Heartlines

by Susannah McFarlane

  And then Robin moves her chair closer to mine – right next to mine – touching it. I feel like I have won the lottery.

  Lamb shanks for $12

  Robin

  It’s Friday night and I’m off to ‘the other side’ (the eastern suburbs of Melbourne), to meet up with my sister Susan, who had moved to Melbourne in 1985, twelve years after me. Both being single mothers, we have been close companions and confidantes. She also became a Christian, which further bonded us. Tonight we are going to a seminar at our church on inner healing through the love of God. I’m a bit desperate, actually; this whole thing with Susannah has challenged me emotionally and made me aware that I am not really as free in this area as I need to be. I need to ask God to help me, to break me open, to teach me to love.

  To escape the harrowing Friday-night traffic, I am going early to Susan’s, aiming to get there about 4.30pm in time to watch The Bold and the Beautiful, to which we are somewhat addicted. Yes – I must confess it – no secrets, no matter the risk to reputation! The half-hour spent slumped on the couch watching this appalling but addictive show is, I feel, akin to taking a drug that slows down all physical and mental activity to a more-or-less vegetative state. Definitely relaxing.

  After that, Susan and I will set off for church, via the Stamford Hotel for our seniors’ dinner meal.

  Susannah

  Robin tells me that she’s going to be over my side of town and I jump at the possibility we might meet. Part of me, the grown-up part that has been missing in action a bit lately, thinks Robin has a pretty full afternoon, but that pesky inner child is leaping up and wanting to be included. So, I find myself suggesting that I come to a seniors’ dinner that she is off to with her sister Susan. Robin seems surprised that I’d like to do it, but is happy to go with it. We agree to meet at a cafe first and later at a pub near her church for the dinner. I am absolutely not invited to Susan’s house for the soap opera in the middle, and I am told I will have to find something else to do for that hour. Unbelievably, I accept these conditions.

  Robin

  We have our coffees, talk and laugh, and it is lovely as usual; then it’s time for the ‘Bold’. Susannah says she may as well come and watch it with us because she has nothing else to do before dinner. I really don’t want her to come to Susan’s place – I am not ready just yet for the full exposure of my shameful soap watching. While Susan – like the rest of my family – is very keen to meet Susannah, I genuinely feel it would be unfair to spring such a visit on her without warning. So, we part company, each to our respective limbos: Susannah condemned to an hour of aimless driving, me to my half-hour of suspended animation.

  Susannah

  I take Robin to her car and she drives away, a little too quickly perhaps. I feel slightly abandoned and contemplate my next hour. Why on earth did I agree to this? I blame my little friend.

  I decide to drive and check out her church. I know very little about it, yet there’s something that scares me, possibly because my experience of church is very traditional, I suppose, very quiet. Robin’s church sounds more modern, noisier, with the swaying and the shouting and clapping of hands. I don’t think I want to know about it, but here I am driving straight towards it.

  I drive up into a suburban street, feeling a little ninja-like, and come to the address. There is nothing to see, though, nothing to alarm, just a large box-like building. A little relieved, I reset my sat-nav for the Stamford, wondering what a seniors’ meal is.

  Robin

  In the car park of the Stamford I spot my daughter’s blonde, curly head bobbing around the car park, talking on the phone. We get her attention and she comes over to us.

  ‘Susan, meet Susannah.’

  They hug and, as they do, I am struck by a definite family likeness, especially in the curly-hair department. We go into the hotel and, on our way through the foyer to the bistro, I look into the gaming room, off to the left. I don’t gamble but, as always, the gaudy colours and the flashing lights of the poker machines captivate me – I really find them beautiful. Proust-like, they trigger childhood memories of seaside carnivals and summer holiday nights with my parents in hotel beer gardens with coloured lights, artificial, tropical plants and fruit cocktail drinks striped with layers of different colours (I always wondered how they did that). So strong is the childhood imprint that even today all this remains the epitome of excitement and glamour.

  We pass into the bistro, show (sadly, unnecessarily) our proof of seniority, order our meals, take a number on a stick and find a table. Susannah is clearly out of place – a youthful anomaly in a sea of seniors. Perhaps people are wondering what sad set of circumstances has led this attractive young woman to spend her Friday night thus?

  Susan and Susannah connect easily. My sister tells me later that she could see no sign in Susannah of the insecurity I had spoken of; she found her witty and confident. The whole occasion is enjoyable in a quaint sort of way. The food, for Susan and me anyway, is excellent value. I can’t go past the $12 lamb shanks, which are delicious.

  The meal over (always a quick, efficient affair), we pay the bill, bid Susannah goodbye and head off for church.

  Susannah

  It has been a long time since I have finished dinner by 6.30pm but it was lovely to meet Susan. I sail home to my family on a quiet freeway with both inner child and outer sensible woman feeling content.

  Derailment

  Robin

  Susannah will come to my house for the first time today. It’s quite a big deal; I definitely want to make a good impression. Living alone, at least I don’t have to worry about getting anyone else out of the way – I have a clear space to prepare for her visit. I busy myself getting the house nice and fuss over what to provide for meals.

  For lunch, I have gone for low-key elegance – a delicatessen selection of cold meats, cheeses, salads, good bread. Dinner, if she stays, will also be safe and simple: a good steak and salad, can’t go wrong there.

  Susannah

  I am a little nervous as I drive to Robin’s house. I am not familiar with the area (although being a navigational moron, I’m not really familiar with any area) and it’s over the other side of town, but I trust in ABBA and my car’s navigation system to keep me calm and get me there. I turn into the little court and look for Robin’s house. I recognise it immediately from my Google stalking but I notice it is a lot nicer than the picture I found, with a lovely front garden added, including an abundance of passionfruit spilling over a trellis.

  I have a little ‘hello house’ present of an orchid, which I nearly drop as I get out of the car, but I make it to the front door and ring the bell.

  ‘Hello,’ Robin says, beaming as she opens the door.

  I clumsily thrust the orchid bowl at her rather than graciously offering it and there is a hug of sorts. I come in to her living room and try not to look as if I’m sussing it out but of course I am; I’m looking for clues as to who Robin is.

  I lock on to a bookshelf filled with books. Knowing Robin studied English at uni, it doesn’t surprise me but I find it comforting; it will be something we have in common. I am a little surprised – heading towards unsettled – when I see that the bookshelf is almost exclusively filled with books about God. I suppose it shouldn’t be a surprise – she’s been quite open about the strength of her faith – but there are a lot of books. A lot. I also see framed bible readings on the wall, on the shelf and on the fridge, and by the TV is a vase of dried wheat sheaves to which I immediately ascribe some religious meaning. I’m not sure what to say, so I don’t say anything, but hope I am smiling.

  Robin

  Susannah makes no comment on my house, but later says she likes the atrium and the little courtyard garden out the back. We sit out there and talk. And, finally, I tell her the story of my pregnancy and her birth.

  I explain about my absurd naivety, the repressed social attitudes of the time and the sense of guilt and shame. I also tell her frankly that I was immature and self
-centred and that I had my own idea of how I wanted my life to go; that it was not so much an unwanted baby as an unwanted pregnancy – a much easier thing to terminate, one way or another. I admit this to be wilful blindness, rationalisation, but there it was. I tell her it was all so unreal for me, I was wrapped up in myself, and I was not alive to any maternal feelings.

  Looking at Susannah, it’s hard to tell what she is thinking or feeling. I can only hope she understands. At least it’s out. She can no longer be under the illusion that I was traumatised by having my baby taken from me. I chose to give her up.

  I finish talking and Susannah doesn’t say anything. Then, quite abruptly, she stands up, mumbling something about wanting to go for a walk, and goes back through the house and out the front door. Through the window, I see her in the garden, looking indecisive and agitated. With a growing sense of alarm, I follow her out.

  ‘Susannah, are you okay?’

  She says nothing at first and then asks: ‘So, I was never wanted?’

  I answer, ‘No, not then.’

  She turns and walks out into the street. She keeps walking and I watch as she disappears round the corner. It’s just as I feared: the truth is out and she is rejecting me.

  No, I didn’t want her then, but I do now. I have ever since the secret was disinterred in 1989. I want her because she is my child, part of me, although parted from me. We have a blood bond, mysterious but deep and real. But will this be enough for her? Can she forgive me for that original abandonment? Can I make her believe I love her now?

  Feeling somewhat numb, I go inside and mechanically set about the task of preparing lunch, unsure who, if anyone, will be eating it.

  Susannah

  I walk out into the street. I feel hit over the head but not pained, just numb. And I just walk, not sure where I am going but absolutely sure that I need to go. For the first time I get it, it hits me – the realisation that Robin did not want me as a baby.

  She did not want me. The story I had been told as a child and believed for nearly fifty years was a fiction. The woman who had me did not love me very much – she did not love me at all and she did not want to keep me. I was not taken from her – she gave me up willingly because I was an inconvenience to her life.

  What I wrote in my letter to Robin, worrying about how awful she must have felt feeling a baby she would give up kick inside her, was a delusion, a projection. Those feelings of maternal stirrings were mine, not hers – she had had none. I was just a problem to be got rid of.

  Pretty much everything I have thought has just been turned on its head: there was no Love Child moment, there was no feeling as the baby kicked inside, no regret for what might have been. She wasn’t even thinking that she was giving me a better life, only how she could have one. She wasn’t thinking of me at all.

  There it is, the reality. In that completely ordinary moment, sitting in her garden, it has struck home. For those first days I was not wanted, not loved by anyone at all – anticipated maybe by Mum and Dad, but for ten days not wanted, certainly not loved, not missed, not known. And least of all by my ‘mother’. Robin left to return to her life. I was ejected, forgotten, consigned to the stupid ‘dream-like trance’ she keeps talking about.

  Florence Leuba wasn’t wanted.

  Susannah McFarlane didn’t yet exist.

  There was only that screaming baby the nurses called Joan Sutherland.

  So, now what? This whole little relationship we have been trying to build is untrue – it has been based on false assumptions. I have been so deluded, so wrong – she probably doesn’t even really want me now either. Well, I am not going to stay to be rejected all over again.

  It has been one hell of a ride, but it is over now. I cannot think how I, we, can possibly get over this, let alone have any kind of relationship.

  And then I realise that I have been walking mindlessly and now have no idea where I am. Looking around me, I see I am walking alongside a cemetery – talk about a metaphor. Is my relationship with Robin dead? Probably.

  Fuck.

  I stop walking. What’s the point? If I keep walking I will get lost. So, I sit pathetically under a tree looking out on the gravestones and try to steady myself.

  Ever the optimist, looking for the up-point, I do feel lucky to be alive – were it not for Robin’s dream-like trance I would have been aborted. So, at least I’m here, but that’s all I have and I feel sad, a really heavy, hopeless kind of sad. And at a complete loss as to what to do next. I really want to go home but I have left my phone and my bag in her house. Bugger, no easy escape. I will have to go back to get them. But how am I going to do that?

  Um, just getting my stuff, sorry about lunch, this probably isn’t going to work, is it? Um, okay, bye. Or do I not say anything at all, just get my stuff and go? My bag is close to the front door, I could do a grab and dash. Why not? After all, I don’t owe her anything.

  Is that what I want? I am pretty sure it is, but I also feel rude. She has made lunch.

  What the? I’ve just been told by my birth mother that she had absolutely no feelings for me at all and gave me up without any problem, and I’m worrying about spoiling her lunch. Am I joking? No, it seems not. I’ll be polite, no point making a scene. I’ll have lunch, as quickly as possible and then leave, go home, don’t come back. Ever.

  So, I walk back and find Robin’s street, turn into her front garden and open the fly-screen door. Robin is in the kitchen, putting lots of little yummy things on plates. Who knows what she is thinking, who knows what I am?

  She looks at me, a little anxiously. I soften a little. I can’t leave now – it would be too rude. I walk into the kitchen. Robin looks at me and puts her arms up.

  ‘I do love you, Susannah.’

  There’s an awkward hug. Then we finish preparing the lunch together, both probably grateful for something to do. She had gone to a lot of trouble, chosen a delicious smorgasbord of bread, salad, meats and cheeses. We sit down, we eat and we start to talk. The conversation could not be more awkward to begin with: wooden comments about how lovely the bread is, inane critiques on cheese. But as we continue to talk, there’s something about Robin’s voice that calms me and the way she looks at me when I talk melts something in me and the conversation warms again. Once again, it seems almost ridiculously easy to share stories, to listen and laugh. I feel listened to and I soften. I stop thinking about how I am going to excuse myself and leave.

  Then Robin brings up my birth again, and the same visceral stab of pain returns. She wants to talk about it some more. I don’t want to and I bat it away and start talking too much about something I can’t even remember. My mind starts racing away again.

  What am I doing here? And how do we move on from this?

  Like everyone does surely – by watching The Bold and the Beautiful.

  When Robin suggests it, part of me thinks she’s mental but, hey, what’s there to lose? I’m up for it. I’m exhausted, I don’t want to talk anymore – there’s been too much talking, too much thinking, trying to wrangle too much feeling.

  We sit side by side on her sofa. Robin is right about the sedative powers of the show. I lean in to her and Robin tentatively puts her arm around me. I fold and give in. I lie down in her lap and she strokes my head.

  It could be weird if it wasn’t exactly what I needed. The little baby who stormed out of the house, rejected and hurt, has come back and needs to be calmed and comforted. She isn’t alone. She is wanted. Now, anyway.

  So, we sit on the sofa and something mends as we lie there watching a fashion family dynasty embroil themselves in drama, albeit at a glacial pace.

  But I am a bit envious of that glacial pace. We are back from the brink but I feel like I’m on a runaway train and I don’t know how to slow it down. And I’m not even sure who’s driving it anymore.

  Robin

  Feeling like we are survivors from some sort of wreck, I suggest we have our evening meal, which we eat outside in the courtyard. The night
is calm and mild and we can smell the honey fragrance of the butterfly bush. It is delightful sitting there together. Susannah pronounces the steak tender, the salad tasty – and equilibrium is restored.

  When it is time for her to leave, I pick her a bunch of roses to take home.

  Are we all right? Is our little boat still afloat?

  With all my heart I hope so.

  Crawling back

  Susannah

  I come home from Robin’s still slightly shell-shocked.

  ‘How was it?’ asked Oskar

  ‘It was good,’ I lie as I put Robin’s roses in a vase on our back table.

  Over the next couple of days, I try to take in what Robin has told me and how that now re-shapes the story that I have told myself about myself all my life. The first chapter obviously needs a massive rewrite and I reckon I need to write it if I am going to be able to have any sort of relationship with Robin.

  So, I sit and stew and write another poem.

  Heartbeat to heartbeat.

  One, then two, then, oops! three.

  Fix this, hide this

  Dream-like, dispatched, drugged and ripped

  3,2,1 Bang! Wake up!

  Cut loose, covered up in a crib-cage

  Screaming a fury down a cold corridor

  This never happened. Bury. Put to sleep. All will be well.

  Hole.

  Found, felt – finally – held

  Layers of gentle, constant love poured into the hole.

  Weave a beautiful blanket of carefully chosen strands slowly, strongly.

  Wrapped round tight. Safe now. Love this one

  An ever-vigilant eye watches for cracks, pours more, holds and heals, weaves.

  But something calls up from deep below.

  Too hard, threatening to unravel the hard-won blanket.