I Knew You'd Have Brown Eyes (15 page)

And then a couple of weeks later, this:

Today we discussed the paper published in the British Medical Journal – ‘Benefits of Swimming Pools in Two Remote Communities in Western Australia’ – in one of my tutorials
.

‘I was a co-author on that paper,’ I wrote disbelievingly.

‘I know,’ came his reply.

Finally able to buy a gift and card for his birthday that year, I sent him a cookbook and Doris Pilkington’s book
The Rabbit-Proof Fence
. One of the pools was in Jigalong, the community where Molly, who is central to the story, lived.

‘I love that movie,’ he told me, in his thank-you letter. ‘I cry my little heart out every time I see it.’

I wrote back saying that I had met the real Molly. She was an old lady by then and when we were on a field trip to Jigalong we visited her. She lived alone and couldn’t walk, which struck us as being cruel for a lady who had walked so far in her younger years.

‘I told Doris not to tell anyone that story,’ she told us, causing a huge ruckus of laughter, since the movie was so famous. And then she looked at us with the most mischievous eyes and said, ‘You know, you don’t have to walk from Perth now. There’s a plane.’

‘Are you still doing triathlons?’ Michael asked in another email. ‘I used to compete in sprint distance … I’m planning on doing the Noosa triathlon this year, as an individual.’

I was indeed still doing triathlons, almost every Sunday morning during the summer months. We swapped information on the brand of our bikes, and the distances we were doing in training. Our common interests were uncanny –
was that genetic?

One day he wrote to say that he had just received the letter I had left on his file the year before.

Thank you for the lovely letter you wrote … I had a good cry when I read it and I am currently shedding another tear as I reread it … my birthday has always been filled with mixed emotions. I have always thought of you and wondered if you were doing the same …

And in reference to my thanks for his short message to me when he was eighteen, he wrote:

I’m glad the words I penned ten years ago made it to their intended destination; at the time they just seemed so inadequate
.

We continued corresponding by email and I learned a lot more about Michael, and he about me and my family. He was thrilled to learn that his great-grandfather had been an Italian chef.

I am firmly convinced it must be genetic … Now all we have to explain is my interest in cars
.

One day, I logged on to my computer and I saw an email from him, which I responded to.

Are you on your computer now?

Yes, I’m meant to be studying
.

I couldn’t believe that I was communicating with him in real time, absurd as that sounds. I had goosebumps. I replied:

We should call on the phone, sometime
.

And we set up a time for me to call him, in his home, in real time, one evening.

On the night of that call, I went to my room about half an hour before and paced. I had a glass of red wine to calm my nerves. What should I say to him? What was his voice going to sound like? Would we run out of things to say? I feared that if we spoke it might somehow break the connection we were forging. Had I suggested it too early in our getting to know each other?

‘Hello, this is Michael,’ he chirped when he picked up the phone.

‘Hi, this is Mary.’ And then we talked and talked and talked – there was no stopping us.

Sam was thirteen when I told her about her half-brother. It was a cold wet July afternoon, and I asked her to come for a walk with me after school.

‘Why do you want to go for a walk?’ she asked. ‘It’s raining outside.’

‘Yeah, I know. You’ll need a rain-coat and something warm. We’ll just go a short way along the coast, maybe we can stop at the Soda Café and get a drink.’

‘Are you taking Ralph?’ she asked. Ralph was our dog.

‘No, not today, we’ll leave him home.’

‘That’s not like you, Mum. Is Ralph okay?’

‘He’s fine, I just want to talk to you.’

As we walked down our street towards the Indian Ocean, I began.

‘Sam, when I was young, too young, I fell pregnant,’ I said. She was silent for a few moments and we braced ourselves against the cold wind.

‘What? What year are you talking about?’ she finally blurted out.

‘It was 1975. I was seventeen. Why is that important?’

‘I thought you were going to tell me that Dad wasn’t my Dad.’

‘No, this was long before I met Dad. I was too young to be a mother at that time, but I had a son and I relinquished him. Do you know what that means?’

‘You mean, gave him away.’ I sensed the shock in her voice.

‘Well sort of, there are some women who can’t have their own babies and they apply to adopt a child.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘He lives in Queensland. I only found that out recently. It’s possible that you might meet him one day and I wanted to tell you in plenty of time.’

‘When? How old is he?’

‘He’s twenty-eight. It’s the reason why I talked to you about pregnancy and how to prevent it. I never wanted that to happen to you. You know, after I had Michael, it was fifteen years till I had you. In all those years, I desperately wanted a baby, so when you came along you bought the greatest joy that any child could ever bring to a mother.’

We walked in silence, feeling the cold, both lost in reflection, or so I thought. I was concerned about how she was taking this news, when she said, ‘Mum, I’m really sorry, and I know this is the wrong time to ask, but can we get something to eat? I’m starved.’

Ha, I thought to myself, here was I expecting to be judged for having had sex so early in life and Sam was more concerned with food.
Too much information
, I thought. Children are so adaptable and non-judgemental.

Years after that day, I met Judy, Sam’s teacher that year. She asked me how Michael was.

‘Did I tell you about him?’ I enquired.

‘Don’t you remember? You emailed me and asked if we could have a meeting to talk about something that may be affecting Sam at school?’

‘No, I don’t recall that!’

‘I had no idea what you wanted to talk about but, when you came, you said that something big had happened to you and you were worried about Sam.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Yes, you told me about Michael, and that you had only just told Sam and that she hadn’t said much about it.’

‘How peculiar, I don’t recall a thing about that, but they were strange times. I was in a trance.’

‘I thought something really serious had happened in your family. It’s the one and only time in my teaching career that that has ever happened to me!’

‘I must have been worried about her!’

It reminded me of just how disconnected I was.

Telling Alex was more fraught, at least for me. She was only eleven. But one afternoon as I was sitting in the car waiting to pick her up from school, I started crying and couldn’t hold back the tears.

When she came to the car, she asked, ‘Mum, what’s wrong? Why are you crying, what happened?’

‘I can’t talk about it just now, Alex. Let’s talk tomorrow.’

Despite my happiness at having finally made contact with Michael, I still felt a mixture of guilt, confusion, loss and helplessness. There were so many emotions going around in my head that I found it hard to process everything. On the one hand I was excited to be getting to know him, and on the other I knew there was so much of his growing up that I had missed and I was still grieving. I had an unfamiliar feeling of longing that I couldn’t shake.

The next day after school I took Alex to a café in Karrinyup shopping centre – ‘a crappy café’, she told me later.

‘Mum, what’s going on? You’re so distant these days. It’s as if you aren’t there.’ I was surprised she had noticed.

‘I’m sorry Alex. You’re right, I’m not myself. I have something big to tell you.’

And I told her about Michael.

‘Mum, that’s so sad,’ she said, her face a mixture of grief and compassion. ‘What did Granny say?’

‘Granny was very unhappy about it all. It was kept a secret in our family, but I’m not like that. I didn’t want to keep it a secret from you. I was waiting till you were old enough to know about him. But now that we are finally getting to know each other, I wanted to tell you and was waiting for the right moment.’

‘Does Dad know?’

‘Yes, of course. It was one of the first things that I ever told him about myself when we met. It’s been a huge part of my life, Alex, and despite all the sadness it has made me who I am today. You know how I often tell you it’s not what happens in your life, it’s how you deal with it that matters?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well that’s what I base that little wisdom on. You see, I could have been bitter about it and gone into a shell and blamed the world for what happened but instead, at seventeen, I told myself this has been a really difficult and sad event, but it has made me strong and I now I must l live with it. And, though it was difficult at times, I held out in the hope that we would meet one day.’

‘Are you going to tell Granny about getting to know him now?’

‘I don’t know, Alex. She was never too sympathetic with me. We never talked about it in the years afterwards. It’s hard to bring something up with someone who wants to shut it out.’

‘I can’t believe it! She’s your mother. Wasn’t she sad for you?’

‘Not that I recall.’

‘But it’s not a time to be sad now. Even if I was crying yesterday, there are times when I’m confused because of what I feel I’ve lost, but on the whole I’m really looking forward to getting to know him, and I hope you and Sam and Dad will meet Michael someday.’

I felt very proud of my two daughters who took this information in, absorbed it and wished for my happiness.

I mentioned to Michael in another email that, though I was often upbeat in our phone calls, I had cried enough tears to fill Lake Eyre. He responded that he hoped that our contact was not causing me too much distress. How could I not rejoice in this boy and his optimism and sensitivity!

‘We should meet,’ I suggested one day in a phone call.

And that was how I came to be in Hervey Bay that day when we met on the beach. I told him all about his birth and he gave me the photo album that his mother had made for me.

And I began a long-awaited healing process.

17

When I was growing up in the 1970s I loved watching ‘The Brady Bunch’ on the telly. It was so satisfying to see how this family navigated its way through the normal trials of life with such ease and harmony. Not just any family – a blended family. Now I had my own blended family with Trevor’s grown-up children and our two daughters. We too had navigated our way through some difficult times, albeit not as easily as the Brady Bunch. We had reached what I thought was an emotional equilibrium. But now I was doing something completely out of the ordinary – I was bringing into our family a man, almost thirty years old, my daughters’ half-brother. How would that work?

It was a stinking hot Perth January day when I drove to the airport to pick Michael up. This was only our second meeting and the last had been a mere twenty-four hours, but Michael had booked his ticket and was staying for two weeks. On the one hand I was delighted that he had chosen to devote such a lengthy period of time to get to know us, but on the other I feared it might be too long. I hardly knew him and though this was our way of rectifying the past, there was so much that could go wrong. We might argue. He might not get along with Trevor. There were Sam and Alex to consider. There was no guarantee that this was going to go smoothly. And if there were problems, could I lose him again?

Though I had only met him that once, I recognised him immediately as he walked down the passageway from the plane. We embraced and I felt a surge of warmth and affection for him.

‘How was your flight?’

‘Not too bad. You forget how big Australia is until you fly over it.’

We walked to the baggage claim area and Michael lifted off the box that held his bike.

‘I’ll have to reassemble this so we can go for a ride.’

‘Well, we’d better do that this afternoon, because I was hoping you’d come for a ride with some friends tomorrow.’

‘Great, I’ll get onto it as soon as we get to your place.’

Back at our home we unloaded the bike and left it in the garage. As we entered the front door, Sam called from her room.

‘Hey Mum, are you back from the airport?’

‘Yes we are. Come and meet Michael! Where’s Alex?’

‘I’m here, Mum.’ Alex joined us on the landing.

‘Hello,’ she said. I sensed her shyness.

That night I cooked roast chicken, a family favourite. Trevor opened one of his best bottles of red and, after the girls had excused themselves, we stayed chatting around the table.

‘So, Mary tells me you’re almost a doctor,’ Trevor said.

‘Yep.’ He made that movement with his watch again, the one my father used to do. ‘I’ll be starting my internship at Townsville Hospital next month. I’m really looking forward to it.’

‘But you must have had some experience of working in a hospital before this?’ Trevor said.

‘Oh yes, I’ve been working in lots of hospitals around Queensland. The rural medical program is excellent in that it takes us to the smaller hospitals, where we get a lot of hands-on experience.’

‘I guess in the larger urban hospitals you’d be competing with other medical students to examine patients?’ I asked.

‘Yes, and I’ve been able to do procedures that I would never get to do in the city.’

We cleared the dishes and made plans for the following day. I planned on taking him on an eighty-kilometre ride the next morning.

‘You’re sure you’re up to this? We can make it shorter if you like?’

‘Nah, bring it on, I say!’

‘Well, we need an early start because it gets very hot once the sun comes up. Do you want me to tap on your door at five?’

‘No, I’ll be fine. I have an alarm on my phone.’

‘Okay, I always start with a cup of tea, so I’ll meet you at five here in the kitchen!’

That night as I fell asleep I felt very happy. I was grateful that we had cycling in common. The next morning we rode along the coast in the dark, Mike following close behind me since he didn’t have a clue where he was. We found a comfortable cadence and were on time to meet my biking companions on Mount Street.

‘This is Michael,’ I said. They all greeted him – just another cyclist. If only they knew who he was! As we cycled in single file in darkness, our lights flashing, I asked myself, Why didn’t you tell them who he is? You’re the one who doesn’t like secrets. Why not just tell them? I wondered what they would say, what they would think of me and how Michael would feel. We hadn’t discussed it.

As we neared the river I could feel the sweat building on my body, another warm day. Michael was ahead of me now and I caught up with him, pedalling alongside.

‘You can’t see it now, but when we come back this way you’ll see the Swan River.’

We cycled in silence. He was doing well keeping up with this pack of cyclists – they tired me out and I did this every week.

And then it occurred to me – I’m not telling them because this is my time, my turn. I don’t want the past interfering with the present. I’m going to enjoy getting to know this young man and my cycling friends can hear my story some other time.

We went on several more rides around Perth. Mike was always ready to go. It seemed natural to have him by my side chatting about the weather, the scenery, the crazy car drivers, whatever came to mind. It’s easy to chat freely when you’re on a bike. On one occasion we were returning home when I realised the notorious Fremantle Doctor had come in. That wind is a cyclist’s curse when you’re riding into it. I huddled in behind Michael’s large frame, shielding myself from the relentless wind. It felt good to be protected.

‘What do you feel like for dinner?’ I asked one evening soon after his arrival.

‘I could cook, if you like,’ he said.

‘Sounds good to me.’ We made a list and bought the ingredients, and Mike took over the kitchen.

‘What’s for dinner, Mum?’ Sam said.

‘Seafood risotto,’ Michael said.

‘Yum!’

Over dinner Sam asked if she could have some friends over. It was school holidays and the girls were in the habit of inviting friends for a swim in the pool. We arranged the day and she set about inviting them.

‘Should I tell them he’s my brother?’ she asked me the following day.

I thought for a minute.

‘You know Sam, I’ve found that if you tell people the real story, they ask heaps of questions and sometimes I don’t mind going into the detail, but other times I do.’

Sam could have a look of innocence at times and she tries so hard to please me. I could see she knew this visit meant a great deal to me. She was trying in her way to make it easy for me.

‘You could just say he’s your uncle,’ I said.

The evening after Sam’s friends had come over, we were in the dining room eating yet another of Michael’s dinners. By now we had virtually given over our kitchen to him, and he never disappointed us. That evening we had a barbeque and he had made a salad with an exotic dressing made from Sambuca.

‘Hey Sam,’ he said, ‘when you turn eighteen, call me and we’ll go and have a few beers together.’

Alex giggled, and he turned to her.

‘One night,’ he said, ‘when I was eighteen I drank twelve Raspberry Cruisers and I had a red tongue for a week.’

‘What’s a Raspberry Cruiser?’ Alex asked.

‘Some of the kids at school drink those,’ Sam said.

‘What! Where do they get them from?’ I said.

‘Their parents buy them.’

‘What’s a Raspberry Cruiser?’ Alex asked again.

‘It’s like a soft drink but it has alcohol in it, and it’s not for fifteen- or sixteen-year-olds,’ I said. But I was enjoying this conversation, the three of them talking like that, with Mike behaving like an older brother.

I wanted to show Michael as much of Perth and its surrounds as I could. I arranged for a boat trip up the Swan River to a winery, a couple of days on Rottnest and yet another trip to Margaret River, this time with Trevor and our girls. I asked them individually how they were coping with the visit and each one told me that it was fine. They liked Michael and enjoyed his company.

‘I thought it would be awkward,’ Alex said, ‘but it’s not at all. He’s very easy to get along with.’ I felt relieved.

One evening towards the end of his stay we went to a Maori hangi with my friend Desiree’s parents, Rosemarie and Tony. Desiree was away on holidays. The hangi was held at the golf club they belonged to. There was a group of New Zealand Maori men doing the haka. They asked Michael to join them on the stage, which he very obligingly did, complete with shirt off, like the men demonstrating the traditional Maori war cry. He was a keen rugby follower so had seen the haka at rugby matches and he looked a natural among the boys. After the dinner we went back to Rosemarie and Tony’s place for coffee and Rosemarie asked Michael to write in her guest book. He wrote that he had enjoyed the night very much and signed off ‘Michael (sleepless)’.

On the journey home, I asked him how he was going.

‘It’s been absolutely fantastic,’ he said, ‘but I guess I’m not used to this level of activity.’

‘Yeah, well I do have a reputation for filling in every minute of every day. Sorry about that!’

‘No really, it’s fine.’

‘Have you spoken to your mother since you’ve been here?’

‘No, she’d be upset if she knew I was here.’

‘Did you ever give her the letter I wrote to her thanking her for the photo album she put together?’

‘No.’

As we drove in silence I thought about his mother. I would have liked to meet her. To my mind we shared a bond. From the moment we met I had made it clear to Michael that I had no intention of taking a mother’s role. As I saw it, his adoptive mother had raised him. That was her place, it didn’t belong to me. A mother’s role was to nurture and guide, and I had given that over to her. I was Mary, his birth mother. I wasn’t jealous of her. After all, I had entrusted him to her care. All I had wanted was to meet him and get to know him. If meeting his mother was an option, that would make me very happy. By this stage in my life I had an unconventional idea of family, as I now considered Trevor’s children to be part of mine. This had given me a broader understanding of what the definition of family and relationships were. I didn’t want to be a threat to her but at the same time I couldn’t pretend that I could put myself in her shoes.

My philosophy is simple: people are people and we can make life as complicated or as easy as we choose. Today there are many types of relationships. I could envisage spending time with Mike’s mother. As long as we didn’t put unrealistic expectations on our relationship, it could be easy. Of course both parties have to be comfortable with that. But if she didn’t want to meet me, what must she think of me? There must have been times in Mike’s childhood when she wondered about the parents who gave away their son. Did she, like so many of the judgemental people I had met during my pregnancy, think I was a careless girl who gave away her son without any care as to where he was and with whom? Had she hoped I would never appear? Was the photo album her way of showing me that she had given him a better life than I could? Maybe it was too painful for her to meet me. I had to respect that.

Though I did not want to make it public to everyone just who Michael was, I wanted some of my friends and family to meet him. We had a couple of gatherings where I invited Trevor’s children and my closest friends over for a ‘meet and greet’. At one of these gatherings, towards the end of his stay, I noticed that he had looked a little uncomfortable. After they had gone and we’d cleaned up, he said he needed a beer.

‘Be careful,’ I said. ‘We’ve had quite a lot of wine and you don’t want to wake up with a hangover.’

‘I can look after myself,’ he said, with a determined look in his eyes. I immediately regretted my comment. I was behaving like his mother. But I sensed that the previous two weeks were catching up with him. He was tired and perhaps overwhelmed. It was normal that he would be missing his friends and family, but I worried that I’d overloaded him. By the same token I was grateful that he had put aside so much time to get to know me, and my family.

After Michael returned to Queensland we communicated sporadically by email and text, but these communications soon petered out. I put this down to his busy schedule and assumed that, like the other boys in my family, communication was not a big priority. But eventually I did not hear from him at all.

He stopped answering his phone, and did not return text messages or emails. I didn’t know then that it would be seven years until we communicated again.