The Secret Daughter (12 page)

This was
our
moment, and it was big and heavy enough that it pushed every other thought to the back of my mind. For the first time in nearly a week I actually
felt
the joy of our situation. It bubbled up inside me and suddenly I was crying too, leaking sheer happiness down my cheeks and onto the bed. The era of waiting for the right time and saving money and clamping down on every urge for motherhood was over. We had not left it too late, we were apparently,
blessedly
fertile. We really were about to become a family of our own, and regardless of anything else going on in my life or even my mind,
that
was beyond wonderful.

Once the sonographer had finished, and after Ted and I both had tucked our blurry little prints into our wallets for safe keeping, we stood at the front of the sonography clinic beaming at each other like fools.

‘I don’t want to go to work today,’ Ted said, and he laughed. ‘I want to go shopping for cots and prams and . . . whatever else babies need.’

‘I think we had better do some reading first and figure out
what
babies need,’ I said, but I was laughing too. The joy and relief was intoxicating. I felt light inside, as if my troubles were momentarily removed, although as tempting as the idea of skipping work was, neither one of us really had the option to. I was back in front of a classroom within the hour, my class of seven-year-olds resting their heads on their desks with their eyes closed while an orchestral recording played.

My lesson plan had us playing recorders that day, but there was no way I was going to spoil my buzz with
that
particular form of musical torture. Instead, I let the music wash over me and my mind wandered. I thought back to the fear I’d felt pulsing through me, right up until I heard the baby’s steady heartbeat. As the music faded, and the children raised their heads, I almost forgot to direct them onto their next activity.

There was a terror that came from the instinctual protectiveness I already felt for my child; the same child whose picture was resting in my wallet and whose future resided in my heart. My baby was within me, but invisible to me, and although I controlled my body and my body was nurturing it, I had no control over its welfare at all. I suddenly understood that the other side to the attachment I was increasingly feeling for my baby was
risk
– the harder I loved, the more I had to lose. Just 9 weeks into my pregnancy, motherhood had already taught me new heights and depths of emotion. I’d felt almost overwhelming relief when I saw that he or she was healthy and growing as they should.

As soon as I could put words to my own thoughts on the matter, I made the connection to the other storm swirling in my life. Had my birth mother known all of those same fears? Had she felt the same anxiety once upon a time, but instead of feeling the sweet relief of knowing that her child really was okay, faced only the vast emptiness of thirty-eight years with no knowledge of my welfare? I couldn’t begin to imagine how a person could ever live with such a depth of fear for so many years without completely losing their mind.

Suddenly I wanted to believe that she had managed to carry and birth me without ever feeling that same attachment. I wanted to discover that she’d calmly, rationally decided to relinquish me, truly believing it to be for the best. I almost
wanted
to believe that she’d abandoned me at the hospital and never, ever looked back.

But that would mean that her pregnancy had only ever been a burden, and my existence only ever a thing of shame. What if my parents’ bewildering secrecy was hiding not
their
dark secrets, but
hers
?

What was worse?

Just thinking about the parallels between her situation and mine triggered some kind of crazy empathy in me, and by the end of the day, I was feeling a desperate compulsion to drop absolutely everything else in my life and figure out some way to find her – and to find the answers. I was surely just projecting my own feelings onto her, or perhaps the impulse and the urgency was some manifestation of the stress I was under . . . but by the time I went to bed that night, I felt like I was trying to tune out a desperate cry for help. It was as if she had
always
been calling to me, her voice echoing across the decades, waiting for a response that had never come.

But now that I
could
hear her . . . I could no more ignore it than I could undo the hurt of the years of silence.

I
had
to find her. I
had
to give her the chance for that same moment of relief that I felt when I saw my baby’s heartbeat on the screen.

There had to be a way.

TEN

Lilly—July 1973

Dear James,

I have some good news at last.

A whole series of small things happened that have made life in here just a little better. The first wonderful thing that happened was that I got some clothes that actually fit me properly, and even some new blankets for my bed. Mrs Baxter was showing a new girl around the home one day when she saw me struggling with my too-tight trousers, and she asked me about it. I explained the situation, and then the next day, like magic, there was a bunch of new clothing in my locker with a little note asking me not to mention it to anyone. I haven’t, of course, but every time I saw her after that I flashed her my brightest smile. She is so very kind, but she does not seem very happy, and I really hoped that seeing how happy she had made
me
would cheer her up somehow.

A few days later, I came into my room from dinner one night and there on my bed was a new blanket. No note this time, but I
know
who arranged it – there’s no one else here who could or even
would
, other than Mrs Baxter.

Just being warm at night has helped me a lot with my sleep. I am getting up on time, getting my shower, and sometimes even have time for a quick chat with the girls from the laundry before we go to work. I wouldn’t say I’ve made friends . . . but I’m not the newest girl now, and I feel a bit less an outsider.

Then, yesterday, out of the blue, Mrs Baxter came to take me from the laundry in the middle of the morning. She suggested we take a walk around the block, out in the sunshine. I know you’re probably thinking that I might not find that idea appealing, given that I’m heavily pregnant and hardly interested in walking at the best of times. But things are different here, we are not allowed outside except to walk across the road to work or to church . . . and even then we do it in a group and under supervision. There is no outside leisure time allowed, I guess because they are trying to hide us away in here. So yesterday, I felt like Mrs Baxter was offering to bust me out of prison for an hour.

We walked
very
slowly around the hospital block. There was ice and snow in the gutters, and the wind was so bitter that my lips were stiff and it was hard to talk – yes, even harder than it usually is. But I talked anyway because Mrs Baxter had a million questions for me and she seemed like she really wanted to hear the answers even if it took me a while to get them out. She asked me all about my family, and school, and then we talked about you and me.

I
loved
telling her about us. When I talk about you . . . when I write to you . . . when I think about your baby inside me . . . those things make me feel warm, even if I’m
freezing
like I was on that walk. And Mrs Baxter . . . well, she really seems to understand about us. I feel like everyone else might think we’re just stupid kids, but she told me that she knows teenagers can love as deeply as adults.

We talked a lot about the future. I told her about how I had always wanted to study history, and she told me not to let go of that dream as it might still be possible. I think she’s a little naïve, to be honest . . . I mean, I obviously can’t go to university now that we are having a baby! But then again, Mrs Baxter told me that she does not have children of her own, so I guess she might not understand how impossible it would be to study with kids.

I explained to her about your course, and how you’re learning about technological farming, so that we can have an easier life than our parents . . . and how guilty I feel that you’re not going to get to live that dream now. Mrs Baxter told me a little bit about herself too; that she is new in town, and her husband is an accountant over at the hospital. I think that maybe she loves him like I love you. Her voice changes when she talks about him – it gets softer and higher, as if she still thinks he’s perfectly dreamy even after years of marriage.

I can tell that Mrs Baxter does not like her job here very much and that makes me like her even more. I asked her why they don’t have kids, and she said that they are finding it difficult to have their family, but that she is still hopeful for the future. It’s so unfair that such a nice lady is struggling to have children of her own but has to work around us pregnant girls all day. It must be hard for her to be kind, but it doesn’t
seem
hard for her . . . she genuinely seems nice.

When we’d finished our very slow walk around the block and it was time for me to go back into the laundry, Mrs Baxter asked me to think about what I’ll do if you don’t come for us. I can understand why she’d ask that. I know that not all boys are like you.

But I know that you
will
come for us. I’m as sure about that as I am that the sun will rise tomorrow morning.

I actually know you’ll read this letter too, and it makes it so much easier to write. The very last thing Mrs Baxter said to me today was that if I can sneak my letters into my clothes tomorrow, she will come and take me for another walk, and we will find a way to post them to you.

I’ll see you soon, James. You’re all but on your way to come get us and I can’t wait to see you.

Love,

Lilly

ELEVEN

Sabina—April 2012

I didn’t realise how difficult it would be to make the first steps past my clumsy Google search;
how do you find your birth parents?
It was simple to
find
an agency who might help, but making the actual call was infinitely more difficult than I’d anticipated.

‘Hello, Adoption Information Registry, you’re speaking with Hilary.’

I really did intend speaking each time, right up until I heard the greeting. Then, without consciously deciding to, I would panic and jab at the ‘end’ button on my phone. I’d waste minutes giving myself a pep talk, or making a cup of tea or hanging out the washing or rearranging furniture, until I suddenly felt brave and capable again. I was surprised every single time that the cowardice returned and I backed out of the call by some instinctual reflex.

With the business day drawing to a close, I sat with the handset in my hand for a few minutes, trying to really understand why this phone call was so difficult. I’d
always
hated the phone. In person, if I stuttered and couldn’t finish a word, the other party to the conversation would see the panic in my eyes and realise that I was
trying
. On the phone, it was like shooting words out into a black hole.

So, the phone always made me anxious to a degree, but not like
that
phone call. There were just too many unknowns. What if I rang, and they found her quickly, and I had to actually meet her before I was ready? Or what if I rang, and they found her, and she didn’t want to meet me? Or if I rang, and they couldn’t find her at all, and there was nothing anyone could do – we were just lost to each other? Or if I rang, and they found her, and she was awful or the story of my conception was violent or—

It was all just a little bit too much. And yet, in spite of all of the potential horrors and the sheer unpredictability of it all, was
not
knowing somehow even worse? Could I even live with the
not
-knowing? After all, wasn’t it worth the chance that we’d reunite somehow . . . eventually . . . and have at least
something
in common? I’d had a great relationship with Mum and Dad, surely I could also build bonds with the woman – and maybe even the man – who actually created me?

I dialled a final time; and faster, my fingers stabbing at the numbers with focussed intent.

‘Hello, Adoption Information Registry, you’re speaking with Hilary.’ The voice that greeted me was weary. I felt myself flush.

‘G-good afternoon, Hilary.’ My stutter nearly tripped me up, and if I’d stuck on the sound even a split second longer, I’d have just hung up again. But having now managed the greeting, I suddenly found the confidence to continue. ‘My name is Sabina. I’ve recently discovered that I was adopted and I’d like to get some information about tracking down my biological parents.’

‘Hello there, Sabina. I’m so glad you’ve contacted us, that’s exactly the kind of thing we do here.’ Something about her tone suggested she knew I’d called and hung up on her a number of times. Then again, my understanding of her tone might well have been tainted by the guilt of knowing that I’d essentially prank called her several times over the past few hours. ‘We usually find the easiest way to begin this process is to set up an appointment and meet with you face-to-face, does that sound okay?’

‘Okay,’ I said, and then all of the air I hadn’t realised I was holding onto rushed out of my mouth as I relaxed.

When I hung up the phone a few minutes later, an appointment time scrawled on the back of my hand, I felt as though I’d climbed some tremendous summit. I knew this was ridiculous, and that all I had done was to take the first baby step onto what might be a very long journey, but I was proud of myself for at least doing
that.

And I was hopeful – that somehow I might find a way through the maze of my adoption without Mum and Dad. If the agency could help me find answers, there was a chance I might preserve my relationship with them after all.

Hilary Stephens was a lot younger than I’d imagined – and I spent a lot of time imagining her in the four days between making my appointment and actually meeting her. I had pictured her as my mother’s age, with a maternal expression of concern and a big notepad to scribble details on. I even went so far as to imagine the moment when she told me my birth mother’s name and how I might feel hearing it, and what Hilary Stephens would do when I cried. She’d come around her heavy oak desk and rub my shoulders, and then when she told me that my birth mother had been desperately wanting to meet me and couldn’t wait to make contact, we’d actually embrace.