What other clans might have called raging arguments, we called ‘discussions’ (though later we did begin to refer to these altercations as ‘bushfires’, indicating that some small amount of self-awareness was creeping in). No wonder Susannah, whose upbringing was much more ‘English’, meaning self-controlled, was dismayed by any show of anger on my part: she was not used to it and it frightened her.
We brought the same lack of restraint to pursuits of pleasure in my childhood. If we girls went shopping and liked more than one dress, for example, it was never a dilemma – just buy the lot. And we knew how to roister with gusto. Our house in Peppermint Grove was jokingly dubbed ‘The Leuba Tavern’ and friends from more reserved households were drawn to the comparative warmth and freedom it seemed to offer.
There was – and is – also nothing moderate about our use of language, hyperbole coming naturally to us. Nothing is just ‘bad’, it’s ‘hideous’; rarely is anything simply ‘good’, it’s ‘bliss’. My sister Susan, who has little interest in or aptitude for fixing things that are broken, instead encourages this activity in others by hailing the tightening of a screw or the switching on of a power source with cries of, ‘Engineer! You’re brilliant, a genius!’ When it comes to anything technological, such as computers or mobiles, whole new levels of superlative praise are reached: whoever has plugged in the computer or accessed voicemail is proclaimed with awe to be a magician.
For my birthday, I receive some lovely gifts, but here again the principle of hyperbole must be adhered to. The reception of a present with anything less than raving appreciation – any mere ‘Thank you, I really like it’ – elicits an expression of horror on the face of the giver and a barrage of paranoid accusations: ‘You don’t like it! You hate it! Why do you hate it?’
While Susannah shares some of these hyperbolic tendencies, she has also brought to the table her own speciality: the neurotic obsession with the obligatory addition of kisses (xxx) to any written communication. Her new family members, who did not formerly strictly adhere to this practice, have now been trained in the custom to such an extent that should they realise they have pressed ‘send’ without the compulsory ‘xxx’s, they are struck with guilty fear and quickly correct.
Due to the fact that Tim is her father, hooking her up to a whole new pipeline of Scottish/American madness, Susannah has inherited a double portion of the gene of excess, especially in the realm of roistering. For her, every anniversary or celebratory occasion must ideally be extended into a Festival, ranging over at least a week. Hence there was no way my birthday party at Marian’s, excellent though it was, could possibly be the end of the story. Knowing I like seafood, Susannah immediately commissioned a seafood dinner to be held at my house, incorporating a sister sleepover. The bland word ‘dinner’ was soon disposed of, quickly becoming ‘seafood bonanza’; still unsatisfied, Susannah then pronounced it to be a ‘seafood extravaganza’, thereby giving licence to the full expression of the aforesaid gene.
On the evening of the extravaganza the girls all come bearing cornucopias from Canals Seafoods: oysters, lobster, calamari, prawns. It is all absolutely delicious – and of course ridiculously abundant. My last image from the dining table is that of a colossal mound of crustacean remains, quite grotesque in their post-prandial state.
We flee this scene of carnage and adjourn to the living room, where tea and coffee are called for. This service falls traditionally to Marian who, as the youngest, was early co-opted into small acts of slavery by her older sisters.
We drink our beverages, chat, and then, of course, get out the cryptic. Marian, for reasons known only to herself, has for some time eschewed the Australian papers, including The Age, in favour of the English Guardian. She is, therefore, not conversant with the quirks of the local crossword composers and protests at the difficulty of the exercise. We assure her that she is not dumb, just deprived of adequate tuition. We offer our services, but will she have the motivation to persevere? After all, The Age’s cryptic crossword is not everyone’s universal panacea.
Mattresses are set up on the floor of the living room for the sleepover, but despite the fact that this is totally in line with my childhood vision of the giant bed, I do later defect from the cause and retreat to the comfort of my own single bed, leaving the young ones to the cosy clump. At seventy-three, I’m just a bit past the cosy clump – in a physical way, at least.
My birthday festival is declared officially over at midnight when I, Cinderella-like, surrender my position of honour and revert to the status of servant, having been commanded to report for duty in the kitchen the next morning to cook breakfast: eggs, bacon and Johnny cakes, the latter a family tradition passed on to me from my mother, Florence. So, in the morning I am Mum again, and very happy to be so.
The offspring leave and I sit down at the dining-room table with paper and pen. It’s time for me to apply myself to the writing task that Susannah has set me for our book: the account of my pregnancy and Susannah’s birth in 1965. I have said to Susannah that I can’t really remember anything but, as I start to write, the words flow easily and, it seems, I remember more than I thought.
Once more with feeling
Susannah
Robin and I have decided we will give this ‘book thing’ a go and have begun writing pieces from our different perspectives to see if they might build up into a story. Robin has emailed me her writing about what happened in 1965. I start reading. I am not worried, I am excited: I am in work mode and, after all, I know this story, I’ve heard it all before, so it will be okay.
Right? Wrong.
As I read, my heart pounds, my chest tightens and I feel lost all over again. I am as irritated as I am distressed: I thought I had this stuff all sorted out now. What’s going on? I call Robin and I tell her that her writing is beautiful but that her piece has really upset me. She tells me that she is sad that I am sad and we agree that we are both confused by what’s happened – perhaps this book is not such a good idea after all?
I continue to churn and, later that evening, I send Robin a slightly, only slightly, mental text. She responds lovingly but briefly and I know she is tired. I text back a goodnight message: at least, I think to myself, I have learned not to spam my elderly birth mother late at night – and she has learned to let me know gently when she’s tired and can’t talk anymore. But I continue to churn.
And then, after a few more churns, I get it: something shifts. Maybe, finally after nearly a year, the adult me has worked it, or at least enough of it, out. But I realise that little me, the sad baby, whom I no longer think of as pesky but in need of protection, hasn’t worked it out yet. She’s not thinking, she’s just feeling and she is still angry – really angry – and confused. Little me needs big me to help her. So, I have a chat with her and I promise I will speak for her and I will tell Robin how she feels. She will have her moment to be heard. Better late than never, I tell her.
Little me likes this a lot. Can we really tell her what we think? Can we really say anything? Yes, I reassure her, we can say anything, we can give her hell if we want to, and it will be okay. I promise her.
I also promise that there will be no ‘good girl’ attempt to understand Robin’s side of the story, no ‘Gosh it must have been difficult for you too,’ or ‘But it’s all okay because look how it turned out.’ The baby wants its moment of pure, uncompromised anger. And, after fifty years, I reckon she is entitled to it – indeed, I need her to have it so I, we, Robin and I, can move on and have a relationship that looks forward not back.
So, my inner child and I sit down and together we write a reply to Robin’s 1965 piece. It’s pretty full-on but I, we, decide to give it to Robin tomorrow, to let her have it.
Robin
I am off to Susannah’s house. There are no particular plans for the day but I am looking forward to seeing her and perhaps talking more about our book idea.
Susannah
Poor woman, it’s going to be like an ambush. She doesn’t
know what I’m about to do to her; she thinks she’s coming to spend a lovely day together. I see her car pull up and my throat dries; I feel sick knowing what I am about to do but I am also determined.
Robin comes to the door and I greet her with a hug. She seems to immediately sense that something is not right.
‘Susannah, what’s wrong?’
We go into the living room. I don’t offer her her normal cup of tea.
‘Um, you know how I got upset reading your 1965 piece?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I’ve written a response to it. We actually.’
‘We?’
‘Can you just read this?’
I give Robin the first page.
When I read your 1965 piece I went mental – yes, I know – again. I’m sorry but at least now I think I have worked out the problem.
Fifty-year-old me does get it, understands 1965 – balances it with 1989 – says ‘okay, let’s say we’re even’ – and forgives. She thinks ‘let’s enjoy now, the clicks of connection, the energy and pull of the genetic magnet.’
But little me, the howling baby, the lost toddler, doesn’t get it yet. She is still angry, really angry and confused about you – but she is so happy to be back, reconnected whence she was ripped that she doesn’t dare say that – because then you might leave her all over again. So, she’ll say anything, including that she forgives you, to make sure you stay.
But this is what she really wants to say …
Robin looks up at me.
‘Okay?’ she says, shakily.
‘Are you up for reading the second page?’ I ask quietly. ‘It’s pretty full-on.’
‘Yes,’ says Robin without hesitation.
Of course she’s up for it, she always is. I watch her as she reads it and she starts to cry.
We’ve responded to your 1965 piece.
1965 – you
I could hear my voice, strangely detached from me, roaring in the drugged darkness …
I returned to Perth, where I resumed my life and my relationship with Tim, and buried the whole experience deep within my subconscious. In general, I tend to be a bit of a blabbermouth, not the soul of discretion, but the fact that I had adopted out a child was my one dark secret. It lay undisturbed for twenty-four years.
1965 – me
Well, lucky you, undisturbed.
Not me.
I am disturbed, distressed, desolate the moment they pull me from your fraudulent womb.
Oi! Anyone! Where is my mother?
At least you were drugged – nothing dulls my roar – I scream and scream and scream while you resume your life.
I throw up the milk they try to feed me and there is nothing to numb my pain as I arch and clench in raw hurt, anger, confusion and loss.
No one explains the ‘no bonds’ policy to me.
It is fucked, completely fucked – and it is your fault.
Your dream is my nightmare.
Someone else cleans up your mess.
And I give up on you.
So, by the time you finally decide to wake up, it is way too late.
Robin
I read what Susannah has written. Really, she is just the agent, the go-between, faithfully delivering a message from my baby, Florence Leuba. It’s taken fifty years to get to me, but better late than never.
Each line falls on me like a blow to the heart – and each one I fully receive with no resistance, no remonstrance. Because the case against me is true and it is my fault. It is crucial that I own it and take the pain of owning it. One excuse, one ‘fig leaf’ of self-justification will close the door on the opportunity for healing. My baby needs and deserves pure, uncompromised recognition of the wound inflicted on her; she needs her sorry day.
I tried to say ‘sorry’, to ask Susannah’s forgiveness, right back in the first letter I wrote in 1989. But I saw in her reply that she didn’t get it then: she was in unconscious denial of her wound and said, and believed, she had nothing to forgive me for. We have both done our share of sleepwalking.
She also had her illusion that I had wanted her but had been forced to give her up for adoption. This bubble was broken the day she walked out of my house. She was winded by the blow but quickly – too quickly – struggled to her feet. I again said sorry for the hurt I had caused her and asked for her forgiveness. At least this time she acknowledged with her head that I had wounded her and there was something to forgive after all – and she did forgive me – but her heart still hadn’t really got it, hadn’t felt the pain and the anger.
And finally it has: the comfort blanket has been taken away and she has let the full force of the cold wind of betrayal hit her. I feel it too now and I break down crying. I pull Susannah towards me and talk to her as I cry.
‘I’m sorry, little Baby Leuba, for that betrayal. I’m sorry for the terror and confusion of abandonment that made you scream and vomit up your milk. And I’m sorry for both of us that I didn’t just take you on my breast and take you home. I’m sorry, little toddler, for the legacy of unsureness showing in your eyes, for the scars on your tender little heart. I’m sorry for our mutual loss. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’
Susannah
We are both crying now as we sit together on the sofa. After a while, I lift my head up.
‘I think it must have been awful for me, that little baby,’ I say.
‘Yes,’ says Robin, stroking my hair. ‘I really am sorry, Susannah.’
And then we sit there some more, just letting things sit, sink in.
‘Robin?’ I ask after a while.
‘Yes?’
‘Time for the cryptic, do you think?’
‘Definitely.’
And once again, thank her God, we’ve made it through. We sit together, solving puzzles, talking and laughing in between the clues and healing.
A few hours later, Robin has gone home and Oskar, Emma and I pick up Edvard and we head off to the launch of Dad’s new book. Dad’s book launches are legendary, both in their frequency and their joviality. He makes writing look easy (although those close to him see his effort) and public speaking even easier. His book launch speech is witty and generous, and I listen and laugh with admiration. As I look around the room of people also listening and laughing, I realise how warm and familiar everything and everyone is. Here are the people whom I have known, and been known by, all my life: family and friends of Mum and Dad’s who know both my trials (and those I’ve put my parents through) and my triumphs, and have supported and celebrated me through all of them.
What a completely weird yet wonderful day.
And it finishes, post-launch, with a dinner with Dad, Sophie’s family and mine. We sit down, we order, we toast Dad and we talk – with each other, over each other, just like families do. At one point, Dad turns to me.
‘What did you do today?’
‘Oh, not much,’ I reply. ‘I told Robin that she had inflicted a deep and primal wound on me by giving me up and that my inner child was seriously pissed off at her.’
‘Oh, really?’ replies Dad. ‘How interesting. How’d that work out? Can you pass the garlic bread?’
Well, the last line happened anyway. There was no need to tell anyone else about what happened earlier – it was huge but it was just between Robin and me.
Maybe, now, I have finally got my head and heart together?
‘Heart attack’
Robin
Susannah is at my place to have a day of writing together for the book, which we have decided to call Heartlines. She has slept over the night before so that we can make an early start and ACHIEVE! For me especially this is important because my working window of opportunity is relatively small. I must take advantage of my brain when it is fresh, before the blind of mental fatigue is pulled down and it virtually shuts up shop. No negotiation, not interested in overtime.
The day begins well. Susannah goes for a dawn run in the cemetery, as is her wont. I am blessed to live close to a very large memorial p
ark, Fawkner Cemetery, which is quite beautiful. It affords the visitor (and the permanent residents) green sweeping lawns, grand and gracious avenues of trees, rose gardens and swathes of different coloured daisies tumbling over the spaces between the graves. Some parts of the park are formal and elegant; others are wilder and more Australian and you really feel you are in the country. This impression is reinforced by the fact that bunnies abound, springing away in front of the walker, while white cockatoos swoop and soar with their mad squawking cries.
When Susannah of the boundless energy returns from her run, we decide that before applying ourselves to our writing task, we will do the cryptic over a cup of coffee and then have breakfast. Sitting together on the couch, we embark on our cosy word-mulling and are sailing along nicely when the unthinkable happens – we have a stupid argument over the cryptic. Same old ridiculous story – crossed wires of communication. Irritated with each other, we don’t say much, but continue our efforts with the crossword, albeit with slightly less joy than usual.
Then, as I start preparing the grilled tomatoes, Susannah feels a sharp pain in her chest. She says it is probably nothing and sits down and waits for it to pass, which it does. It is a lovely sunny morning and after breakfast we take a walk together to further clear the air of any lingering negativity. So, it is off to the cemetery again for us.
We stroll along the pathways, enjoying the warmth of the sun, stopping to read inscriptions on the plaques and gravestones. We have been walking for about twenty minutes when Susannah starts feeling peculiar: fuzzy in her head and exhausted. Clearly this is not good and we make our way home as quickly as we can – which is very slowly. On arriving back at the house, she doesn’t even take her coat off but just lies on the couch saying, ‘I just want to go to sleep.’ With thoughts of people lost in the snow who succumb to the temptation to lie down and sleep forever, I persuade her into the car and I drive her to my doctor.
Heartlines Page 21
