Heartlines

by Susannah McFarlane

I don’t understand the question mark – does Tim not know who he is?

  And then he shows me a photo of his mother, Janet.

  ‘You look exactly like her,’ he says.

  I am a little taken aback: he thinks I look exactly like a 75-year-old woman?

  I leave it, though, and we enjoy the meal and each other’s conversation. It’s so much easier than I thought it would be. It’s actually fun and around the two-hour mark, Tim asks, ‘Should Anna join us?’

  I’m a little surprised but think, why not? ‘But where is she?’

  ‘Just around the corner,’ he replies, looking a little sheepish.

  ‘Really? Why?’

  Tim comes clean: he had asked Anna to be close by in case the whole lunch was a disaster and he needed to be evacuated.

  ‘And you don’t need to be evacuated now?’ I ask.

  ‘No, not at all, this is wonderful! But Anna should join us too.’

  And so Anna joins us and it is even more wonderful. She helps us finish our cheese and then we move to the bar where about an hour later Tim has another idea.

  ‘Should Charmayne, Finn and Billie join us?’

  Charmayne is Tim’s wife and their children, Finn and Billie, are my half-brother and sister. I didn’t realise they were close by.

  ‘Why, are they around the corner too?’ I ask. How many evac teams does one birth father need? I hesitate a little, though – that would be meeting four biologicals in a day, well over my quota. But Anna is with me and, strangely, this makes me feel close to bullet-proof. I make her promise she will stay and she immediately agrees.

  ‘Why not, then?’ I say to Tim. ‘The more the merrier.’

  And so, now we move to the tables outside and the sunshine. The go-slow on meeting the biologicals has gone completely out the window but it doesn’t matter. Finn and Billie, much younger than me, look both disconcertingly and comfortingly like only slightly older versions of my children, and that weird familiarity seems to lubricate the conversation, of which there is much, hectic and hilarious. Indeed, everything conspires to make the lunch that turns into dinner a stunning success.

  At one point, Tim just pats my hand and smiles, a broad, very happy smile. After eight hours of so many words, none are needed. We have both done well.

  At 7pm I receive a text from Robin:

  How was the lunch? X

  I text back:

  Still there – and Anna, Charmayne, Finn and Billie are here now too. It’s lovely!

  Robin replies:

  Gosh!

  As the sun sets into the St Kilda bay, we order more drinks to toast the lunch that nearly wasn’t.

  The next day I remember that I promised to send Tim my ‘Heartbeat’ poem. I’m a little nervous – no, actually, I’m very nervous – but I write a quick message, attach the poem, press send, and run away from my desk.

  A couple of hours later this drops in to my inbox:

  Your self-song my heart harrows:

  I hear the Babe Joan solo screaming

  Left unsuckled abandoned angry,

  mummadadda bailing after the biological bit,

  gone for good that’s what they said.

  Forgive us we knew not what we …

  No end of forgetting and begetting

  life still hums love’s loopy song

  makes you a heartmending mother

  delivers you an enduring dad

  Thank you Susannah for your lifelines

  the horror and happy harvest they bring home,

  and all your makings good

  be kind to these awkward alliterates of mine

  Love

  Tim

  X

  And so begins a happy exchange of emails. Dictionary and Google by my side to look up the ever-obscure references and word-slams Tim creates; it is uncomplicated and joyful.

  And I realise gratefully that both my fathers have given me the incredible gift of the love of language.

  Down the ‘what if’ rabbit hole

  Susannah

  Meeting and roistering with the biologicals has been more than I – and even Robin – could have hoped for. It has been fun beyond measure but it has also had an unsettling effect on me.

  Because the more time I spend with them, the more clicks we make, the more family photos I see and family anecdotes I hear, I can’t help but wonder what it would have been like to have grown up with them all, how it would have been if Robin and Tim had kept me. I know it would have been a lot more turbulent than my childhood was and I am overwhelmingly grateful to Mum and Dad for the stable, calm – but also fun and adventure-filled – home, but there is also a pang of the what-if and it sends me down a rabbit hole of what-ifs that completely does my head in.

  Essentially, if you think about it long enough you make so many people you love not exist – it’s not a game I recommend playing.

  It starts like this. I imagine that Robin did keep me and instantly there is no more Mum and Dad, no Duncan and Sophie, at least not for me. Someone else would have taken my place at Hawthorn Grove, my spot at school and at college. It is highly unlikely that I would have met Oskar and so there go Edvard and Emma, completely. They never exist, they are nothing more than an improbable genetic possibility that never gets realised. Now, that is an unbearable thought.

  And then I get to work on Robin’s family. Robin does keep me. What happens to Robin and Tim? A little unwanted baby is too much and they split earlier and all of a sudden – BAM! – no Anna, no Matilda. And with no them, none of their precious family exist either, and so it goes on. The reversal of one decision would have changed everything from the everything we know now to something else we can’t imagine. It’s like everyone in both families are just bubbles and one twist in events and POP! They’re gone, erased, never to exist.

  And I certainly don’t want that. I don’t wish any part of my life undone and replaced with something else. While I now mourn the loss I suffered as a baby, I don’t regret being adopted by Mum and Dad. I absolutely don’t regret the wonderful life I’ve had with them, but still I feel the pull of the divided self the adoption books describe and I feel rushes of sadness, anger in among the relief and gratitude. Bottom line, I want both: I don’t wish what I had away but I wish I’d had more time with this family that looks and sounds like me.

  It’s like coming to a dinner party of really good friends – where everyone feels a click of comfort and ease with everybody else – except I have the time wrong and come late. By the time I arrive, the drinks, first and main courses have all been served and eaten, and some pretty meaty arguments and conversations have taken place. Most people are a little drunk, some very. And in I come, stone cold sober and with no idea of what I’ve missed.

  They all look a little worse for wear but they’re incredibly welcoming, almost ridiculously pleased to see me and I like them a lot. I try to catch up: I drink quickly, move around the table, smiling, talking to everybody, but it’s too late. I’ll always get the stories second- or third-hand, will miss the references and in-jokes but, however hard I or they try, I can never catch up.

  It’s another unhelpful thought that spins around in the high-speed blender that is my relationship with Robin. But, as the hot summer months would sadly attest to, sooner or later the spinning has to stop – it’s just a question of how.

  IX

  RUNNING AGROUND

  Walking on my sore leg. Part one.

  Robin

  It’s January. It’s hot and I’m still busy. Jason and Matilda’s wedding, which went smoothly, is over but family problems persist and so does the sciatic-nerve pain in my leg. In an environment of burn out, the smallest spark can kindle a fire, and tensions arise between Susannah and me over the dumbest things.

  I had gone into the city for a lunch with friends and was travelling home on the train. Chatting on my phone, I missed my stop; suddenly I looked up to see Merlynston station, where my car was parked, receding behind me. I alighted at the next station an
d had the choice of waiting for a return train (boring), or walking back along the picturesque bush path beside the railway line. My leg was certainly not completely better, but I decided on the latter option. I had to pause a few times in the course of my little journey, but I reached my car none the worse for wear, having enjoyed the walk in the pleasant weather.

  Recounting this to Susannah, she expresses her opinion that it was perhaps an unwise choice, given my injury. I assure her that it was fine and that probably the scrap of exercise had been good for me.

  That should have been the end of this very unremarkable story. Sadly, no.

  It is the beginning of a ridiculous tussle that leaves us both irritated.

  This was the gist:

  ‘I don’t think you should have walked on your sore leg.’

  ‘It’s fine – it was good; no harm done.’

  ‘I don’t think you should have walked on your sore leg.’

  ‘It’s fine – it was good; no harm done.’

  Reprise …

  Susannah thinks she is being solicitous and caring; I feel she is being stubborn and controlling.

  Susannah

  I can tell that Robin is cross at me but I can’t really understand why. I was trying to show I cared, that I was worried that she might hurt herself again, but she doesn’t seem to want that concern and clearly sees it as an intrusion. I have obviously overstepped the mark and gone into an area that is none of my business.

  I feel sad. I thought I was showing a daughterly concern but she is telling me in no uncertain terms that it is none of my business. I need to watch myself, be more careful.

  Walking on my sore leg. Part two.

  Robin

  It’s late at night and I am watching the Australian Open tennis on television. It’s been a somewhat emotionally draining day. Susannah and I had a long and convoluted phone conversation; she was feeling insecure and I couldn’t reassure her. I think we finished up okay though. I am tired and probably should go to bed, but it is very relaxing here on the couch.

  Susannah

  As I watch the tennis with Oskar, my mind is working overtime. Thinking over today’s call with Robin I realise that I am, once again, getting out of hand, bombarding her with too many unprocessed emotions, calls and text messages. I begin to fret that because of this she is now tiring of me. You would think that someone who thinks they are bombarding a person with messages would refrain from sending another message. Sadly, think again.

  Robin

  Ping! It’s a text from Susannah.

  Susannah

  Hello. I don’t want to lose you, or irritate you or bore you by being too much all the time. Do you think I am? X

  What is she talking about? But I don’t want us to get involved in some crazy analysis right now. I’m tired and just want to watch the tennis. I text back.

  Robin

  What are you talking about? You seem to be going a bit mental. I’m watching the tennis which is really good but am nearly falling asleep xx

  Susannah

  I will leave you alone. I’m sorry you’re tired

  I don’t want to drive you away

  But she’s not really sorry it seems and it feels like she does want to drive me away.

  Susannah

  Okay a final – and a bit mental – question: Do you think that you know me? Obviously not completely, but …

  God help me!

  Robin

  More and more I know you.

  Susannah

  Me, or imagined me? Happy to talk if easier.

  Susannah

  ?

  Oh no! I didn’t see her last message immediately and now I’m in bed. I’ll collapse if I have to keep texting. I am dead tired. I send what I hope is a final text.

  No, darling, I’m exhausted now. Couldn’t talk if I tried. Need to sleep. I suspect it would not be very productive now anyway – we’d just get lost in silly philosophical circles. Let’s say ‘night-night’. X

  Susannah

  I should know better, I should say goodnight and leave it at that. But I don’t: I feel hurt by her ‘silly philosophical circles’. Robin is just calling the shots – if she thinks it’s silly, it must be silly. She is dismissing me, rejecting me and I resent her for it. In my selfishness I forget she is an elderly woman and a tired one. I punch out a cross reply:

  I actually didn’t want to circle but did want help.

  Robin

  I hear the beep of another text coming through and feel like weeping. I do not have the strength to tap out more letters with my tired, fat fingers, constantly making mistakes and having to correct them – excruciating! Talk about ‘Don’t walk on your sore leg’ – now she’s making me walk on my sore leg!

  Susannah

  No reply. Now I am cross. I send yet another text I probably shouldn’t.

  Forget it!

  No x for her.

  Robin

  Another beep! I can’t do it; I’ll read them in the morning. I go to sleep.

  The next morning when I read Susannah’s texts they strike me as petulant and selfish, but I don’t say this when I reply.

  Robin

  Morning, have just got your last messages. I fell asleep last night, I really was ‘done’ to use Emma’s expression. How are you all today?

  Susannah

  I wake to the ping of my phone and read Robin’s text. I am still cross with her and don’t want to reply. I realise I am being childish and playing games, but I don’t care and I don’t answer – she can have a taste of her own medicine.

  Robin

  No answer from Susannah. This feels like punishment, quite painful.

  Susannah

  I know that Robin will be worrying that I haven’t replied. I know she will take the non-message as a message and I’m fine with that. I am also rather preoccupied with a major issue that has blown up with my daughter, so I flip between concerned, caring mother and needy, sulky daughter.

  I even begin to think about what would happen if I never replied – would she call me? Probably not, it always seems to be me who calls. But perhaps I can lure a phone call out of her? Now I send a text.

  Susannah

  All a bit sad here …

  It works. Robin calls. I talk to her about what’s happening and I apologise for my poor text behaviour. Her voice calms me and it’s good to be able to talk through things. We are back on track – but not for long.

  X marks the spot

  Susannah

  It’s late January, and Robin and I get into yet another argument. I have had a slightly difficult day with one of my new family members, but it all works out well. I text Robin, looking for some reassurance, some comfort, probably even some praise.

  And Robin replies via text:

  That’s wonderful.

  That’s it? And a touch oversensitively, I grant you, I see I don’t even get an x at the end of the text. So, I reply.

  Susannah

  No x?

  Robin

  I’m a little surprised by Susannah’s reply. In my head I said it with deeply heartfelt gratitude and appreciation. Oh my goodness, in retrospect I see how crazy this is, how out of touch I am with the electronic medium I am using. IN MY HEAD? Do I think Susannah is a mind reader? All she has is two words on the screen, which could be heard – in her head – in many different ways. I try to explain, still with delusional faith in my unconveyed emotional intensity

  Robin

  Sometimes, in certain contexts, an x seems to trivialise.

  Susannah

  Okay I see what you mean but ‘little me’ stresses when they’re not there because it might be that they’re being withheld. Mental perhaps, but honest. (x)

  Susannah

  What are you doing, Susannah? Could you be any more needy? Then again, say what you feel, right? And slightly humorous perhaps with the ‘x’ in parenthesis – that should lighten things a bit. Wrong.

  Robin

  Mmmm it could become me
aningless if compulsory. Could we try a little more faith in the relationship do you think? xxx

  Susannah

  Are you frustrated with me?

  Because I’m getting frustrated with you – and I’m sorry but the xxx is coming a little late now …

  Robin

  No. The limitations of texting. Just sharing thoughts and wanting to be real. Do you see my point at all?

  Yes, I see your fucking point, Robin! I just said that – do you always have to think, Robin? Would it kill you to feel sometimes? That’s what I would like to say but even I know that would be crazy. I try something that I hope is more sensible, to explain myself in a way she might understand. Be rational, Susannah, be clear, no emotion.

  Susannah

  Yes of course. I understand that I am over-sensitive to signals of rejection from you – that’s why I referenced ‘little me’ and am highly conscious of being too needy on that front and am trying to rein it in. That said, had great but emotionally raw conversations today and just needed to be in touch with you – I think it’s okay to need reassurance even if I get you might be tiring.

  I am happy with that. I have calmed down. I feel I have acknowledged my failings but also exposed my vulnerability. I am hoping I get some love back.

  Robin

  You did touch in and my reply was genuinely expressing a deep appreciation and commendation of you which I really thought an x would trivialise. No tiring or rejecting involved – just a difference of sensibility in that instance.

  Oh for fuck’s sake! ‘A difference of sensibility in that instance!’ This is impossible – would it really be so hard for you to say, ‘Yes, darling, I understand’? Do you have to press an intellectual case, win every argument?