for me on the collections shelf. As I pick it up, I’m not sure I want to read it anymore. What if I don’t like what I read?

  I find a chair. I get up and find another one. And then another one. Where does one sit to read such words, the story of your birth mother?

  I get over myself and sit down again. I read the blurb and, as I suspected, feared, it is a Christian testimonial. I’m not a Christian. I meditate and am interested in Buddhism, but in a secular way: if I’m anything, I’m a humanist, believing in the human rather than the holy spirit. I believe everyone has a right to their own choice and I respect those choices, but I confess that anything that is too full-on, too evangelical, scares me. From the first pages it seems, to me, pretty full-on Christian and it makes the book, and Robin, feel very alien to me.

  Nonetheless I press on. It seems to be the story of her life yet I’m not in it. I skim through to find the pages describing the time of her life where I would appear. I find them but not me – although I am possibly in this line:

  Selfish egocentricity was ever the order of the day and of course hearts were broken – those of boyfriends, girlfriends, parents – the usual thing.

  But otherwise I don’t exist. I have been excised from her life. She’s forgotten about me, so perhaps she doesn’t need my letter, doesn’t want it. This is her life and I am not in it, not even as a footnote – bundled up with all the other bad mistakes she made. Maybe it’s just as well: we seem to have lived very different lives, what connection could we possibly have?

  So, now I’m thinking that I should just stop here and not even write the letter. It’s not such a good idea after all; it’s better to leave it all alone.

  27 August

  Maddy rings. Robin is extremely keen to receive a letter. Oh. I guess I need to finish what I started.

  Careful correspondence

  Susannah, 1 September

  So, I think this is what I wanted to say. This is a better letter. I write it on the weekend and send it off to Maddy on Monday to
see what she thinks.

  29 August 2014

  Dear Robin

  Thank you for accepting this letter. My hope is to write a ‘better’ letter than I think I did last time. If there is a benefit to being older, I hope it is in being a bit wiser and a lot kinder. I’m sorry this letter is not handwritten but this way it’s legible …

  Many things, besides the deterioration of my handwriting, have happened since that first letter but two, becoming a mother and losing my mother, have been the most significant and they have, perhaps inevitably, reminded my head and heart of you.

  It was not until I carried and had children of my own that I could really begin to understand, to feel, what you might have gone through and I have since wondered, worried, that I was not mindful of your experience when I replied to your first letter. Then, I didn’t, couldn’t, understand but now, at least I know how I would feel in your situation: the isolation of a confinement; the conflict you might have felt as a baby grew inside you; and, finally, the wrench of the birth and separation. It must have been awful.

  The guardedness in my first letter sprung also from a desire to protect my mum, who feared she would lose me. In my determination to reassure her, I perhaps denied you things. Mum can’t be hurt now and is, I hope, at peace. Between nature and nurture, I am what I am in many ways because of both of you and, so, if I can now add a little to your peace, I would like to do that.

  I’m not sure what else to say and I certainly don’t know where this letter might lead but I hope you see it as a good thing. Like last time, I am still unsure what we, a pair of significant strangers, do with each other but am willing, albeit nervously so, if you are, to have a different exchange this time around.

  All best

  Email from Maddy to Susannah, 9.23am

  Hi Susannah,

  Thank you for sharing your letter with me. If there was anything to motivate me on a Monday morning it would absolutely have to be your touching, honest, generous letter.

  I realise I’m not Robin, but I think it’s perfect.

  I like how you have described what has brought you to this point and acknowledged Robin’s journey. What I really liked was that you named what you are – significant strangers. I think being clear about who you are creates those boundaries that you are hoping for.

  I can’t think of any feedback or suggestion other than my enthusiasm!

  It is always difficult to know how the other party will respond. It’s impossible to know. But I believe this letter is the start of a careful conversation. I think that is what you would like and I also think Robin will happily accept.

  Let me know what you’re thinking and do feel free to give me a buzz if you’d like to talk it through.

  Email from Susannah to Maddy, 10.51am

  Thanks Maddy, I’m pleased you think it’s hitting the right note – I did want to be open but with boundaries. Let’s send it off and see what happens

  Email from Maddy to Susannah, 4.14pm

  Hi Susannah,

  Have just got off the phone to Robin and forwarded through your letter by email.

  She will email back her response (to my email address) when she has one.

  She sounded, and stated, that she was excited to receive your letter.

  Hope you are feeling okay?

  Am I feeling okay? No. I feel sick.

  Robin, 1 September

  I have just received the letter from Susannah.

  It’s a lovely, kind letter, but something is wrong. It’s a letter of apology. She feels bad about her 1989 letter to me, fearing she had been cold and had hurt me and not empathised with my trauma and pain.

  ‘So, if I can now add a little to your peace, I would like to do that.’

  Oh no! This is all the wrong way around. I am not the victim here, and it’s not Susannah who owes me anything. She said in 1989 that she had ‘absolutely nothing to forgive me for’. I knew then it wasn’t true; she did, she does.

  In my sealed-off selfishness, I wounded her deeply. Over the years, I have thought of her, prayed for her and about her, desired to connect with her. But I have not been living in trauma; I have not lacked peace. I cannot claim to be like those cases where the baby was taken away from the mother against her will; it was my decision. People may have told me I didn’t really have a choice, but I did. And I chose me, not us.

  This is serious: she has a false picture of me. What will she think of me when she is disillusioned as to my suffering (or lack thereof)? Is that the further ultimate rejection – that she really was not wanted?

  Oh God! This is awful! The last thing I want to do is hurt her again, and I also don’t want her to reject me or hate me. Because I want her now. But we cannot base our relationship (if we are to have one) on a lie. I won’t be a fraud.

  This is really scary. Will there be forgiveness, or not? How do I reply? I won’t pretend anything, but maybe we don’t have to brave the hugest challenges head-on just yet.

  Susannah, 2 September

  Email from Maddy to Susannah, 9.20am

  Hi Susannah,

  I have received a reply to your letter from Robin this morning.

  Is it ok for me to forward it to this address?

  Email from Susannah to Maddy, 9.25am

  Wow, that was quick – yes please, forward.

  Emailed Letter from Robin to Susannah, 9.28am

  Dear Susannah,

  It does feel rather surreal to be actually writing to you like this, but I am so glad to be doing so. Thank you for your letter.

  A point that came up with Maddy seems quite telling: you wrote your first letter to me at pretty much the same age that I was when I gave birth to you, and now you have contacted me at roughly the same age I was when I contacted you! And I do feel we were quite parallel in our emotional development. As you say, age and experience changes us. But Susannah, just as in your first letter you said you had nothing to forgive me for, please don’t think I found any fault with that letter; I totally understood where you were coming from.

  Maybe Maddy also told you that I had only earlier this year thought to try and contact you again – forms are still sitting in a drawer – but then I thought it might still be an unwanted intrusion and imposition for you, so I didn’t proceed. It’s wonderful that you have taken this initiative – wherever it may, or may not, lead.

  Should I feel guilty that I know quite a bit about you due to the younger generation’s ability to search the Net? My niece, not even knowing your surname but a few salient facts, found you on the Internet. With a certain fear and trembling I followed her leads and have read about you and seen pictures of you. Of course, quite easy because you are famous! Really it is so fantastic to see what you have achieved; I am very impressed – and also deeply grateful to your parents for providing you with a foundation in life that allowed you to develop your potential and talents. You are obviously also a superb mother.

  You do look like your birth family, which is logical of course, but nonetheless sort of amazing to see, emotionally. (There are also some other interesting similarities!)

  Susannah, please feel free to ask any questions you like. For my part, any contact is welcome.

  Love, Robin

  Susannah

  I find it hard to concentrate as I read. My eyes blur and dart, my heart races and I feel sick, again. My tummy turns and my mouth dries. This is my birth mother. She’s seen pictures of me? I look like them? What are those similarities? But hold on, stop, it’s done now, isn’t it? I’ve written my letter, she has replied saying it’s all okay. So, that’s all good, isn’t it? Yet she seems to expect a reply: that wasn’t really in the plan.

  But I do write a reply and I ask for a photo. It’s like I’m writing the letter but not really – I’m just watching as this other Susannah leads me further into whatever this thing is.

  Email from Susannah to Robin, 10.48am

  Hi Robin

  Thank you for your reply. ‘Surreal’ is certainly a good word for
this process: I am also working with ‘weird’ and my daughter, Emma, has gone with ‘freaky’. She, about to turn 15 tomorrow, is very interested in this whole process and whether there will be any physical resemblances. Both kids look ridiculously like my husband’s Swedish family but, of course, absolutely nothing like my side and so Emma, not so much Edvard, wonders.

  And while we don’t want any guilt, yes, it is unbalanced, and a little unfair, that I’m more Google-able than you! We did try but the internet seems low on Leubas. The only thing I could find was your book, All Things New, which I read with probably a similar fear and trembling as you trawled the internet. (I confess I was a little thrown when I didn’t appear.)

  So, if you’re willing, I would like to see a photo of you, perhaps just you for now if that’s ok as I think I need to keep things slow. And you have effectively piqued my curiosity with the ‘interesting similarities’ so if you want to elaborate, that would be great. I’m also happy to answer any questions you have, if I can.

  Best

  Susannah

  Robin

  Yes, the book. Two years ago, in 2013, I self-published a personal testimony about how I became a Christian. I deliberately made no mention of Susannah at the time, because I felt I could not possibly do so without her knowledge and consent. A family member had raised the question when I was writing it – how would Susannah feel about being expunged if she ever read it? I didn’t think it would be a problem (but then I never do!). Now I see that it is. I have to explain.

  I’m not sure how I feel about the ‘Best’ sign-off either. It sounds strange to my ears, quite cool and detached, in control …

  Email from Robin to Susannah, 3.05pm