Somebody's Daughter--a moving journey of discovery, recovery and adoption Read online

  I can see the pain etched on his face. I had never met a birth parent before and I didn’t know how to respond.

  ‘It was the right thing, Zara.’ I’m shaking my head. ‘I couldn’t take care of her. I was in prison, her mother was a junkie and she needed a family to care of her.’

  ‘But you’re sober now, you have been for years. It’s not right, James, you’re her father and she needs to know who you are.’ My eyes are filling with tears. I feel a sudden distance from James, whom I had grown so fond of. Why hadn’t he told me this before? ‘You need to find her.’

  ‘It will happen in time, when she’s ready.’

  At this I’m angry – no, furious. I can’t hide it. ‘Do you think about her?’

  ‘Not a day goes past when I don’t.’ He pulls up his sleeve to reveal a tattoo: it says ‘Annie Rose’.

  ‘But she doesn’t know you’re thinking about her. You need to tell her, you need to find her!’ I’m aware that I’m yelling now.

  Later, I lie in bed, unable to sleep. I think about James, his daughter, Annie Rose, and why he’s in my life: a man who has given up his child is helping to save my life. I know there’s some deep meaning in this, but I can’t even begin to know what it might be.

  4

  London, 1982

  ‘Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you…’ my mother sings in her shrill voice. I smile, looking at my birthday cake and its seventeen candles. She smiles back, her eyes shiny with tears. I’m high again, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Or if she does, she doesn’t say anything. I’m exhausted, having had sex with my boyfriend for most of the night. The lines of speed I’ve taken are still in my system, the slow crash beginning to bring my mood back. Closing my eyes to blow out the candles, I see images of his hands caressing my body, between my legs, tying me to his bed, and then the thumping on the door, his wife screaming.

  ‘I thought you were separated,’ I wail as he runs to the door, wrapping a sheet around his naked body.

  ‘We are, I just need to calm her down.’

  He trips on the sheet.

  ‘Can you untie me first?’

  He doesn’t respond.

  ‘Oh great!’ I wiggle my hands a little, trying to get one out from the knot hold binding my wrists, which are now starting to burn. A torrent of Italian is going back and forth between them. I don’t need to understand the words, it’s easy to hear the rage. My lover might have been taken to be a true native. He is so fluent and enamoured by everything Italian; he even looks somewhat Italian himself, dark hair covering his whole body.

  Fiorella, his estranged wife, walks into the bedroom, black hair falling over her face. She looks at me tied to the bed, my body bare for all to see.

  ‘You English whore! You English bitch!’ she screams with venom.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say as politely as I can. ‘He told me you were no longer together, and you don’t live together. I thought it was okay.’ Wriggling some more, one hand finally comes free enough for me to pull a bed sheet over myself.

  ‘You are so young, he is still my husband,’ she spits disgustedly as she leaves the room.

  George leaves with her, speaking calmly, pleadingly, to her. He does not return for another two hours. I stay in the room, jealous now of this woman who he has claimed is no longer his. I lie in his bed, flicking through the channels on TV and manage to reach over to the ashtray to smoke a joint that I find there. I should leave, I tell myself; anyone with any sense of decency would. He deserves to be left, but I don’t go – I can’t. I’m pathetic and I know it.

  George wanders back in a few hours later, a sultry smile on his face.

  ‘You did look pretty tied up like that.’

  I half-smile as he slides into bed beside me.

  ‘Do you know you’re the first woman I’ve been with who wasn’t Italian?’

  ‘I don’t know what I am,’ I whisper as he starts kissing me again.

  ‘Well, whatever you are, I want some more of it. Now, where were we…?’

  ‘Zara, Zara! You’re in a daze.’ My mother is still smiling. ‘Blow out the candles. Do you not like the cake? It’s chocolate – you’re never too old for chocolate cake.’

  ‘I love chocolate cake, you know that. Thanks, Mum.’

  I see the look of concern on her face, yet she doesn’t say a word; she just holds my gaze for a moment until I look away. I take a big bite of cake and make all the right noises of satisfaction until I see her relax.

  * * *

  As I sit in the meetings alongside my new sober friends, I’m aware that there are so many shameful things about my past that I’m not yet ready to tell them. I’d not only used drugs to escape my feelings about myself and my family, but I’d also used sex: I was addicted to the false sense of intimacy I felt when I was high and with a new guy. I loved the game, the chase, the way a man pursued me. But afterwards I felt differently. All the power and self-esteem I felt in those fleeting moments melted away. Once the act was done, I felt like the skin shed by a snake. Those feelings made me want to get high all over again. Now I began to see the connection: I knew I needed some time alone.

  I’m trying to stay away from a married man that I have worked for, a man called Simon. He’s been trying to contact me about a supposed job. He wants me back in his bed and the urge to go to him is still just as strong. I know he can’t offer me anymore than sex, that it will still be the same as all the other emotionless meetings I’ve had with men. I know that my life depends on me making good choices for myself.

  So I say no to the job, that I’m busy. I can feel the fear as I place the receiver down. I’ve spent the last two years touring with pop bands as a backing vocalist, spending weeks away on the road, and performing on TV shows. I loved to perform and sing, and I enjoyed the lifestyle but had to admit that it wasn’t the best environment for me; it was so easy to act out sexually and continue my drug use. I have hardly any money in my account, but I know I need to try and do as James has suggested, trust that things will work themselves out and only take the work that I can handle without me trying to control everything. I’m twenty-three years old; it’s time to try doing things differently.

  Then I make another phone call. I had looked up the number a few weeks ago. It’s now staring at me from a piece of paper on the floor. I dial the number for the National Adoption Society. I’m twenty-three years of age. I can’t lie anymore about my need to know, now that I’m living drug–free; I can no longer hide the truth and pretend that I don’t care. I need to know, I’ve always needed to know. No matter how my adopted parents might feel, I have to find out my story and why she gave me up. I’ve been given the number for the director of social workers, from whom I can request information regarding my adoption.

  I’m living in a small room in East Finchley, North London. I have my bed, a fridge and the shower all in one room. There’s a shared toilet in the hallway. It’s my first time living alone and I’m grateful for the solitude. I’m working a little bit here and there, doing some gigs with some well-known bands and writing and performing with some of the sober guys in AA. Cleaning houses, babysitting, signing on and off the dole. I need the time to focus on myself without rushing away for long periods.

  I find myself hoovering whenever I see one little bit of dirt on the floor.

  ‘Zara,’ Terry says. ‘You’re addicted to your Hoover, maybe you need to join a new support group?”

  I’m staying clean; I’m keeping away from my old relationships. I have started my search.

  It turns out the appointment with the social worker is in the same borough that I live in now. I arrive at reception to find that Jane, my flatmate from a couple of years ago, is now working there. It’s a shock to have such a reminder of my old life and I wonder if the universe is trying to tell me something. Already I’m nervous, filled with guilt and a deep sense of betrayal towards my adoptive parents.

  ‘I knew it was you. It had to be.’ She smiles. ‘Are you here to
find her…?’ Her voice trails off.

  ‘Yes. Well, I think so. I’m going to make a start.’ She smiles back at me. ‘But please don’t say anything to anyone.’

  She is reassuring, at least. I sit looking at her, thinking about the chaos we caused, three girls living together in our first time away from home; the amount of drugs consumed in that place. I had had to stay away from them all. We used to be so close, so knitted together in that way of life. A few months of staying clean was not a lot, I knew, but it was enough to allow me a glimpse back: it was not where I wanted to be anymore.

  ‘Zara, you can go up now,’ Jane calls to me cheerily. ‘Good luck, let me know what happens.’ I nod back at her and make my way up in the lift.

  The room is small and chilly. The social worker is shorter than me, with thick dark hair. She seems warm and kind though and I’m immediately relaxed.

  ‘So,’ she says, ‘I have all your forms filled out. Adopted people are now allowed to access the information you need to find your birth families, since the law changed in 1975. I do, however, suggest that you get some emotional support. Counselling is available. There can be many expectations during a reunion. Do you have any support?’

  ‘Oh yes, I’m sober and in the 12-step Program. I have lots of support. I’m in a great place these days.’ I’m bluffing, worried that if I don’t present myself confidently she may withhold some information that is rightfully mine. I know I’m convincing – I’ve always been good at hiding what’s really going on inside, I’m still a performer.

  ‘Well, if you’re sure you don’t need our services,’ she responds.

  ‘I don’t,’ I respond quickly. ‘But thank you.’

  ‘Okay, my dear. Here are your papers. I’m not supposed to give all of these to you, but if I were you, I’d want to know everything I could. I managed to photocopy most of your file. Please don’t tell my office.’ She laughs.

  My bravado is fading, my heart beating harder. I sit up straight in my chair, unable to speak. I’ve spent so long knowing and longing, but now it’s finally here I’m not sure I’m ready for the next step.

  Before I can stop it all, she hands me the papers, but before she lets go of them she says, ‘Your mother’s name is Patricia Sampson.’ Just like that. Your mother’s name is Patricia Sampson. Her words echo in my head. She looks at me for a response but I’ve been caught off guard. My head is swimming. She had access to my mother’s name? All these years of not knowing, and this woman has my information just like that? Was it that easy? I feel a sudden surge of anger.

  ‘I know, dear…’ She says ‘dear’ just like my adopted mother does, which irritates me no end. ‘It’s a lot to take in.’

  ‘So, she is real then,’ I hear myself saying. ‘She’s a real person, this isn’t just a dream. I really am adopted.’

  She is looking at me, confused by my comment.

  ‘Yes, she’s a real person. I think you should take the forms home and spend some time looking over them. We can meet again next week and decide how you would like to proceed.’

  I nod.

  ‘I suggest you order your birth certificate, dear. You might get some information on your birth father and more on your mother.’

  I don’t like that she’s calling this woman my mother – I already have a mother.

  ‘And your name was…’ She shuffles through the papers. ‘Paula, Paula Sampson. That’s the name on your original birth certificate.’

  ‘She named me?’ I’m half-whispering. ‘She named me? She cared enough to name me? I always thought I was just a number.’

  As I walk home, my mind contains only one thought repeating over and over, Patricia Sampson: she has a name, she exists. As soon as I walk through my front door I lie down on the floor, scattering the papers around my feet and start to read.

  Application Inquiry.

  MOTHER and BABY

  Age 17. Jewish. Shorthand typist. Smart, attractive little girl.

  HAIR. Mass of black hair just like the Chinese!

  Colouring. Darkish.

  EYES. Deep blue.

  Baby rather cute of her type, mother says she’s the image of her mother at that age.

  PUTATIVE FATHER.

  Name Antonio. Hair, Brown. Eyes, Brown.

  AGE. 22

  ITALIAN.

  Met him at a club.

  I sit up and reread the paper again: Italian. I’m half-Italian? I do have a father after all. He exists too. My mind is calm as I stare at the wall. Maybe an hour goes by, I’m not sure.

  I glance at the other papers, my tears beginning to fall, catching the pages with a splash. I suppose that’s appropriate, who knows what you’re supposed to do in this situation? There are letters too – written to my birth mother about how I’m doing, how much weight I’ve gained, how much I eat, how much my adopted parents love me.

  I can’t stop the tears from coming now: the harder I cry, the more sound erupts from within me. I can hear a long howl and I can’t seem to stop it – it’s like the lid has been taken off. I’m forever changed. I now know some of my story. As I cry, the feeling of pain is familiar, almost a comfort in a strange way: for the first time in my life I’m allowing myself to grieve the loss of my parents. Time stands still as the day turns into night and I sleep, restful, surrounded by the pages of my life. The next day I wake early and head back to the council building to order my birth certificate, filling out my name as Paula Sampson; I realise it’s the first time I’ve ever written it down. I sit on the hard-backed wooden chair and smoke two cigarettes, one after the other. It takes me a moment to get up after I’m called as I don’t recognise the name that the lady is calling.

  She hands me a sheet of folded pink paper and I open it, scanning every word. There’s my mother’s address. I look for my father’s full name, but he’s not mentioned on the certificate at all. I’m disappointed, I can’t help but be – it’s like putting a jigsaw together and realising you’re missing the final piece.

  I spend the rest of the day unfolding and rereading the pink paper, unable to put it down. It’s like I’ve finally been awakened and I have a new purpose.

  I know the area where my mother once lived and a couple of days later I drive with a friend to the very building. It’s a block of brick flats on Gunnersbury Avenue, West London. She pulls over and we sit quietly for a moment.

  ‘Ready?’ she asks.

  I nod.

  My heart pounds as I open the car door. A light rain is beginning to fall against the grey sky so we hurry inside and creep up the stairs until we’re standing outside their door. There’s post sticking out from the letterbox.

  ‘Look at the mail,’ my friend whispers.

  I’m certain my breathing is so loud it can be heard inside. I listen at the door but there’s no sound. I gently lift the letterbox, sliding out an envelope to see the name: it’s not theirs. I shake my head and we tiptoe back down the stairs with some relief, running back across the street to the safety of the car.

  ‘They don’t live there anymore, there are different surnames on the post,’ I say, panting, as I get my breath back. But my heart won’t stop racing – my mother lived in that very building once, when she was pregnant with me. There’s a park opposite and I can’t help but wonder if she walked through it while I was inside her.

  * * *

  My days change so much. No longer travelling or doing as many gigs, I’m now cleaning a house, claiming benefits, going to meetings and spending a lot of time at Catherine House. Catherine House is the place where people go to get their birth, death and marriage certificates. I’d not been there before but I loved the place from the moment I walked into the old building. Huge rooms with file upon file, hundreds of them, holding endless names between their pages, going back years. I enjoy the anonymity of the place.

  Where do I even begin? I have my birth mother’s maiden name, now I need to find out if she got married. Then I’ll look to see if she has had children. I feel confident and f
ocused; I have a plan.

  I find the letters I need and pull down a large volume, opening the file on the wooden desk. The print is so tiny; there are so many names. I slowly start my way down, reading name after name. It takes me a long time but at last I see her, my mother. Yes, she did indeed get married. She now has a different surname and it’s Italian. I double-check the information before I write it down.

  Italian… Did she marry my birth father?

  I go to the front desk and fill out the long form that will allow me to see her marriage certificate. It seems crazy that just anyone is allowed to get this information but I’m grateful for it all the same and eager to learn as much as I can.

  I don’t want it getting lost in the post, so I return three days later to collect it. I find a space in the corner and open the paper: I have another address, this time in Kensington. Now I can look to see if they had any children. I also decide to track her mother’s name, my grandmother, just to make sure I have the correct family. But there’s a spelling mistake on her maiden name – the one I have from my file doesn’t match the one I found in the index.

  I must be looking confused, because a man amidst the rows of files and papers walks up to me.

  ‘You look lost,’ he says kindly.

  ‘Does it show?’ I reply.

  He laughs, and hands me his card.

  ‘I’m a searcher – I help adopted people find one another and any family members that are missing.’

  ‘I’m adopted,’ I say. ‘I have my mother’s name.’

  ‘Well, then you’re way ahead of many people. You can do this yourself.’

  ‘I have a problem, though – I have two spellings of my grandmother’s last name, I could easily go on the wrong track.’

  ‘What does your intuition say?’ he asks.

  I stare back down at the book and the paper I’m holding. ‘This one,’ I point. ‘I’m sure this is her.’

  ‘Then you’re most probably right. So much of a search is about listening to your intuition.’ And with that, he wishes me luck before fading back into the shelves.