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Somebody's Daughter--a moving journey of discovery, recovery and adoption Page 8


  I can’t leave the baby alone for a moment – I have this feeling that if I walk out of the room he will vanish, never to be found again. I’ve bought a sling and tell Kevin that it’s better for the baby to be carried at all times. But it’s for me really: I need to be next to him, to know he won’t leave. I’m so tired, I can’t stop crying. I think briefly for a moment about seeking oblivion with a drink or drugs. I feel myself slipping back to my childhood state, where all the instability of my family’s emotions left me so deeply raw, with a constant loneliness. It was an ache that could never be healed.

  A friend of ours suggests I may have post-natal depression and maybe he’s right, but my therapist disagrees. ‘Zara, it’s just the grief that’s all, you’re finally allowing yourself to grieve and when you do, you will start healing,’ she tells me.

  ‘Zara,’ Kevin says, ‘you can’t stay awake all night guarding the baby, you need to sleep.’ But I can’t help myself – I can’t sleep. I’m on high alert, getting used to being a mother, getting used to living with someone who’s related to me for the first time.

  In spite of all those intense feelings, I have brief moments of peace. Sometimes I feel as if my whole life were all leading up to this one point. Our son Samuel is so sweet, the way he coos at me. I can see in his eyes he wants to smile, but I have to wait another week until that magnificent moment comes. But I feel lonely in my cocoon, longing for family to be around me when my husband is away working long hours. I want to show my baby off to everyone. I want my mum. Then I think it’s better that Kevin works so much, so he can’t see all of me. If he did, I’m sure he would realise his mistake. I’m spending most of my day making up songs that Samuel has to listen to – I think he likes them, I see his eyes shining.

  ‘Zara, I’m coming to visit now,’ says my mother over the phone. ‘You’ve had enough time to get into a routine. I’m leaving your father at home.’ As soon as I hear her voice I shut down. I crave her presence, yet I’m worried too.

  She arrives, as she always does, in a wheelchair. It’s not that my mother cannot walk, just that she finds airports too hard to walk through and lives for the attention. I feel criticised the moment she walks in the house.

  ‘I don’t like your pots, those handles get way too hot. Is this the only utensil you have for frying?’ She is busy already, organising the kitchen. ‘You’re not still nursing that baby, are you? Sleeping with him? That’s not healthy, Zara.’ I try to keep my mouth shut, but it’s hard – I feel stifled and worried about the week ahead. I don’t tell her the truth: that I can’t leave my baby in a room for fear he will vanish into thin air. I don’t mention the nightmares either. I’m also aware, as she watches me nursing him, she herself never had this opportunity. I feel sad for her and almost apologetic that I could have a child so easily when she tried so hard for many years. I look at her warmly.

  I desperately want to say, ‘Mum, if I could, I would do anything for you to experience this. I know you wanted it, I’m so sorry.’ But I don’t say a word.

  ‘Zara, for goodness’ sake when are you going to stop taking it all on board? You feel guilty for everything,’ Kevin says to me that night. I know he’s right.

  We go swimming in the morning and I let Mum hold Samuel. He lies across her chest, sleeping peacefully. My mum looks so content. I feel a wave of sadness. I wish we didn’t live so far apart, but I also know it’s for the best: our relationship will last longer this way. On the last day I cry as she leaves. I’m torn again – I want my mother but I feel suffocated by her at the same time.

  8

  Los Angeles, 1999

  Cassie, my childhood friend from back home, is chatting to me on the phone as I lie in the sun in our back garden. Samuel is almost three. He has a friend over and I watch as the two little boys run back and forth through the sprinklers.

  ‘I’m leaving Frank. We haven’t had sex in seven years, it’s ridiculous! What kind of a marriage is that?’ She never says ‘hello’.

  ‘I thought you were going to do it when you were on holiday,’ I say, moving to sit in the shade.

  ‘Oh, we tried. I drank three glasses of champagne to get the courage to attempt to seduce him, but he would only get undressed in the dark. I fell sideways off the bed trying to find him and went mad. I couldn’t stop yelling. I need to find someone to shag.’

  I laugh out loud. ‘Well, at least you tried. I myself am cured of men problems. I will never look at another man – my baby boy is all I need. The desire to stray has gone forever.’

  ‘It’s gone for now because you just pushed an eight-pound baby out your whatsit! You will feel womanly again.’

  ‘I really won’t. I think I’m cured, seriously. Try it, it works.’ But I wasn’t being truly honest. I still thought about him from time to time. I imagine reaching out and calling, but something stops me.

  Samuel talks a lot. I love hearing how his speech develops, words that join together and then a sentence. He’s a happy boy, and so inquisitive. I don’t want to be apart from him if I can help it. All I need is an hour here and there to recharge.

  Samuel was already getting so big and was three years old when I became pregnant again. But eight weeks in, no heartbeat was found. Devastated, I fall into a depression. I tell my adoptive mother as soon as it happens.

  ‘At least you’ve one baby already,’ she says. But I know what she’s saying in between the lines: my mother had several miscarriages but we had never talked about her infertility.

  ‘Mum, I can’t imagine what that must have been like for you,’ I find myself saying tentatively.

  ‘It made me feel like I wasn’t a woman. A proper woman.’ She lets out a hollow laugh.

  I’m stunned by her honesty, and feel a pain deep inside my heart. I wish that she too could experience pregnancy and childbirth. A wave of compassion flows through me. It has taken many years to get here, but finally we have connected through a common loss. It has taken this to feel it.

  I’m desperate to get pregnant again, to take away the pain – it’s like the rug has been pulled out from beneath me. I never expected this to happen. I carry around a statue of an angel of fertility that a friend gave me. I imagine a pomegranate tree bursting with fruit. At night, as I close my eyes I see a little girl’s round face with long straight hair and a beautiful smile. She visits me often, but I don’t say a word to anyone about her.

  Kevin is patient and kind. He keeps telling me not to worry, he is sure I will get pregnant again. I make him have sex with me all the time. He’s getting exhausted. I see him also getting tired of my neediness.

  ‘I wish I thought you wanted to have sex with me, but I know you don’t. I think it’s just for a baby.’ He looks serious as I lie back, legs up in the air – I had read that this would help me conceive. I feel bad, but it doesn’t come out gently.

  ‘Kevin, you want more children, don’t you?’ He nods. ‘So that’s why we’re doing this. It has to be done this way when I’m ovulating. We need to have sex every day right now, most men would be happy.’

  ‘Not like this. I feel like a machine,’ he says. I study his face. I know in some ways he is right. The cracks are already beginning to show, but I ignore them.

  Kevin’s mood suddenly changes. He reaches over and grabs me by the feet, pulling my legs up in the air. He shakes me hard until we both start to giggle. Rolling over, we kiss gently.

  ‘You want another baby with me?’ he asks gently.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  * * *

  I sit outside in the heat beside Samuel, burying the baby book I had started writing beneath a new tree we had planted. I still feel so sad, but also shocked – I never thought this could happen to me.

  ‘She will come back again, Mummy,’ my little boy says, laying his hand gently on my knee.

  I’m quiet, feeling his sweetness. ‘Who are you, Moses?’ I’m finally laughing.

  ‘I’m not Moses, I’m Samuel.’ He pats himself on the chest.


  ‘Are you sure?’ I joke. ‘You sound like a prophet to me.’

  ‘I am me, Mama. Don’t worry.’ His little hand reaches over and touches my cheek.

  I decide to go to an adoption conference after being advised to do so by my therapist. I had started seeing her when I first got married, it was suggested by a friend as an investment in our relationship. She feels that it would be helpful to me to know that I’m not the only adopted person in the world who feels the way I do. I’m nervous as I walk in and hold my breath as I listen. I’m struck by the commonalities: they talk like me, I’m not alone. I find a support group and start making some fabulous new friends. Immediately I feel at home, the same way I did when I walked into my first 12-step meeting all those years ago. This is what I’ve needed. I’m savouring every word, soaking it all in like a tiny sponge. I can finally speak my truth without explaining – they understand, they live with the same feelings. I am home.

  ‘Zara, you have to forgive yourself for not being the right daughter for your mother,’ one of the speakers tells me.

  I can’t seem to answer her. No one has ever said this to me before. These people understand the inside of my head.

  ‘It’s not your fault, now is it? The fact that you’re so different?’

  They are teaching me to look at things in a different light and I feel a sense of relief: I’ve carried so much shame about my behaviour towards my adoptive mother. I’ve been so confused as to why we don’t connect, especially when I know she wants to as much as I do. I’ve felt I had a piece missing that I could never resolve, yet as a mother I have no problem being connected to my babies. I’m also learning it’s not my fault, it’s all down to circumstance. I hope that once I understand it all, things will change.

  * * *

  I’m finally pregnant again and things are progressing well. I am enjoying all the things we get to do as mothers, all the school plays, the trips and activities. Kevin and I co- parent well most of the time but I know he is also frustrated with me. It seems all of my ‘stuff’, as we call it, is just being highlighted in this relationship. I knew that living with someone would push me to new ways of revealing myself, but I feel like I’m a tortoise that retreats into his shell. I need that time to myself, but sometimes Kevin takes it as a rejection. When he does, instead of being able to reach for him, I start feeling suffocated and he loses me even more.

  ‘Why can’t you meet me halfway? Why do you always busy yourself to avoid me?’

  I don’t know the answer so I bluff.

  ‘I talk to you, it’s not like I avoid you,’ I say, but I’m painfully aware that I change the conversation when things feel too heavy. ‘It’s all a bit of a commitment, that’s all,’ I add. I’m serious, but Kevin is howling with laughter.

  ‘Zara, we’re married and we have a child together, with another on the way! You make no sense.’

  I laugh back.

  ‘It makes perfect sense to me,’ I tell him.

  I’m smiling at him as he rolls his eyes. He pulls me close and I allow myself to sink into his arms. He moves back, looking into my eyes. I find I’m doing the same thing with him as I did with my mother: I don’t like it when he’s angry with me so I have to make it right. And when we are close, I pull away.

  ‘I am here for you forever. I’m never going anywhere. You know that, don’t you?’ He looks at me gently.

  ‘Yes, yes, yes!’

  I’m still making fun of him but the words are comforting – I feel safe.

  * * *

  I’m lying on the sofa, nursing our few-months-old baby daughter, Katie. She finally came to me and it has filled me with love once more, even if my breasts are so full of milk they ache. I squeeze her chubby little thighs and watch Kevin fix dinner, talking away to Samuel, taking in this domestic scene.

  Kevin is straight in so many ways – I think that’s what drew me to him, I liked the stability. Sex for him must only be about love, and done in a loving way. I’m not used to that. I have told him some parts of my life but he doesn’t want to hear it all. It’s apparent that I’ve had more partners and more experiences than him. He seems to think that he can dip me in holy water and wash all of that away. But I still think about my past. My old life is never far from my thoughts, no matter how much I love him and our babies.

  I still dream of Simon sometimes and wake up surprised that he is in my thoughts. Occasionally I will hear a titbit from a friend in London, telling me news of him. I have stayed away for years. I keep my dreams a secret; I still like secrets. I don’t really know if I can live without any at all.

  I wish for a storm as I listen to my son’s questions. It’s so hot and dry I find it stifling. How I miss the dewy air in London – I miss everything about home. Sometimes I see the smog sitting on the horizon and I feel suffocated, but Kevin always gets upset if I say anything too negative: he knows I miss home but it’s hard for him to accept. Today there’s a fire on the mountain in front of our house. I can see it through the kitchen window as I do the washing-up.

  ‘You can’t go outside today, Samuel. There’s ash falling from the sky. It’s not good for you to breathe.’

  Samuel is dressed as Batman – he has been wearing the same costume for four months straight now.

  ‘I am Batman, not Samuel.’ He darts between the chairs. ‘Batman can inhale ash.’

  ‘Batman really shouldn’t,’ I say, putting the baby in her high chair and turning back to the sink. ‘Even superheroes need to breathe clean air. Samuel!’ I yell. ‘Take that mask off the baby, she doesn’t want to be Robin.’

  The caped crusader runs out the room. I can hear him laughing as I take the mask off the baby.

  I make some adaptations to Samuel’s costume – a moustache he asked me to paint on and more scars drawn down his cheek to prove he went into battle. It’s the only way I can get him to take the mask off – the heat in LA isn’t good for a little boy in a mask.

  I see people staring at my superhero and me as we walk, side by side, into the grocery store, but I’m not embarrassed. Each day I feel more pride at these little human beings I have created. I find it easy to enhance my imagination; I’m perfectly comfortable living there right alongside them.

  My life is full of noise. Every waking moment someone needs something. The clothes that pile up on the floor don’t wash themselves and some days I don’t even manage to get dressed. Other mothers seem to look so perfect. They fascinate me. When do they get their make-up on? But I love being a mother despite the fatigue and find peace in it all once again. It helps put those thoughts to the back of my mind. It’s easy to pack everything up for a little while as I’ve always done.

  * * *

  11 September 2001. I’m driving Samuel to school. He’s not allowed to wear a costume but the teacher agreed to allow a cape attached to his T-shirt. Then I get the call that the Twin Towers are falling. My friend Julie is yelling down the phone. I can’t understand her. How can this be possible? I turn on the radio, quiet so Samuel can’t hear. Should I turn back? As I pull in, the parents are standing around, shell-shocked. The school assures me that it’s safe to leave Samuel, but I’m so afraid – we don’t know what’s going to happen next.

  We all struggle to comprehend what has happened. I spend the morning with Katie, playing and watching television, but I’m really just counting the minutes until it’s time for me to get Samuel. I keep trying to call my adopted mum but the lines to London are down. That night I can’t sleep. My dreams are interwoven with terror and images of those people jumping out of the buildings; I don’t think I have ever felt so afraid. My baby girl looks at me so seriously, like she knows something is wrong. I turn off the news when Samuel is around – I want to protect my children for as long as I can.

  There are no planes in the sky even though we live near an airport. I miss their sound. It feels like we’re in a horror movie, nothing feels the same. I feel closer to Kevin, though – we’re warmer to one another and we talk more. One night,
we make love on the living-room floor while the children are sleeping in our bed. Our third child is conceived. The world changes for us once more.

  A few months later, I’m reading an article about how many pregnancies happened after 9/11. All the couples say they weren’t planning it, but after any great tragedy there is an influx in pregnancies. These little souls are replenishing the world. As the days roll on, as we all try and adjust to the new normal, this new world.

  ‘Can you make sure it’s a boy?’ Samuel asks seriously as my belly swells again. He pats my stomach gently.

  ‘I’ll try my best, but I don’t have much say.’

  ‘Who does?’ he asks.

  ‘God does, and the eggs inside.’

  I’m chasing Katie, who is giggling – I’m trying to get her clothes on.

  ‘Can you ask God and the eggs?’

  ‘I will, but I can’t promise anything.’

  My breathing is shallow, the baby already moving inside me as I tackle Katie to the ground. My baby girl won’t sleep in a crib, she shakes the bars as if they are the gates of jail so we all sleep in bed together.

  Kevin is working a lot. He is a film editor and his hours are long. I know the stress of being the breadwinner is taking its toll now that we have another child on the way. The clothes still sit in a pile – I wish they would clean themselves. I’m overwhelmed and think about how isolated everyone is these days, or maybe it’s just in LA. I love to walk. I take the kids out in the double stroller, the sidewalks burning in the heat. When I’m lonely, I walk past all the little houses and wonder if we shouldn’t go back to London to be around some family.

  ‘Kevin, I want to go home. I think we should while the kids are young. It’s a lot for both of us, you working all the time and me alone.’