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

  ‘You really think that’s a good idea? You don’t really connect with your parents, your mother drives you mad. And my job is here.’

  I knew he was right, but my heart craved home. No matter what, I wanted my mum right now.

  * * *

  I’m back in the hospital, ready to deliver. I start crying as soon as the gown is on me.

  ‘What’s wrong, dear?’ the doctor asks me.

  ‘I can’t believe I’m going to have another baby. I haven’t had time to think about it.’

  After looking at me in disbelief he tilts his head back and roars with laughter. ‘Oh, honey, you’d better believe it! This baby is on its way.’

  She comes easier than her siblings. I take no painkillers, as with the others – I didn’t want their little systems tainted, I wanted to be awake. But this time I don’t need any help from Pitocin to keep my contractions going. This time I stand in the middle of the room and in much less time, singing at the top of my lungs, this little girl comes into world. Another beautiful baby girl… I never really imagined myself having two daughters. Two sisters. I have a biological sister who I was not raised with, but my girls will have each other. I feel strong, like centuries of women who have given birth before me. I feel more of a connection to the human race than I have before.

  I have little time to think about myself, my kids won’t allow it. They say things that make me cry with laughter. I never tire of giving them hugs and kisses. I love all of them equally and deeply. I never understand it when a mother says that one child is her favourite – how can she feel that way?

  ‘Gary,’ my mother had said to me when I was a teenager, ‘is just easier to love than you.’ She was hurt, angry at my depressive mood and my withdrawn manner. I frustrated her and I knew it. But I also had some insight.

  ‘Gary is easier to love because he lets you do everything for him. I don’t want you involved in everything. And that’s an awful thing to say to me.’

  I never got used to my mother and her directness, even as I grew older – I knew it was more about her than me, yet it never failed to hurt.

  * * *

  We seem like the perfect family to everyone, that’s what I’m told.

  ‘Oh, your husband is so amazing! What an incredible man, a fantastic father! He loves you so much. You’re so lucky.’

  I do feel lucky, don’t get me wrong, but I find that the perfection that everyone sees in Kevin is getting hard to live up to. He is always so excessively nice to everyone. No matter how much I recover, I still feel moody. I gossip, bitch and complain. When I’m around him, I feel like I fail to measure up. I hear his sighs of ‘here she goes again’. I see his looks of disapproval, but when I let him close he is different, more confident.

  ‘Men get all their self-esteem from having sex,’ Cassie tells me knowingly. ‘It’s easy. All you have to do is shag him a lot, and your life will be even more perfect.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ I say sarcastically. ‘And you would know all about that, wouldn’t you?’

  * * *

  I can’t sleep. I get out of the family bed, with all three children and Kevin snoring. They look so peaceful, the way they lie tangled together.

  Kevin brought me a British newspaper back from a work trip to London earlier that week and I grab it hungrily now, flicking through the pages, catching up on news of home when much to my surprise I find the advert for a detective who helps people look for family. As I stare at her details I find my eyes welling up. I never thought about my birth father much anymore; I did when I first met Pat, but my anger was so intense at her seeming lack of interest in helping me, I had to find a way to accept the situation. But the other day, as I sat and watched my little girls play with their daddy, the way he tossed them on his shoulders, the way he smothered them with kisses, I had to admit to myself that I felt jealous. But I can never say that out loud. Who would feel jealous of their own daughters? I know I’m over the top in my parenting, trying to make sure they never feel any sense of loss or abandonment in the way that I did. I’m hopeful their beginning will free them to move forward with ease. I’m battling with the reality that my past still slows so many things down – I can’t make myself go any faster in my recovery.

  I’m grieving for a man I’ve never met, that I don’t even know. I wonder if he thinks about me; I imagine he must do so sometimes. I wonder what his face looks like. My new baby daughter looks Italian – I know in my gut she looks like him.

  I decide to be brave and tell Pat again that I need to meet my father, then and there, knowing the time difference back at home means she’ll be awake. Many years have passed since we first met. Maybe some memories will have come back to her? I try not to cry as I speak, but I do. I put it down to hormones and being a new mother again.

  ‘I just need to know, Pat. Sometimes I find it so hard to think that I will live my whole life never knowing.’

  ‘I’ve told you everything. I’m sorry, I should have done more back then, but all I thought about was myself and getting rid of my problem – I was young, I didn’t think about the future and you growing up.’

  She was honest, more honest than she has ever been. The words stung, but how could I fight against the facts? She was seventeen and it was a brief fling. I was not created from two people in love, I needed to get past that. Pat was here for me now, and I was grateful for that.

  So I put the phone down and contact the detective. She says it will be tough – I don’t know his last name. We place an ad in an Italian newspaper anyway, but we don’t receive anything back.

  I wish I didn’t want to know so much.

  * * *

  I used to go to Brighton a lot when I was younger. My grandmother’s sister owned a hotel on the seafront. I loved wandering around its huge rooms. The ocean was just across the street, with a pebble beach. When I was a teenager I took friends there for Sunday lunch so we could get away from London. I liked how glamorous my grandmother’s sister was, but I never felt she was really an aunt, just a familiar stranger that I knew. I’m looking out across the vast ocean in Santa Monica. The pier reminds me of those times. Kevin is running around like a lunatic and the kids are chasing him. I’m smiling, watching them. I’ve been feeling disconnected again and I don’t like it. Sometimes I look at the four of them as one unit, and I feel like an outsider, but then I remember that I’m their mother and I cherish each moment – I have decided that I will always be somewhere in between.

  Kevin thinks I have secrets. He thinks I don’t tell him everything, but why would he want to know the entire contents of my head?

  I dreamt about my ex-lover last night. He was in a coffin draped in red velvet. My brother Gary was there and an old junkie that I used to buy my drugs from. I wake up wondering if this means I’m now cured, that the coffin was a sign that my old life was dead to me, but I wasn’t really sure. I shudder suddenly under the hot sun.

  9

  London, 2005

  We are heading home, back to London for a holiday. I’m so excited and the kids are too. They look so cute as they walk ahead of us towards the plane. We’ve taken them since they were babies so they’re used to travelling but now they’re older it’s more fun and definitely easier. They are seated altogether, watching different movies, as I catch Kevin’s eye and we smile at each other.

  My mother is beaming, so happy to have us all around to fuss over – it’s nice for the children too. It’s unusually warm in London, which is always at its best in the sunshine.

  It turns out that there’s an Italian festival being held outside St Peter’s Church on Clerkenwell Road. It’s a ridiculously long shot, but a girl who knows I’ve been looking for my father emailed me the information. I want to see if anyone knows my birth father so I made flyers to hand out. Kevin was supportive and happy to come along with the kids. I put a photo of myself on them as I look now and a picture of me as a baby. It’s silly, as he didn’t even see me as a baby but I’ve got to try.

  I’v
e typed up all the information I know: he worked as a waiter in Piccadilly, he met my mum Patricia at Les Enfants Terribles and he was about twenty-two years old in 1964. A friend of mine helps me write it all out in Italian as well.

  I don’t tell my mother what I’m doing. The only time we ever talked about him was when I told her that I had found Pat. I felt her judgement on him, on both my birth parents for their behaviour. She won’t even let me be excited about being Italian as to her somehow that denies my Jewishness. Even Pat was negative about him – ‘He was good-looking, but probably from a poor fishing village.’

  ‘Fishing village?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, he said he was from Rome, but they probably all said that.’

  I’m thrilled that I’m Italian. It feels exotic to me. I hope he’s a Casanova, a real charmer.

  We jump on a double decker bus. The children are so excited as they had never been on one before. We get off where the streets are crowded with people, Italian accents filling the air. A live musician smiles as he plays the accordion. Kevin follows me with all the children. I notice how the Italians have badges pinned to their clothes with different coloured ribbons, representing where they were from in Italy and where they now live in England. There are booths with people selling food and a stand with flyers but I decide to take a peek in the church first – I’ve always loved churches and here the pews are filled to the brim. I notice a handsome man with a little boy perched on his lap, many old women dressed in black, with wrinkled faces and scarves on their heads. I stand in the doorway, watching, thinking that somewhere out there I have a biological grandmother, possibly looking just like these women. I see them line up to take their bread and wine. I’ve been raised Jewish, so it feels a little odd to think that this could have been my religion too.

  ‘I can definitely get a Christmas tree without feeling guilty.’ I mutter to Kevin as we walk back outside into the crowd.

  I’m holding the flyers out in my hand, feeling rather awkward. How do I start? Do I just thrust them into men’s passing hands? Do I stop them? I wonder for a second if I actually have the courage to do this. Then I spy a group of three men who look like they could be his age.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, so sorry to bother you…’ I have gone all polite and British. ‘Would you look at these flyers? I’m trying to find an Italian man.’

  A very tall man takes the flyer and looks with interest, reading slowly. He pauses for a moment then looks at me.

  ‘You’re trying to find an Italian man? Lucky him!’

  I start blushing.

  ‘No, not like that.’ I pause and then decide to just tell the truth. He listens curiously. ‘I was adopted, I’m looking for my birth father.’

  Straight away, his reaction is emotional.

  ‘Aw, you are looking for your papa. That is so very sad.’

  I smile, unsure how to respond. He starts yelling to the men he has been with, who have wandered away.

  ‘Mario, Franco, come back here! This lady, she is looking for her father.’

  I’m immediately surrounded by all three, showing the flyer to one another.

  ‘We all went to this club, Les Enfants Terribles. It was wonderful – we had drinks, we danced, we met the ladies,’ the first man says to me.

  ‘We always came in pairs,’ adds a shorter man with a very thick accent. ‘Someone here knows him, I guarantee. We’re going to help you.’

  They ask me more questions about my life, my adoption.

  ‘You look Italian.’ The tall man pinches my cheeks. ‘You are a lovely lady.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  They have taken a few flyers and the tall man has my phone number – he promises to let me know if he has any news. He talks to a lady at a booth, who looks up at me and takes a flyer. She says I should go and talk to the priest.

  I find Kevin standing in the shade with the kids. They all have ice cream and seem content. I explain what I was doing but it’s hard for them to really understand. As we head back towards the church, I spy a man leaning against the fence all by himself; he is dressed in a lovely suit, a silk scarf around his neck. We catch each other’s eye and he smiles at me.

  ‘Wait here just a minute,’ I tell Kevin and the kids.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, would you mind reading my flyer? I was adopted and I’m searching for my father.’ I decide to say it straight away, as it seems to get people more interested. He reads it slowly, then looks up at me.

  ‘My name is Antonio.’ The blood rushes to my head. ‘But,’ he pauses, ‘I did not come to London until 1967, so too late for it to be me. And I’m rather short.’

  We laugh. He is very good-looking – I wouldn’t have minded if he were my father.

  ‘My wife of many years died just a few months ago.’ His eyes are full of tears.

  ‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ I tell him.

  He looks me directly in the eye.

  ‘I wish it were me, I wish it were true. I would be very proud to be your father.’

  I’m completely taken aback by his words and my eyes fill like his.

  ‘Are those your children?’

  We both look over at the kids and Kevin.

  ‘Yes,’ I say proudly.

  ‘Oh!’ he sighs. ‘So beautiful. Your father, he is missing so much.’

  I bribe the kids with fizzy drinks, saying that I just need to pop in and talk to the priest. They don’t know what a priest is, but they’re thrilled – I never give them fizzy drinks normally. I’m led into a small, round room. The priest is a heavyset man, encased in his robes and seated behind a large dark wooden table. He is very high up in the Italian Church, I was told, a very kind and helpful man.

  I sit opposite him, feeling small and shy.

  ‘How can I help you?’ His voice is full and loud.

  ‘I was adopted. I know my father is Italian and his name is Antonio.’ I feel silly saying it out loud, and then a wave of shame comes over me for not knowing more.

  He is serious and calm.

  ‘Do you know his last name?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’ I’m sinking in my seat, hating how many times I have had to tell people my truth. He looks thoughtful but doesn’t say anything.

  What I really want to say is, No, I don’t know his name. My mother was young and she fucked a man she barely knew. We’ve all behaved like that at some point in our lives, haven’t we? So, Mr Priest, I’m not pure at all. I came into this world shameful, a secret. So that makes me bad. I know that’s what you’re thinking.

  But I don’t, of course. We both stay quiet for a moment as I see him considering the situation.

  ‘I’m sorry, I really do not know how I can help.’

  ‘May I give you my flyers?’ I ask, disappointed.

  He shakes his head. ‘No, I have nowhere to put them. I suggest the community centre downstairs.’

  I come back into the daylight, cloaked with melancholy. He wasn’t that kind, I think to myself, or compassionate. I kiss the children, wondering how many other women like me have visited the priest with a similar story.

  * * *

  ‘Zara,’ she told me on the phone tearfully, ‘I may as well just let myself die. They want me on dialysis and I can’t do that – there’s no going back. I just want to die, I’ve had enough.’

  I’m cautious, unsure of what to say.

  ‘Mum, we want you alive as long as possible, but obviously, it’s your choice. I know it will be hard, but please think about it.’

  She has decided to give it a go. On Monday, Wednesday and Friday she will go and sit for three hours on a machine while they filter her blood. She has adapted as best she can, watching movies and reading to pass the time. She always arrives in a nice dress and lipstick.

  ‘There’s an old lady there,’ my mother tells me proudly, ‘who tells me that she likes to see what I’m wearing when I come in. She says I always look so lovely.’

  I laugh out loud and tell her how much I admire her for making such an e
ffort.

  We always seem to get along better when she is vulnerable and sick, I think to myself as I close the door to my brother’s old bedroom. I lie down on his small bed. The room has been repainted since he lived here, but to me it still has a tinge of the old energy. Even paint wasn’t able to eradicate that altogether. I feel a pang of longing for the children, but I knew it was easier for me to come alone: Mum doesn’t have the same energy that she used to. She is suffering with a raw red rash all over her body. I had applied cream earlier to try and help ease the itching – I don’t like seeing her this way.

  I turn off the light and try to sleep, but the memories are flooding my mind. They do whenever I’m back in this house. But this one is something I thought I’d forgotten. I had never talked about this to anyone.

  It’s 1981. My mum and dad have just left the house. I wait patiently as they pack up the car. I know not to start smoking the moment they leave because they always forget something so I wait ten minutes after they leave and sure enough, they are back, my mother running into the house before running out to the car again. Then I know they are gone for the weekend.

  Out come the cigarettes and the pot. I roll myself a joint, turn up the music and dance around my bedroom. The freedom I feel when they’re not around me is always liberating.

  The phone rings: it’s my girlfriend, Mimi.

  ‘Can I bring Adam to stay at your place tonight?’

  ‘Yes, that’s fine, but can you not be kissing in front of me?’ my seventeen-year-old self says.

  They go to their room pretty quickly after they arrive, desperate to be alone. I don’t mind – I’m just glad to know they’re in the house with me. I love my parents being away but I still get scared on my own. I must have fallen asleep eventually, as I’m woken with a jump. The light from the hallway is bright and my book has fallen to the floor. I look at the clock: it’s 3am and my brother is back with some friends.