This awakening is the opposite: the realisation of a quite appalling fact.
I look again at the snapshots Susannah has given me of the ‘little’ her: an endearing nine-month-old fatso, her eyes alert with hope, then one of her about seven where she has an expression of vague puzzlement, like there is an unspoken question somewhere beneath the surface.
I see the disillusionment that must have hit that baby at birth. That astonishing and dismaying betrayal, Where is my mother? Again I feel the grief of her abandonment but now, for the first time, also the grief of my loss. I don’t like it.
In this new light, I know without doubt that I made the wrong decision, but that was who I was then. I also believe that had I seen and held my baby, I would not have given her away.
I had asked the Lord to unlock my heart, to shine a light on the dark places of my soul – it seems He is faithfully answering my prayer. But light can hurt even while it heals.
Susannah
Well, Robin said I was cute, called me a ‘dear little thing!’, commented on how similar Anna and I were at the same age, and held my hand while we watched, but not much else. What was I hoping for? Tears? Definitely. An emotional outpouring? Probably, that would have been great. But at least some kind of realisation that it was a bit crap really, crap and sad and we could be sad together. Feel it together.
But no, not today. And I am out of ammunition.
Robin
Do I share my revelation with Susannah, here, sitting on the couch? No, I don’t. It’s too big, too raw; I have to carry it back to my private lair and try to come to terms with it by myself first.
So, I say, ‘That was so interesting! Do you want another cup of tea?’
In my heart, I am grieving for my daughter and missing the lost years.
Missing the moment
Robin
Not long after the home-movie afternoon, Susannah shouts me the wonderful treat of taking me to see The Lion King.
We have dinner first at a little restaurant opposite the theatre and, once we have settled in with our usual easy rapport, I decide to share with her the revelation I had on watching the DVD of her as a child: how my heart finally felt the regret and the loss in giving her up for adoption. I put my knife and fork down and look at Susannah.
‘Susannah,’ I begin. ‘When we watched your home movies I did have quite a huge revelation.’
Susannah looks up at me as I continue. ‘I realise now that I had been given an enormously valuable treasure – and I gave it away. I gave away my baby.’
But Susannah doesn’t say anything. I am talking from my heart but it is as if she doesn’t hear me. I reach out and take her hand across the table. She smiles.
‘That’s really good, Robin,’ says Susannah.
I may as well have said, ‘I’m really enjoying the meal.’
It’s strange how we all seem to be capable of missing the moment, and each other. Absent at just the wrong times.
Susannah
Now, finally, I get the reaction I want and I don’t react.
In the middle of a busy restaurant, Robin tears up and tells me that now, after seeing those baby videos, she is sorry that she gave me up, that she now realises she had given away her most precious thing. That precious thing was me.
‘That’s really good, Robin,’ I say. Did I really say that? It should have been a moment, an enormous one, and it wasn’t, because I just let it pass. Inexplicably, even little me let it pass. We are both missing in action.
We finish dinner and walk across the road to the theatre. We watch a musical about a lion who has to work out who he really is – and I don’t get that connection either.
In two days I will go in for my shoulder surgery – perhaps they can do my head at the same time?
Robin in Brighton
Robin
Susannah has had her surgery and I’m off to her place to look after her while Oskar is at work. I love this route to Brighton. I sweep smoothly on to the tollway, go across the Bolte Bridge with its view over the docks and the city centre, exit and wind through Port Melbourne for a bit before turning on to the coast road that takes me all the way to Brighton. The bay is exhilarating in all weather – sparkling in the sunshine or grey and windswept – but today is gloriously sunny. The road through St Kilda is lined with palm trees, the smaller of which resemble giant pineapples. I pass the old sea baths building with its green domes on my right and Luna Park on my left. I feel as if I am in a foreign country and I’m off on an exciting new adventure.
It is only when I come to the very last roundabout immediately before reaching my destination that confusion sets in and, virtually within sight of Susannah’s house, I veer off in the wrong direction. (It turns out that this veering will happen on a fairly regular basis, leading me to the conclusion that the roundabout is bewitched. My daughter, who possibly suspects my poor sense of direction is to blame, rolls her eyes at this theory, but I am sticking to it.)
Susannah’s house is a dark grey, double-storey building facing a park across the road; beyond the park is the beach. Inside, it is spacious and elegant, in the Scandinavian minimalist less-is-more style. I have been here once before, briefly, a few months ago, when Susannah gave me lunch after taking me to an appointment nearby. At that time, I had registered with some dismay the number of small Buddhas dotted around, but I have calmed down now over that issue, just as Susannah now accepts my talking to my ‘imaginary friend’. While we both hold very different beliefs, we can now joke that we are both waiting for the lightning bolt of revelation to strike the other and wonder which one will be hit first. What could have been a big problem between us has worked itself out.
In fact, this time with Susannah at Brighton has made our relationship closer and better all round. I come in the morning and sleep over, which means I have been able to get to know Oskar and Emma better, which is lovely. Susannah and I ferry Emma to various appointments and pick her up from school. Sadly, Emma finds my bright blue car embarrassing in front of her peers, so this latter enterprise has to be ‘black ops’, as Susannah would say, and as soon as we have secured our passenger – who is shrinking down in the back seat – I must make a furtive getaway as quickly as possible.
The four of us have dinner together at the long dining table and the conversation is lively – most often Emma-led. My granddaughter (I’m still taking that one in) is a delightful girl: bright, creative, intense (No! Surely not!) and not afraid to speak her mind.
After dinner, we sometimes watch TV together, which is companionable and feels like family. Also watching TV – well, probably not actually watching it – are two other very important family members: the dogs, Bill and Bella. Bella is a Cavoodle, a woolly black bundle with a tongue. Unfortunately, she overuses this tongue, particularly by licking me enthusiastically on the face, which I just cannot find appealing even though I know it is well meant. For this reason, I prefer Bill, a small, elderly terrier who seems to lend himself to comparisons with movie stars, Susannah being convinced he is the spitting image of George Clooney, while I see a strong resemblance to Bill Nighy. Although Bella, who is Emma’s favourite, undoubtedly has the sweeter nature, I must confess to a penchant for the wily, enigmatic Bill; it amuses me to look at him, and the lack of licking is a huge plus. Actually, they are both likeable rogues, who really only submit to Oskar, the master’s voice.
Edvard, Emma’s brother and a talented musician, I have yet to meet. I was tantalisingly close to a sighting one day when I was there and he had briefly returned to the family home to recover from the flu. But he remained upstairs, hidden from view, and I had to be content with hearing his footsteps overhead. So near and yet so far. The ghost who walks!
I have done my best to help the handicapped Susannah (who has her right arm out of action in a sling) with simple tasks in the kitchen such as chopping vegetables, lifting heavy pots and pans, making tea and coffee. I have also tried to arrange her bed pillows more comfortably, helped her dress,
and rubbed her back. I have never had much confidence in my nursing skills, being rather clumsy with my hands (which is why texting is not easy for me), and I fear I take after my grandmother, whom we children nicknamed ‘old stony hands’. But Susannah seems appreciative of my efforts nevertheless, which is gratifying: it makes me think perhaps I can mother her a bit after all.
We also go on some fun outings from Susannah’s house, many of which reveal that Susannah – and Emma – have inherited the family tendency to immoderation. One afternoon, we rescue Emma from school – the dreaded science period – which is a bit naughty maybe, but nice as an exercise in biological bonding. The three of us escape to the South Melbourne market, which offers an inviting array of delights for the free and feckless. Our first indulgence, for Susannah and me, is getting our faces threaded. I am so taken with my appearance afterwards that I bore my daughter and embarrass my granddaughter by declaring at too-regular intervals, ‘I look stunning!’
Next, with gay abandon, we spend extravagantly on comestible treats including fresh oysters, Chinese dumplings and quaint candied fruit before hitting the Lolly Store, which dazzles with its variety and colour. By this time, the gene of excess is well and truly activated and we manically make our selections, catering (over-catering) to everyone’s predilections, not forgetting to take home bags of licorice for Oskar. Indeed, no one is forgotten: Bill and Bella, we decide, must also be beneficiaries of our largesse, so after the lolly shop we seek out the pet-food shop. With discrimination long gone, we transition, without turning a hair, from purchasing our magical treats of fairy floss, Fantales and raspberry twirls to buying horrible animal things such as pigs’ ears and kangaroo tendons.
Returning home with our diverse wares, we are tired (well, I am) but pleased with our afternoon’s work. I call for the obligatory cup of tea, and retire to the comfort of the living room. I am joined almost immediately by Bill and Bella, who leap up beside me on the couch, nearly spilling my tea and basically totally invading my space. But I don’t mind. In fact, I don’t mind coming to Brighton at all.
Susannah
I have loved having Robin stay with us and I have loved having her look after me. For the first time, really, she has come into my world and I like that she seems to fit here. The fact that both Bill and Bella approve is an endorsement not to be taken lightly.
The cross-fertilisation of my new family members into my ‘real’ life increases when Anna comes over, soon after my surgery, bearing breakfast. It’s crazy to think that a year ago I didn’t know Robin or Anna and now they are both sitting on my convalescent bed eating croissants and doing the cryptic crossword with me. It’s a source of great delight and wonder.
I have also been wondering about writing a book about this whole experience. As a writer I have furiously journalled my way through the past year but always for me, not for other people. Now I think that maybe there is a book in Robin’s and my story. I talk it over with friends.
‘You have to write about it, don’t you?’ asks one.
‘You don’t think you should finish living it first?’ suggests another.
These are both interesting points. Robin and I are sitting at the back table at my house one evening and I ask what she thinks about the idea.
‘A book?’ she asks, looking more than a little surprised.
‘Yes, you know,’ I say, ‘a book telling our reunion story, how we have managed to get through the hard stuff. It could be interesting, maybe even helpful to people.’
‘Yes, I see,’ she replies in a way that makes me think she doesn’t. ‘But why don’t you write it? You’re the writer.’
I plough on. ‘Because it’s our story and it would work better if we wrote it together.’
Robin continues to look unconvinced. ‘Oh, no, Susannah, I don’t think I could do that.’
I’m disappointed at her reaction but I have come to learn that Robin’s first reaction isn’t always – in fact, very often isn’t – her final response. With an uncharacteristic patience I am trying to cultivate, I let the matter drop and we move on to another topic.
The next morning over coffee Robin brings up the book. ‘You know, maybe we should talk about the book some more. It could be fun to write something together.’
I smile at her – I hope more with love than smugness. ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Brilliant!’
I begin to tell Robin some of the ideas I’ve had about the potential book and the two of us writing together. The thought of doing this is really growing on me but as it grows so too does another, much bigger thought alongside it, pushing something up I have been pushing down. If I have to tell my story to anyone, it is to my own family first – and to Dad.
Telling Dad
Susannah
It is now clear to me that it is impossible for me to continue to see Robin, to continue to become part of her life and the life of her family, and not tell Dad. And now that we seem to have decided to write a book together, any slight hope I may have been harbouring about keeping it secret is blown out of the water.
But it isn’t just about the book. I now feel like I am having an affair. I am seeing or communicating with at least one member of my birth family most days and Dad knows nothing about them. And, increasingly, I am getting perilously close to lying. Dad will ring and ask what I’ve done that day, what my weekend plans are and, if they involve a biological, I dodge and skate around it, desperately trying to fall short of a straight-out lie.
One weekend Anna and her family come up to Longleaf, and Oskar and I really enjoy having them with us. When, on the Sunday night, Dad calls and asks what we have been up to, I answer merrily enough that we have been at the farm.
‘Oh, lovely,’ he replies. ‘Did you have guests with you?’
Now I am stuck. I really, really don’t want to lie. So, I don’t. ‘Yes, we did. Anna and Dominique and their family.’
‘Anna and Dominique?’ asks Dad, as if sifting through his mental Rolodex. ‘I don’t know them, do I?’
I hope that this will be that and we will move the conversation on. But no, we are staying with this topic and I am completely buggered.
‘No, I don’t think you have: they’re new friends.’
But they’re not, are they? Anna is my biological sister and I have just lied to my father. The last time I did that was when I was fifteen and, against Mum and Dad’s express instructions, I had gone with a group of friends to Luna Park in St Kilda. I told them I was going into the city to see a film, which we had no intention of doing. We headed straight for Luna Park where we had a ball, possibly all the more for it being forbidden. But when I came home I was filled with guilt. I tried to forget about it but I couldn’t and I felt awful. I eventually had to confess to Mum and Dad.
But not this time. I feel awful but I plough on and reinforce the lie. ‘Yes, they’re lovely. No, quite new friends. Have I not mentioned them before?’
And then it only gets worse – it isn’t that the account of my weekend is false, it’s that something enormous is going on in my life and I have failed to tell my father. I am lying by omission.
After confessing to the Luna Park deception, I had been grounded for a week. This time I also desperately want to confess but I fear much greater consequences. I believe, really believe, that Dad will be irreparably hurt and angry with me for making contact with my birth family. That he will see it as an enormous betrayal of my life family, of him and, particularly, of Mum. I fear he will reject me in return for what he sees as my rejection of him.
It really feels like I’m having an affair and I have only two options – tell Dad or stop the affair. I can’t do either and so I’m stuck.
Robin
Susannah is really in a state about what to do with her dad – how to tell him about ‘us’. She is so upset, she’s not sleeping and I am worried it will make her sick. She is afraid of hurting him, and afraid of his disapproval and potential rejection of her. On the other hand, she feels terrible not being open with him
, which of course I understand.
I try to sort the thing through with her. I suggest that she may well be projecting her own fears and hurts on to Brian, and also that she is reversing the parent/child roles, feeling it is her responsibility to look after him, much the same as I thought she did in her first letters to me. Of course, he should not be hurt unnecessarily, but he is a mature adult, responsible for his own emotions, and she is probably underestimating his ability to understand and cope with the situation.
I tell her that she will be honouring her dad by trusting him with her confidence – so much more than by allowing fear to shut him out of what is happening in her life. It’s the same old story – real, intimate relationships involve courage and risk-taking. I suggest that writing a letter might be the way to go: easier to express herself calmly and clearly. Susannah agrees.
Susannah
When not being sponsored by Google, this whole relationship turns on letters. I write a letter to Dad but I am not going to send it: I am going to ask him to come over and read it with me.
With one final twist of the truth, I ring Dad and say I need his help with something.
‘Of course, Susie, what is it?’
‘I don’t really want to say over the phone. Can you come over to my house?’
‘Of course. When shall I come?’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Oh, that soon?’
I can hear the concern now in Dad’s voice.
‘Yes, is that okay, Dad?’
‘Yes, of course, darling.’
Of course he says it’s okay – he’s a good dad, and I’m about to let him down. Needless to say, I endure a shocking night of no sleep.
Brian
I spend an anxious evening fearing some very bad news. She’s getting divorced? She has cancer? The family finances have collapsed? Then, as I drive to her house, another thought flickers across my mind: that it might be something to do with her adoption.
Heartlines Page 19
