The Grateful Dead has been turned on at full volume. I can hear some muffled talking. I’m so angry; this happens a lot. I lie for at least an hour, trying to fall asleep but the music is so loud, it’s impossible. I pluck up the courage and walk sleepily into his room, opening the door to a couple of familiar faces. I know in an instant that my brother is out of it – I’ve been gauging his moods for years.
‘Gary, it’s past 3am. Turn the music down, please – I was asleep. Turn it down.’ I hear the pleading in my voice.
He sneers at me from his bed, his friends on the floor next to him: ‘You are such a selfish bitch! I have people over.’
‘It’s the middle of the night,’ I try to reason, ‘how can you say I’m selfish? Turn it down.’
I leave the room quickly and go back to lie on my bed, my fear rising. I hear him coming, my body aware of his presence before my mind. My door is swung open. He grabs me, both hands around my neck, his face contorted with rage. His large body moves in and out of the shadows, the light from the corridor spilling into my room.
‘Have I told you how sick I am of you?’ he begins. ‘You are the most selfish bitch and cunt that I’ve ever met.’ He’s pulling me up and down by my neck as he spits words of venom into my face. My head is being pushed down into my pillow. ‘You are a slag, a slut. That’s what you are, nothing but a bastard, a total bastard. I have people over!’ His yelling is louder, his hands grow tighter about my neck. ‘Your mother didn’t want you, because you’re so selfish. It’s no surprise she gave you away.’
His hands are still holding my neck – he won’t stop pulling me up and down. I try to yell out, but I can’t move my mouth. I try to fight, but I’m too weak. Up and down, up and down, until I’m sure my neck will break. I can feel myself going dizzy, his face now blurred. I can’t make out his words. Was he truly going to kill me and end up in prison for the rest of his life? Does he realise that I can’t breathe, can’t he tell that he needs to stop? Then I hear Adam coming up behind my brother, wrestling with him. He tries for a moment to unlock Gary’s hands. I hear him yell; I try to open my eyes.
‘Stop, you have to stop!’
But my brother holds on tight. Adam is still yelling. I can feel his hands as he tries to pry Gary off me. When I feel a sudden release, I choke in a big gasp of air. I fall back onto the bed. My heart beats rapidly, the oxygen flowing back into my body. My brother has left, laughing at Adam.
Adam peers at me from the shadows, his eyes full of concern: ‘Are you okay?’
I feel myself nod automatically. That’s what I always did – I said I was okay even when I wasn’t. My insides are shaken with terror.
‘Are you sure?’ He looks at me kindly for a moment but we know that this situation is way too big for either of us.
I don’t cry that night – I think I’m in too much shock – but I feel a wrap go around my heart in a way that it never has before. I feel myself sink deeper and deeper, further away from everyone.
10
St John’s Wood, London, July 24th 2008
I will always remember how the light changed that early summer evening from a soft grey to the deepest black, as I sat looking at my mother in her hospital bed. A hush had fallen over the room. The nurses had left us alone to say goodbye. I held my mother’s hand during those final moments, a panic in my chest as I felt her leave, those soft hands that had nurtured me in the best way she knew how. My father sat on the other side of her, staring at the ground and muttering words that I couldn’t make out.
It was the summer following my last visit. I knew my mother was unwell and we were all planning to go to London again. A vast distance had invaded my marriage. We had recently moved to New Jersey due to my husband being laid off, finally leaving LA behind. I had cried a lot while saying goodbye to everyone there. I had told Kevin that I was willing to give it a go for him, but asked if we could move back to London if it didn’t work out.
‘You’ve never lived in another part of the States,’ he had said, ‘I think you’ll like it.’
The truth is I was scared. I had moved countries once and it had taken so long to find people with whom I felt a connection. And now that I had, we were leaving again. I loved New York, but when we got there Kevin’s job fell through. He fell apart, feeling guilty for moving his family into an unstable situation. I had become close with a man that I had met at my support group, another adoptee. The friendship threw me. Kevin was jealous and I couldn’t explain the connection I was feeling.
‘It’s a feeling of familiarity,’ my therapist had reassured me on the phone. ‘It can feel like more, but it isn’t. It often happens to adopted people when they meet.’
But it had shaken me. I had never stepped outside my marriage before. I had never had feelings towards another man. I felt understood, but I also knew that I had cracked the door open and let the stranger in, even if it was only for a few moments.
Instead of coming together, Kevin and I started to fight. It was a combination of all the stress of moving, and for me the thought of losing my mother. But we all flew to London for a family holiday.
My mother is not well. I’m taken aback when we get there as she looks so frail and she hasn’t told me how bad she is. She can barely breathe and before our visit ends she is admitted to hospital for another bypass surgery.
‘I need to stay,’ I tell Kevin, ‘and help her. Take the kids back home.’
‘Can you stay and look after Dad?’ she asked before the surgery.
‘Yes Mum, of course – and you too.’ She cried as I spoke, she was so grateful I was staying. ‘Just let me get the kids home. From Thursday morning you’ll have all my attention.’
But she couldn’t wait until Thursday: she passed away at 5.30pm on the Wednesday, just as Kevin and the kids were boarding the plane.
I had loved my mother. I had needed my mother, although at times I couldn’t bear to be in the same room as her. She consumed me, watching, always I felt, with such a critical eye, suffocating my every move. I had spent years pushing her away and pulling her back to me. She was kind, there was no doubt, and I knew she loved me. I had been so afraid of her rejection that I went to great lengths to make sure it would never happen. But it was complicated. I never felt free to be myself with her, I couldn’t explore my opinions the way a child does – it was not allowed. As a young child I had pretended to friends, neighbours, my grandparents, that everything was all right in our family. I had to prove to them that we were the same as everyone else, or at least how my mother perceived others. She did not want anyone knowing about our arguments. It made her feel ashamed, as if it were a reflection on her as a mother. However, I struggled with this falsehood. I never felt the same as anyone around me. My family didn’t look like me and I was often questioned about it – ‘Why does your mother have blonde hair and you don’t?’, ‘Why are you so skinny?’, ‘How come your mother has boobs when you’ve got nothing much going on?’, ‘Why don’t you look like your mother?’
If anyone said those things in front of her, she would respond, ‘She looks just like her father.’
Angry, I stayed quiet as she lied. Why couldn’t she just tell everyone the truth? Why was it a secret? The four of us had come together in very different circumstances from those of my friends’ families. I wanted them to know I wasn’t ashamed yet the layers of grief hidden within each of us made it impossible to speak the truth. My parents had to cope with their unresolved loss, their childlessness. My brother and I, born of different mothers, carried within us the unseen wounds of our birth mothers’ abandonment. My adoptive mother didn’t want me to tell anyone the big secret; she was ashamed. And the worst part for her was the lie all those people told her, that adopting us would heal her barrenness, that she would feel like a real fertile mother once she held us in her arms. And that all we needed was to be loved. I don’t believe she ever did. She had been a kind woman, no doubt about that. She relished the chance to be a mother, but she could never talk ab
out our situation, or how we felt.
In that moment that I lost her, I knew that she and I had been meant to be together. Maybe it was for a cosmic reason, part of the grand master plan that none of us would ever truly understand. It had taken me so many years to let her in, and I felt so much sorrow for both of us over those wasted years. As I held her hand, I no longer blamed her or even myself: I blamed circumstance. As I sat by her side, I heard her say softly, her eyes still closed, ‘I can’t do this anymore.’ Then I knew that the years of illness had finally won: she could no longer will herself to stay with us.
I lean towards her and whisper back, ‘It’s okay, Mum, you don’t have to – I’ll take care of Dad and Gary for you.’
I watch her body visibly relax and sink slightly into the bed. She has stopped breathing. Her mouth is half-open, a trace of blood visible on her tongue. Only a lingering resistance is left on her face as she enters the next world.
I stay for a while longer, still holding her hand. I twist her ring around that familiar, comforting hand the same way I had done as a child. I didn’t want them to take my mother away, I wasn’t ready to leave her. But as the night grew later and darker, I knew there would never be a right moment to leave. They would have to tear me away from her, I thought.
The Jewish undertaker arrives. I’m only wearing a tank top and my arms are bare so he doesn’t look directly at me.
‘You must take all her jewellery off, no rings.’ He glances at my mother’s hand.
‘She can’t wear her wedding ring?’
‘No jewellery.’
I lift up my mother’s hand. It has become cold so quickly, and so stiff. I’m trying to pull off the ring, but her fingers are so swollen it seems impossible.
‘Please,’ the man offers.
I watch as he tries to twist and turn the ring, but it won’t budge.
‘I will go and get my implement. Excuse me.’ He shuffles out of the room.
Is he about to cut off her finger?
I lift her hand again, the thought now worrying me. I pull. Still nothing. Oh shit, I think. Then her voice in my ear, so loud it cuts through every other thought in my head.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Zara! Give it a jolly good pull.’ So I do, and suddenly it has slid off. I’m holding it as the undertaker walks back in, surprise on both our faces.
My father has his coat on, keys in his hand. He’s chewing his stubby nails the way he has always done. I pick up my mother’s handbag, keeping my eyes on her as I leave the room until the curtain is pulled shut, hiding her completely. We drive home from the hospital in silence.
As I get into bed that night, I pick up the cardigan she has left on her chair. Holding it to my face, I inhale her smell as deeply as I can, for I know in time it will fade. I wrap it around me. All night I can smell her perfume. It comforts me. I lie awake for a long time, staring into the darkness. How can it be possible? My mother, who had survived so many illnesses, had finally succumbed. Like a little child I had believed that she could survive anything. If anyone could come back from the dead, it would be her. Because if she couldn’t come back, I wasn’t quite sure how any of us were going to manage.
Finally I fall into a restless sleep. It was the start of weeks of unsettling dreams, in which I saw my mother lying in her hospital bed, taking her last breath.
* * *
The funeral is two days later, as is the Jewish tradition. Pat had asked if she could attend, but I declined. My two mothers had never met and even after all these years it was hard for Mum. I didn’t feel that I could ask my dad – they hadn’t even wanted Pat at my wedding.
For years I have lived with this double family – a split life, never fully resolved. I don’t know anymore how to bring them together. As the week goes by I find that I’m avoiding talking to Pat. She keeps reaching out to me but I don’t want to be in contact right now – I can’t talk to her about the grief I’m feeling. I’m consumed by a fierce loyalty towards my mother. I don’t know how to explain it; I don’t want to hurt her.
Our last holiday as a family had been to the Gambia when I was fifteen. I wondered why was I suddenly thinking about this as I stood listening to the rabbi saying the prayers. My eyes are full of tears that won’t fall. I’m transfixed by the candles: as their flames burn higher and brighter, I’m convinced my mother is talking to me through them.
Cassie looks at me from across the room. I manage a slight smile. She has tears in her eyes. She has known my mother her whole life – she had loved her too.
My mother’s family and friends stand all around the room, old Jewish men and women so small, I tower over them. I see the teachers from the school where she volunteered, the priest from the school, the Conservative Party members. They’ve all come to pay their respects. She had led a full life and committed herself to many causes. I feel proud of her. She had never given up her passions, no matter how sick she became.
I listen as they pray, their bodies swaying. How many Shivas have they been to by now, I wonder. The flames from the candles dance, conjuring an image of our family.
I’m usually silent when I’m with my family. I’m as quiet as possible, headphones in my ears to drown out their voices and lose myself. I didn’t really know what to expect from Africa, but I was excited to see a beautiful hotel, huts scattered all around, surrounded by the whitest sand I had ever seen. It seemed to go on endlessly. Within hours, we’re on the beach. My brother has already run off into the ocean.
I lie on my back, feeling the warm sand beneath me. I drift in and out of sleep. I’m surprised by some young men standing close by, looking down at me. Their teeth look so white against their beautiful black skin – I had never known skin so dark.
‘What is your name?’ one young boy asks, surprisingly well. ‘You English?’
‘Zara,’ I reply, nodding. I realise that my mother has joined my brother in the ocean and my father has disappeared.
‘That your mother?’
They point in her direction.
‘Yes,’ I reply.
They sit next to me without waiting for an invitation. Then they tell me they work at the hotel as busboys and kitchen staff. I feel cautious, wondering what they want.
‘You smoke?’ the same guy asks. He offers me a cigarette but I decline, pointing to my mother. They laugh.
‘Later, you come to the kitchen, you hide with us and smoke.’
I smile.
‘Maybe I will,’ I tell them.
‘How old are you?’
‘Fifteen,’ I say, sitting up straight.
The other guys stand to leave, but my new friend stays.
‘What’s your name?’ I ask.
‘Robbie,’ he answers. I can see small beads of sweat glimmering on his forehead.
‘That’s not an African name,’ I observe, looking into his dark eyes.
His mouth widens into a beautiful grin. ‘Easier for you English to say.’ He stands up, offering me his hand to shake. ‘Come to the kitchen later, we not bite.’
My mother comes ambling back. ‘Who were those boys?’ she asks vaguely.
‘Hotel staff,’ I reply dismissively.
‘Come into the water with me, Zara, it’s so warm,’ she tells me.
I nod and my mother smiles; we walk along the white sand, into the sparkling ocean. For a little while, we are able to relax with one another.
I didn’t go to the kitchen that evening – my mother wouldn’t allow it. We all went to bed very early. My brother and I are sharing a room. I try to sleep as he spits nasty comments in my direction.
‘Didn’t know you liked darkies, Zara,’ he whispers in the dark. I don’t respond. ‘Well, I suppose there are a lot to choose from here. As for me I’m going to get high as a kite. Best weed in the world, you know.’
I still don’t speak, hoping he’ll think I’m asleep.
* * *
It’s three days until I can finally go and see the boys in the kitchen. My parents want a da
te night, which is fine with me. I promise them I will stay close by. I had seen Robbie each day – we would wave and smile to each other. Sometimes I could see him watching me from across the terrace as we ate breakfast outside. As I walk into the kitchen, I smell the sweetness of the spices and a huge cooking pot full of rice and vegetables.
Robbie comes towards me immediately. He takes my hand and introduces me to all the staff. Everyone is so welcoming. Helping carry a big bowl of rice, we walk outside into a small hut, where some other workers are already sitting a low table. Robbie shows me how they eat with their hands. I watch for a moment before joining in. We all eat from the same bowl.
‘Your family,’ he says between mouthfuls, ‘are you sure they’re your family?’
I laugh with surprise.
‘Of course they’re my family. I wouldn’t just show up with strangers, would I?’ I say.
He shakes his head.
‘No, but you don’t look like your mother or father. You don’t act like them, either – you’re different.’
At this I’m silent, focusing on the bowl in front of me. I feel his gaze on me. ‘You seem like a sad girl. I was watching you and your family. They are not the same as you and your brother – I don’t like him.’
‘How can you tell?’ I whisper.
‘It is easy to tell,’ he replies confidently. ‘I heard him the other morning. He talks to you with venom on his tongue. Why would he be so unkind?’
‘He can’t help himself,’ I say, quickly defending him.
‘Everyone can help themselves if they want to,’ he replies kindly.
‘I used to believe that, Robbie. I don’t anymore.’
I begin to cry softly, tears running down my face. I brush them away quickly so he won’t see, but the more I try, the faster they come.
Robbie sits beside me on the dusty floor, his arm around my shoulder. I lean into him, my chest now heaving. I feel like my tears will never stop.
‘They are my family, but they aren’t,’ I say between gasps. ‘I love my mother and I know she loves me, but I have another one, you see. Another mother and father somewhere out there. I don’t know who they are, or what they do, or why my mother couldn’t raise me.’
Somebody's Daughter--a moving journey of discovery, recovery and adoption Page 10
