As I stare deeper and deeper, my phone starts to ring. I know it’s my adopted mum, but I can’t answer it. I can’t tell her right now. She must never know – it would crush her. Already I’m feeling the burden of my secret, but I don’t know what else to do.
I was so interested to hear of your career in the music business.
I would like to try and explain some of the circumstances of your birth as I feel you must want to know.
When I was 16, I was working in the West End. My friend and I used to take days off and go to a club in Wardour Street called ‘Les Enfants Terribles’. I met a young Italian man, about 23. (Did you know that you were half-Italian?)
Anyway, we had a brief love affair, which ended in my becoming pregnant. He really wasn’t very concerned and as far as I know, he scarpered back to Italy.
You can imagine my parents’ shock. ‘Nice Jewish girls’ just did not get pregnant. I was sent to a mother and baby home in Finchley. After you were born I was meant to stay in the home until you were six weeks old. Unfortunately, the day after I came back I fell ill and I was rushed to the hospital. You were then placed with foster parents and I only saw you once more, when I had to take you to the court to sign the adoption papers.
It’s always been my deepest regret that I couldn’t keep you, but I was a very immature 17-year-old and without the support of my parents I would never have managed.
I adore my children but there’s always been something missing in my life. No child can replace another.
I understand that your parents don’t know that you have contacted me. Would they be upset if they knew?
I look forward to hearing from you,
Pat
6
North London, 1970s and 1980s
Sometimes when I was younger, I would walk holding my mother’s hand, looking at the faces of the women that walked past. I would wonder if any of them was the woman who gave birth to me. If I saw anyone that I thought resembled me, I would smile just in case they too saw the similarity. One afternoon I decided that this was the day my mother was going to come and knock on my door and tell me there had been a terrible mistake, or that I was part of an experiment but it was now complete – I had passed the test and now everyone could know each other. I spent that whole day upstairs in our lounge, its big windows overlooking the top of the street. If I stood in a certain position I could see the very top of the hill. She never did come, no matter how much I could almost see her in my mind. When I did dream about my mother I would will myself to look at her face, encourage myself to go ahead and take a look, but her face was always blank.
‘Mum,’ I ask wistfully the day before my thirteenth birthday, ‘do you think she ever thinks about me?’
I notice my mother pause; she knows exactly who I mean, although we rarely speak about it.
‘I’m sure she does, especially on your birthday. That must be a very hard day for her.’
I don’t answer, now wondering if this is true.
‘I will help you look one day, if you like.’
My mother’s offer takes me by surprise. Stunned, unsure of what to say, I feel a tingle of excitement in my belly.
‘You will?’ I answer, my voice hopeful.
‘Of course I will,’ she says firmly, then pauses. ‘But you know, it would devastate me if you did.’
And so the hope left me and I remained, as ever, emotionally tied to her fears and feelings.
* * *
‘It’s anniversary night,’ a young man announces loudly. ‘So be quiet, everyone. Oi, calm down, you bunch of drunks!’ I’m sitting in a packed AA meeting off the King’s Road, the one I attend every week now. It’s Saturday night and there’s so much energy in the room. I’m sitting in a row with all my new young friends. I feel a comfort from them all, a safety net. I wave and smile at all the people I know, happy in the warmth of the friends I’ve made.
The man starts calling out the length of time that people have been sober: thirty days, sixty days, ninety days… Each person is met with cheers of encouragement and smiles from the group. I’m able to see the changes easily in other people, the difference between how they look today compared to how they were when they first walked in. It’s not just that they are off the drugs and alcohol, it’s more than that – a light has taken over them, their faces have changed. It’s harder for me to see it in myself, although people tell me I’ve changed as well.
‘And tonight,’ the young man bellows again, ‘we are also celebrating years. That’s right, 365 days of complete and utter sobriety. Is this possible?’ He’s playing with us, and the crowd responds with hearty cheers.
‘With one year of sobriety… Zara! Please come and take your coin and tell us how the fuck you did that!’
The room gets loud; I can see James and Terry beaming. I stand awkwardly at the front of the room. A small cake is being held in front of me with a candle. I stare at its brightness as a huge wave of emotion washes over me and the tears start falling rapidly down my cheeks. I can feel the warmth and love from the room. I know that they understand what this means, the miracle that has taken place for us all. Between sobs, I’m laughing.
‘I never, ever expected that I could do this. And I know that getting a year doesn’t mean I’m out of the woods. I’m so grateful for you all.’ I look directly at the boys. ‘I have never experienced this kind of support and love before. You guys don’t care when I’m in a bad mood or being a bitch, you just always say the same thing: keep coming, and don’t quit before the miracle. And for the new people…’ I look across the room at a young girl sitting at the back, her face pale, eyes sad, and I say to her, ‘If I can do this, anyone can. Please keep coming back.’
‘Well done, girl!’ James hugs me tight. ‘Now the fun begins. It’s about to get real.’
I pull back to look at his smiling face. ‘You’re such a wanker!’
‘Oh yes, I am, and I hope to be for the rest of my life.’
* * *
The day is here: I’m going to meet the woman who gave birth to me face-to-face. It’s been arranged for me to go to Ms Cameron’s office in East Finchley. I can walk there. All evening I’ve obsessed over what to wear to the point where I’ve driven my friends mad: a dress, jeans, casual, smart?
So I decide on blue jeans, a black top and boots. I put on some make-up and style my hair.
‘Zara, she won’t care what you wear, she just wants to meet you,’ I’d been assured.
Butterflies fill my stomach and I’m finding it hard to breathe. She is bringing her husband, as I said that was okay. I had decided not to take anyone with me, but now I wonder if that was a huge mistake. The end of August sunlight is trying to push through the clouds as I walk slowly up the street. I have this desire to grab a passer-by, a man that rushes past me. I want to stop him and tell him where I’m going, what I’m about to do, but I don’t – I feel almost envious towards anyone having a regular day.
The grey building is in the distance. I walk to the door and up the stairs, panic rising inside me as I see Ms Cameron, who somehow knows I have arrived. She guides me gently up the stairs, but I’m not ready.
‘Your mother is here already. Dear, it’s okay.’ She sees my face, hears my rapid breathing. I feel like I’m going to have a panic attack.
‘I can’t do this, I can’t.’
My words are quiet; did she hear me? I turn around but my back is against the door. It’s too late. She opens it, and turns me around. A man is standing in front of me, crying. I look past him and see my mother sitting on a chair – she doesn’t get up. She is petite, ladylike, neat and well groomed. What do I do? She has tears in her eyes, but they’re not falling onto her cheeks like mine. Her husband, unashamed to show his emotion, moves towards me and kisses me on each cheek. I turn to my mother. Am I supposed to approach her? She does not stand as I lean in and kiss her cheek. She’s controlled, far more than me.
I sink into an armchair, grateful for its comfort, and find mys
elf unable to speak. I’m staring at her, every part of her body: her face, her nose, her lips, her hands… I take in all of it. She is familiar, her features seem magnified to me; I see myself in her.
She and Ms Cameron begin to chat but I’m not listening – I’m staring, I can’t stop staring. Is she pretty? I’m not sure. Do I look like her? I can’t tell. She is familiar, so familiar; a stranger, but someone I know.
I notice that my tears have stopped while I’m comparing boobs. I’m stunned by my own shallowness and the way my mind is working right now. How come her boobs are bigger than mine? Her legs are mine, my legs on another person. She is wearing clothes that I would wear.
She wears silver jewellery. My adoptive mother wears gold, but I wear silver. She is young and trendy; I like that. My adoptive mother takes pride in her clothes, but they were never clothes I would borrow. I would borrow this mother’s clothes, and they would fit for she is slim like me. I’m filled with guilt at being happy that she is slim.
I feel guilty just for being there.
I start to feel more relaxed and start talking but I can’t remember what is being said to me. I can’t stop staring. By the end of the meeting we have made a plan for me to go and meet my siblings – a sixteen-year-old sister and a thirteen-year-old brother, who now know of my existence and are very excited to meet me. I like hearing about them. I’ve gone from being the youngest in my family to the oldest in this new one.
Later that afternoon, I find myself driving towards my adoptive mother’s house. No one is home but I have a key. I go into her bedroom and I sit on the floor of her dressing room. I breathe in the scent of her familiar, comforting perfume. I sit there for what seems like a very long time and I stare at the walls.
* * *
Pat opens the door to her house. She had given me directions, but I didn’t tell her that I knew the way already, that I had sat outside spying on her, waiting for a glimpse of her. My sister is standing with her mother, our mother. She is smiling; I embrace her. We both laugh. My brother is in the kitchen, sitting on the counter, his hands covering his face. I think he’s crying, and soon I start to cry too.
The aunts and uncles are arriving, all bearing presents for me as if I’ve just been born. These are the ones who helped Pat, letting her hide in their homes while she was pregnant. I don’t know what to do except cry as they hand me more gifts. I feel like I’m some kind of oddity, or a prodigal daughter, or maybe a singing star.
‘I watched Top of the Pops. I saw you with Nick Kamen, I remember that outfit,’ my sister says as I show them the photo albums I’ve brought along. I see the similarity in our faces, but she seems to favour her father more than she does me.
It’s not easy for Pat, looking at the photos of me as a baby and a little girl. I see her trying to hide her tears. She is looking closely at each photo; she seems to have shut down. I understand, for I have done the same thing my whole life when things have felt too difficult.
Now it’s my turn to look through albums, with my mother and sister next to me on the sofa. Our legs touch, connecting us all. They laugh at their photos, sharing memories, showing me how cute they were as babies and small children. I look, taking in the images; a sadness, mingled with joy, seems to flow back and forth between us.
I watch my siblings with their mother, our mother. That’s going to take some time for me to get used to. They’re showing off, climbing on their mum. I stay seated on the sofa, laughing as I watch them. I see the connection they have, the bond created by growing up together. Do I have that with my family, with my mother? Maybe I do and I just can’t see it, but it’s never felt that it flowed as easily as this. I know I’ll never have that with them – or will I? In time, maybe?
Enjoy it, Zara, I’m saying inside my head, look at them, this is what you’ve been looking for. I push down the wave of grief that I feel, hoping they cannot sense it.
My grandparents have arrived. I don’t know how to greet them. My grandfather is looking me up and down. I finally stand in front of him. He’s not much taller than me, but slim. ‘So, you’re the skeleton in our closet.’ He is laughing but I’m not sure I find that comment as funny as he does.
My grandmother can’t speak to me at all. She avoids eye contact, yet every time I look up, I see her staring. I’m aware that she’s watching me closely, taking me in the same way I’m taking them in.
So here I am. I have fantasised about these people for so long, as is common for people like me. I’m surrounded by this other Jewish family that in some ways is not so different to the one I was raised in: silent grandparents with stifled emotions, little old Jewish men, kind and funny. These are my uncles, my relatives, and I see pieces of my face in all of them.
Pat is young and glamorous, eighteen years younger than Mum. She has invited me to look in her new walk-in closet. I like her clothes and her jewellery. We’re bonding over clothes because it’s safer to talk about them than anything else. I feel guilty for being pleased that my birth mother dresses this way – I know my adopted mum could never compete. They are two very different women, from different generations. My new grandparents remind me more of my parents’ generation; Pat feels like more of a big sister than a mother. Enamoured, I make notes of what she wears in my head.
My sister has not left my side. She follows me around like a puppy dog while my thirteen-year-old brother just stares like my grandma. I’m the centre of this complex situation, with these strangers to whom I happen to be genetically related.
I say goodbye as it’s almost getting dark. A light rain is in the air and exhaustion has taken over me. They all come out, my new family, standing on the doorstep smiling and waving me off. I smile back. Somehow I manage to drive on to the motorway before the howl erupts that I have kept contained all day. It comes from deep inside of me. I can no longer keep this under control. There are no drugs to push it down anymore. I know now what I have been running from. The tears are flooding my face, making it hard to drive, but I don’t pull off the road – I just keep going, sobbing just like that broken-hearted little girl did before she started running from herself. My shoulders shake as I let it pass through me.
* * *
I watch my adoptive mother in the kitchen – she loves to cook. A big pot of chicken soup sits on the stove.
‘You want some kneidlach? How many? Two, three?’ She is rolling the dumplings and placing them in the bubbling soup.
‘Two, please,’ I respond, leaning against the door.
‘You hungry?’ she asks.
I nod. She cuts me a thick piece of Cheddar cheese.
‘I’m not supposed to eat it, but you can. It’s delicious.’
I smile and take it from her, leaning against the doorway.
Mum hums while she works, her mood upbeat. She’s an interesting conundrum, one moment as solid and strong as an anchor and yet when she feels criticised she falls to the ground, angry and hurt. And then within the next moment she is back to herself. I have always found the way she behaves confusing, my mind unable to adjust to her rapid change of pace. One time when I was little, I stood by her dressing-room door secretly and watched as she slapped and punched herself, saying out loud how stupid she was. It scared me to see her that way, but it showed me who she was underneath it all.
I still haven’t told her about meeting Pat, although it has been a few months. I spent Christmas Day having lunch with my adoptive family and then dinner with my birth family. I’m still consumed with guilt and the feeling that I must protect her.
‘But Zara, she’s a grown-up,’ my friends tell me. ‘It’s not your responsibility.’ But that doesn’t help me at all.
It’s becoming clearer to me the panic I feel is not all about her, it’s also about the possibility that she may reject me for finding my birth mother. I would not be able to cope without her. It seems the three of us – my birth mother, adopted mother and me – are all scared of the same thing. I’m so grateful for my music right now. Endless songs of re
union and staying clean are being written in this new band that I’m in. I like being around the sober guys, although we are all rather nuts. We’re doing so many gigs in London, and more people are showing up; we’re recording every day. I have very little money but I’m beginning to feel a sense of freedom that I haven’t really felt before.
* * *
It’s 5am and I’m lying awake. I need to tell my adoptive parents that I’ve found her. Two years of living this double life, running from one family to another, have passed. I can’t contain it anymore. Living this split life has taken its toll, with the constant fear that my adopted mum will somehow find out.
I call my friend: ‘I need to tell them today, I feel sick.’ I’m finding myself near hysteria, but he calms me with his low, rich voice.
I dial my mum’s number and she answers. I’m crying already.
‘Mum, I need to come over and tell you something.’
I pull into the driveway. My mother looks so worried. I realise then that I should never have scared her in this way.
‘I found my birth mother a long time ago. I never told you because I didn’t want to hurt you, but I can’t live with this secret anymore.’ There, it’s out, I’ve said it. The whole time my father has been sitting on the sofa, staring at the floor. He doesn’t say a word.
My mother too is silent for a moment. ‘Well, I don’t know why you didn’t tell me. I wouldn’t have minded, I always told you that.’ She is finding something to do, shuffling papers on the table. ‘So, what is she like then? That woman? Do you have a photo?’
‘Yes, Mum, I do.’ I had decided before on bringing just a couple of photos and my instinct is right; she only wants to see one.
Somebody's Daughter--a moving journey of discovery, recovery and adoption Page 6
