The Secret Daughter (11 page)

I’d thought of her as uniquely beautiful, now I realised that those wide eyes, brimming with sadness and confusion, were just a little
too
big. Above the downturned corners of her thin lips, her cheekbones were so prominent that the skin there seemed stretched. Mum had an unusual face, and I saw her as if for the first time and acknowledged with some shock that she was an ordinary, flawed human after all – they
both
were, and this realisation was almost as devastating as the discovery of the adoption had been.

I could suddenly see with vivid clarity every single one of my mother’s flaws. She was
too
reserved, and her life sometimes seemed
too
staged – everything looked perfect, but was there any substance to it? She could be so pushy when it came to my decisions. I’d always seen her as stable and reliably concerned, but maybe that was naïve, maybe my Mum was actually overbearing, and staid.

Was that the kind of mother that
I
would be?

I rose now and flicked towards Ted a split second glance which he instantly understood. He rose too.

‘I think we’d better go,’ I murmured. Mum and Dad both stared at me; Mum’s eyes pleading, Dad’s gaze hard and emotionless. ‘Maybe we need some space while I get used to this.’

‘What does that even
mean
?’ Dad asked.

‘You know what it
means
, Dad,’ I whispered now. ‘It means I can’t carry on as if this never happened. I
know
now, and I can’t pretend that I
don’t
know. I don’t want to have a pretend polite brunch with you as if nothing has changed. I want to have a tear-filled, raw discussion where you open up your hearts and your memories to me and tell me
who I am
.’

He sighed impatiently, and that was so maddening that I could suddenly hear my own pulse in my ears. I turned away from them, and without a farewell, walked from the café – under a veil of tears all the way back to the car. When I tugged at the door handle, I realised with some frustration that Ted had the car keys but had remained inside to pay the bill. So I leant against the car and stared at the entrance to the café. I was torn right down the middle – wanting desperately for my parents to stay in the café and give me the space I needed, and at the same time mentally pleading with them
to
follow me; to come and invite me back for a more open discussion.

They didn’t come, but after a moment, Ted did. He approached me quickly, and pulled me immediately into his shoulder.

‘How can they not understand how this is hurting me?’

‘I have no idea,’ he exhaled as he shook his head, apparently as confused as I was. After a moment, he shifted my position in his arms so that he could survey my face. ‘Did you mean what you said, about tracking her down?’

‘Well, I actually said it for a reaction,’ I muttered, thinking of how successful that particular plan had been. I’d intended to drag a rise out of them – instead I’d succeeded only in enraging myself.

‘So you don’t want to do it?’

‘No, I didn’t mean that. I mean . . . I don’t even know where to start, but . . . I
want
to. She might have been looking for me, or she might be wondering why I never sought her out. And maybe she didn’t want to give me up at all, and maybe she’s been waiting for me to come find her for nearly four decades. Can you imagine if someone took our baby and then for nearly forty years we were waiting to find out if it was o-okay?’ Even the thought of
that
had me choking on sobs and stumbling on my words. ‘What a
ni-nightmare
, Ted. I have to try to find her.’

‘You won’t be able to plan for this, honey,’ Ted said softly. ‘Whatever you decide, I’m right behind you . . . but you’ll need to go into this with your eyes open. You could find
anything
, and you won’t necessarily be able to prepare yourself before you do.’

‘I know,’ I said, but the very thought of that made my stomach lurch. ‘But . . . I don’t think I can avoid this. I think it’s the only way forward.’

I was positively shaking with the frustration of it all, but beneath the loudness of that emotion, I became aware for the first time of a quiet resolve. I’d press on towards the truth, and I’d do it on my own. Mum and Dad were apparently so desperate to keep their secrets that they would maintain the ridiculous lies even when my hurt and pain was right there on display in front of them.

I owed it to myself to at least
try
to find out the truth about my own life. I’d never defied them before, but this thing
that they had dumped into my lap was just big enough that I would have to take my life into my own hands for the very first time.

And as hurtful as it was, and as difficult as it all seemed, I had to be brave. I knew instinctively that leaving all of these issues about my origin unanswered would mean that I began my own journey as a mother with baggage that would cripple me.

I wanted to be a fun mum, a supportive mum, a
secure
mum.

I
had
to find some sense of closure and resolution. And I would; if not for myself, then for my baby.

EIGHT

Lilly—July 1973

Dear James,

I saw a doctor a few days ago so at last I know when our baby is coming. They didn’t give me a date, or talk
to
me at all, actually. But I heard the doctor tell Mrs Sullivan that if he or she hasn’t arrived by September, they will go right ahead and induce the labour.

It seems far too soon to me . . . to think that in just two months our baby will be born! I feel like I have only just found out that I am going to be a mother, because I spent so long trying to pretend this wasn’t happening. I’ve really only had these last few weeks to properly think about it and to figure out my own feelings. And the date
does
make sense, doesn’t it? I mean, after all, we saw each other last after the new year.

All is well with the baby and with me, so you don’t need to worry James, but the examination was very difficult. The doctor did the check-up right there in front of Mrs Sullivan, without even a privacy screen, just a flimsy gown that was too small anyway . . . it feels like everything is too small for me these days. And having myself on show like that was humiliating enough, but the worst came when he announced the due date. Mrs Sullivan said she was surprised how far along I was, and amazed that no one had noticed my pregnancy until now … then the doctor made jokes about how difficult it was to tell a
cake belly
from a
baby belly
in big girls like me.

And they laughed at me; they laughed with this
filthy
pleasure at their own superiority, as if I wasn’t even in the room or . . . I don’t know … it’s awful to even think it but maybe they laughed like that
because
I was in the room. I wanted to cry, but I also
really
did not want to be weak, and besides which I was scared that they’d be even more amused if I did show how upset I was. Instead, I just looked down at my bare naked belly and pictured our baby tucked up safe in there. After a while, the doctor used an ultrasound machine, and while I didn’t get to see very much because they wouldn’t let me see the screen, I heard him explaining it to Mrs Sullivan and so I know that our baby is healthy and strong and with all of the right body parts.

When I
have
let myself think of our baby, I have always thought of it as a boy . . . until I heard the thumping rhythm of its heartbeat during that ultrasound. I can’t explain why, but I somehow feel now that our baby is a girl – a
daughter
.

Can you imagine it? I can see her little ponytails flying in the wind when she runs out to the driveway to meet you as you’re coming home from a day’s work in the paddocks. You’ll scoop her up in your arms and she will giggle and squeal with excitement, then she will tell you about the day she’s had with me. We’ll have read books and played games and she’ll have helped me around the house, and probably have driven me half-crazy with her questions and her chatter.

I can see it, James, as clearly in my mind as if it’s happening now. I live in my mind maybe too much at the moment, thinking about the way that we will all be together and how happy we will be.

I try very hard not to think about the sad things. It has taken me a few days to stop the rush of tension and anger in my chest when I think about that examination. Its taken time for me to feel calm enough about it to even sit down and write this to you. It felt like a violation somehow. I know they are trying to help me, and they are looking after me while I am pregnant, and Tata obviously entrusted them to provide care for me . . . but I don’t understand why they think it is okay to talk about me like that, or to deny me even the dignity of privacy. Even though I’m to be an unwed mother, am I not also just a
mother
? If I actually had a voice here, I’d ask Mrs Sullivan that. Didn’t she grow up under the care of someone’s nurturing embrace? How would
she
feel if her mother was treated that way?

But I don’t have a voice here. I am just here to kill time – until you come for us.

And now that I have started to think about the awful things, I will tell you one more miserable story. On Sundays, we have to go to church, but it’s the strangest church you’ve ever seen – no crucifixes or stained glass like at the chapel at school. The minister is called ‘Captain’, and he wears a military uniform. I learned that they are called Salvation Army and they give the money to run this home, so we have to attend the services.

At first, I really thought this was lovely. The walk is awful, but the church is warm, and the music is different to mass; there’s a guitar and brass instruments, so the hymns sound full and alive. I actually thought it might even make a nice change from spending all day in the laundry.

It was only after the service, when the minister invited the congregation to have tea or coffee and some biscuits, that I really understood that we are not there as
guests
at all. We were told to stay in our seats until everyone else had had their fill of morning tea, and then we were allowed a cup of tea and one of the wheat biscuits. Not the cream biscuits, mind you, because they were all well and truly gone by the time we were allowed near to the plate.

The rest of the congregation watched us, as if we were a television show; some scandalous drama performed for their amusement. Can you imagine what a spectacle we must have made, twenty-seven heavily pregnant girls, all lining up to take our morning tea, while the respectable people all stared on at us in silence?

If they left me to my own devices, I’d never be embarrassed to be carrying your baby. I am full up – full of love, and baby, and new life and the beauty of the family we will be.

But put me on parade in front of those people and their condemning eyes and I shrivel inside. I want to curl up around this baby and protect it from their scorn. I can see what they are thinking, as clearly as if they were holding placards.
Scarlet woman! Whore! Sinful child, to be born out of wedlock! Unfit mother!

I’ve been to the church several times now, and I have noticed that even the chattiest of the residents walk home in silence after the service. Maybe we are all fighting the same battle internally; the fight between what our instincts tell us about our children, and what those sharp gazes in the church would have us believe about ourselves.

There is one final, awful thing about our visit to the church on Sunday, James. We walk
right
past the post office, but even though I have asked, I am not allowed to slip these letters into the letter box. I begged Mrs Baxter last week and she has told me to give her some time and she will see what she can organise. I don’t know if I am foolish to pin my hopes on her. She is so nice, but . . . she
works
here, and there are so many rules. I am sure she would lose her job if she posted letters for me and was found out.

But I will keep writing to you. I will
always
keep writing. This pen and paper seems like my only way out of here, and I don’t let myself think for more than a second at a time about what will happen if I can’t reach you.

I’ll never stop trying. I love you. Come for us soon,

Lilly

NINE

Sabina—April 2012

Almost twenty-four hours after the low of the scene in the café, I rode the high of seeing my baby for the first time.

We’d booked into a private clinic in the city, a few suburbs east of our house, and I’d taken the morning off. Ted had done the same, and we travelled in together, conversation coming in jolts and starts as we swung between nerves and excitement.

The sonographer introduced herself, and led the way into a darkened room with several large television screens around the walls. She left so that I could change into a gown, and instructed us to ring a bell when I was on the bed and ready for her to return. When we were alone and I was changing, neither Ted nor I spoke. The excitement was on hold for now, and hopefully just for a moment, we were too nervous to make small talk or jokes.

Ted rang the bell once I was comfortable and covered on the bed, and then sat beside me and held my hand while the sonographer prepared the wand and covered my belly in pre-warmed gel. On the large screen angled towards me on the roof above, I watched the static on the screen blur in and out while she sought a good angle. My throat ached and my eyes were burning, and I realised that I was holding my breath. What if there was nothing to see? What if there was a baby there, but it wasn’t healthy? I felt my heart start to race, and now the television screen blurred through my tears, until Ted squeezed my hand. I looked to him, almost frantic, and he nodded back towards the screen.

The image was in focus now, and I immediately recognised the flickering pixels that represented the blossoming of a new life within me.

My baby was at that fragile stage between blob and recognisable human form. I could see the buds of its arms and legs, its tiny hands waving around as if it was sending us a greeting. There was a tremor in Ted’s arm, and I glanced back over at him to see a single tear running down his face. Unashamed, he beamed at me, and if there was any space of my heart that wasn’t already full of love for Ted Wilson, it would have been swallowed up by sheer emotion at the sight of the pride on his face.