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

by Zara. H Phillips

  Zara H. Phillips

  Somebody’s

  Daughter

  A moving journey of discovery,

  recovery and adoption

  For all the babies that have been separated from their mothers

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Foreword by Nicky Campbell

  Author’s Note

  Introduction Newark Penn Station, New Jersey, August 2016

  Chapter 1 London, 1987

  Chapter 2 London, 1977

  Chapter 3 North London, 1981

  Chapter 4 London, 1982

  Chapter 5 North London, 1988

  Chapter 6 North London, 1970s and 1980s

  Chapter 7 Los Angeles, 1996

  Chapter 8 Los Angeles, 1999

  Chapter 9 London, 2005

  Chapter 10 St John’s Wood, London, July 24th 2008

  Chapter 11 New York, 2008

  Chapter 12 London, 2011

  Chapter 13 New York, 2013

  Chapter 14 London, Winter 2013

  Chapter 15 New York, March 2014

  Chapter 16 New York, 2015

  Chapter 17 London, 2015

  Chapter 18 New York, November 2015

  Chapter 19 London and New Jersey, 2016

  Chapter 20 Father’s Day, 2016

  Chapter 21 Home, July 1st 2016

  Chapter 22 A Week Later

  Chapter 23 My Father, 2016

  Chapter 24 Now

  Acknowledgements

  Helpful Information and Further Reading

  About the Author

  Copyright

  This book is a work of non-fiction based on the life, experiences and recollection of the author. Names of people, places, dates and sequences of events may have been changed to protect the privacy of the author, and that of her friends and family.

  ‘What hurts you, blesses you. Darkness is your candle.’

  JALALUDDIN MEYLANA RUMI

  Foreword

  My first encounter with Zara was on a talk show I was presenting. She was a guest, sitting there in the audience, making sense. It’s a rare talent and my God we could do with more of it in the world. We talked after and had a mutual check list that fellow adoptees play swapsies with. It’s a kind of inventory of feelings. ‘Got. Got. Got. You feel like that too?’

  When you meet and talk to another adopted person you realise you are both, in one sense, lost children. We are always forever more amen in perpetuity adopted ‘children’. Our status and feelings are frozen in time and limited by our own insecurities and need to belong. This might not completely define us – I am defined as much by the wonderful adoption and amazing family that I have – but it is a key ingredient in the whole mess of who we are or who we think we are. The inextricable tangle of who we are.

  When I met Zara I felt this. And this beautiful person, in the words of the song ‘took my letters and read them all out loud’. She articulates – no delete that, articulate sounds too stuffy and formal – she expresses beautifully what so many children like us feel.

  My odyssey into the part of me I didn’t know but needed to understand – tracing and meeting my birth mother and then birth father – was driven first and foremost by just that. I needed to lay the demons to rest and get on with the rest of my life, free of the questions and doubts. I hope this isn’t self-pity, it’s self-knowledge.

  Not that I’ve reached some state of Zen-like inner peace – that wouldn’t be at all good for the creative process – but it’s a hell of a lot better than it was before. You don’t realise how much you need to do it for your own well-being until you do it.

  Zara’s feelings will be recognised by every adopted person on the block. When you walk through that door though, you need full body armour before you come through. It’s a brand new past, a whole new future and boy does it takes guts, strength and support to get there; to handle it all. In retrospect, I needed much more of the latter but the more people talk and write as powerfully as this, the better for all us children. We just want to play in peace. We just want to play.

  Nicky Campbell

  January 2018

  Author’s Note

  Once I received the news that this book was going to be published I was excited but incredibly nervous. I was reminded once more that when one tells the truth about their own story, others will be involved who may have strong feelings about it. I tried to explain to the people I had close relationships with that the focus of this story is mine, that it is written purely from the inner journey of the adoptee. It caused some very difficult, hard conversations. Scared I would lose people that I love, I almost abandoned the whole project. Was I being selfish for telling my truth? Why was I so compelled to go deeper into myself and reveal some very personal things about my life? I didn’t really have the answers. For a long time, all I knew was I needed to share the truth of my journey. Maybe it’s my way of making sense of something that often feels so complicated. For so many years I never had a voice. I lived in silence, I never shared my secret with anyone: the secret of my truth, the truth of my pain, my endless heartache, loss and grief – after all, aren’t us adoptees supposed to feel grateful?

  Over the years as I have been asked to share my experience with adopted families I realised that even though a lot has changed in terms of things being talked about, one thing remains the same: there is still a huge silence about the emotional impact adoption causes. Meanwhile many adopted people struggle with their lives. They are over represented in treatment centres and institutions. Some are unable to tell their parents the truth of how they feel in case they hurt them; adopted parents still battle to understand their children’s behaviour. Some shame still lingers that we cannot solve this alone.

  I was encouraged to tell the truth so that my story may help others. As I talked it over with my friends and agent, Adrian, it became clearer to me. If I hold back, I’m still doing that little baby adoptee a disservice and therefore I decided to write this book based on as much truth as I feel people can accept and handle. I have changed names and combined situations that I have been through to protect people. The purpose of this book is for the reader to understand the inner journey and my hope is that anyone connected with adoption, addiction or grief in their life may find that my experience resonates with them. So here it is…

  Introduction

  Newark Penn Station, New Jersey,

  August 2016

  There’s traffic as I approach the station and I’m worried that I’ll be late. All I have to do is turn the corner and I’ll be there. I’m still not that familiar with Newark Penn Station in New Jersey, although I should be – I’ve lived here for eleven years. ‘Eleven years,’ I find myself saying out loud. So much has happened that no one could ever have imagined.

  The car in front of me moves slowly but I know I won’t make the green light. I consider beeping but restrain myself. Instead I count how many cars are ahead of me; maybe next it will be my turn. The sky is darkening. The wind picks up and it begins to rain. I slowly move forward again, this time barely making the green. I turn towards the main station, pulling my car into the first opening I see.

  I text Michelle: ‘I’m here, black car. No rush, excited.’

  A moment later my phone beeps: ‘Coming, yay!’

  I open my car door, aware that I may need to move it any second if a cop comes. The wind picks up again. My hair is now tousled all around, as I scan the faces in the crowd. And then I see her waving to me: a tall, slim blonde woman, her
long hair blowing about in the wind, her scarf blowing around her. I wave back and she hurries across the street.

  We are both smiling as we hug. I open the boot, put her bag in and we get in the car, laughing a little as we try to get warm.

  ‘So,’ she says excitedly, ‘did he call?’

  ‘He did,’ I reply. ‘I said we’d call him when we were close by and that we’d start heading towards him.’

  ‘I’m so relieved.’ Her voice had a similar tone to mine, it was just our accents that were different: her’s a straight American and mine British.

  I glance at her for a moment. We had Skyped, and met briefly just once before, but this was the first time we would be spending the day together. We were two years apart, Michelle just turning fifty and me almost fifty-two. My birthday was three days after her’s. I see myself in her face, although she has light blue eyes and mine are green.

  ‘Our teeth,’ I say as she looks at me, ‘we have the same teeth.’ And she laughs her light, airy laugh. I like her energy; she is upbeat and full of fun.

  ‘Balloons?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she replies, ‘definitely balloons.’

  I start driving; the rain is coming down a little heavier.

  Michelle dials a number into her phone.

  ‘Hello, could we order some balloons to go? Do you have one with “It’s a girl”? Fabulous, we’ll be there in half an hour.’

  I can’t help laughing.

  ‘I’m so glad we have the same sense of humour,’ she says, tilting her head back with a loud throaty laugh, and picks up her phone again. She mouths to me, ‘I’m calling to tell him we’re almost there.’

  ‘Hello,’ she says playfully. ‘Yes, it’s us, we’re on our way… about forty-five minutes. See you there, in Dunkin’ Donuts? Of course, that’s our special place after all.’

  We make eye contact, both of us beaming. It was surreal, quite a story, we had said, repeating it over and over. Yet sitting next to this woman who I only recently knew existed felt so comfortable. I feel like I’ve known her forever.

  We find the balloon shop and run in, seeing our display waiting, making us laugh out loud again like two teenage girls. We ask a young man nearby to take our photo. Standing side by side, with the rain still coming down, we hold onto our balloons as they sway.

  He looks at us with a question in his eyes but says nothing.

  ‘Thank you,’ I shout back from our car. ‘I know that must have looked weird with the balloons, but it’s a long story. She’s my sister.’

  Michelle lets out her loud laugh again as we get in the car. Talking the whole time, we drive to where he is waiting for us.

  1

  London, 1987

  ‘My name is Zara and I’m here because I have been dealing with my brother and his heroin addiction. He went into treatment and I went to family groups, but it was suggested that I come here.’

  I notice how full the church basement is, a pungent smell that might come from the tramp-like man sat in the corner, sipping his tea. I see a few women amongst the male-dominated group. An attractive lady gives me a warm smile, which encourages me to keep talking.

  ‘I might be an addict myself,’ I continue hesitantly. ‘But quite honestly, it’s my brother that has a problem. I am not sure if I have a problem with alcohol, as really, if you gave me drugs, I much prefer those. The alcohol was just a top-up, you know, to give it more of a hit.’

  I inhale my cigarette, aware that all eyes are on me. Feeling my face burn red, I stop talking. There were some chortles from the crowd as I had spoken and a shuffling in their seats.

  I was twenty-two. I hadn’t done what half these other people had done in their lives, but I had already packed in quite a lot of experience, that I couldn’t deny.

  ‘Hello and welcome, keep coming back,’ the group chants in unison, the thick smoke filling up the room. As the meeting ends, I light up another cigarette, unsure of who to talk to.

  ‘Hello,’ a thick Scottish accent says next to me. It was the man that had been sitting two chairs away from me. I turn to look at him now, noticing his kind, open face. He shakes my hand.

  ‘My name is James,’ he says. ‘Welcome.’

  I smile a little cautiously and find myself repeating, ‘I’m not sure if I really am an addict myself. It’s my brother, you see. He was a heroin addict. I don’t take heroin – well, maybe I took it once…’ I pause. ‘Okay, maybe twice.’

  I was aware of how nuts I was beginning to sound. But James just smiles.

  ‘Why don’t you come to the Spaghetti House? Me and my mate Terry will be there,’ he suggests.

  I surprise myself by saying yes and follow them out of the church into the cool summer evening, across the street and into a small but busy restaurant. I sit opposite them as we order some tea and food. Their eyes are shiny, they smile a lot; they seem happy. I’m nervous sitting with these men, yet somehow comfortable at the same time.

  ‘So, Zara, how long have you been sober?’ asks James.

  ‘Oh, well, I’m not really here to stay sober, as I don’t have that much of a problem. Like I said, it’s my brother – he went to treatment for heroin addiction. I don’t do that.’

  The waitress takes our food order; James is playful with her, cheeky.

  ‘Oh,’ he says, turning back to me. ‘So, you’re just here to check us out?’

  ‘Well…’ I say, playing with the packets of sugar on the table, aware that my face is turning red again. ‘It was suggested that I come. Some people are worried about me.’

  ‘Worried?’ he says. ‘Do you think they have reason to be?’

  ‘Not really. I mean, I do smoke pot to help me sleep, but who doesn’t? I really love cocaine but I know loads of people that take it. I just feel depressed a lot and it helps.’

  Why am I telling these people the truth? I ask myself.

  ‘What do you love about cocaine?’ James asks.

  ‘It makes me feel exactly how I want to feel. It gives me confidence,’ I reply honestly, almost getting a body rush as I talk about it. ‘I’m not good with people and situations. So, I don’t know…’ My voice trails off. ‘I’m not an addict, addict, if you know what I mean. It just makes me feel more confident.’

  ‘Do you drink at all?’ he asks gently.

  ‘I’m not an alcoholic…’ My voice is sounding edgy. ‘I’m not like those men in the meeting, I just use alcohol to get more of a buzz after I’ve taken cocaine. I’m a backing singer, so of course I drink on the road. It’s hard to get drugs there. But before that, I just had one or two drinks to give me the feeling.’

  They both nod, smiling slightly. James leans in; I notice his receding hairline and how blue his sparkling eyes are. I’m beginning to feel trapped in the booth; I want to escape, yet I don’t move.

  ‘The feeling…’ He bursts out laughing, winking at Terry. ‘The feeling,’ he says again and I know my face is reddening. ‘Do you think normal drinkers do that?’ he asks.

  At this I fall silent and stop twirling my spaghetti as I feel my eyes welling up a little. ‘I don’t know what normal people do, I don’t think about that.’ I can hear my own anger.

  ‘Do you steal?’ Terry asks. My body stiffens. ‘For drugs, I mean, do you steal? Do you lie to friends and family about how much you use?’ he continues matter-of-factly.

  ‘Blimey, that’s a bit personal, isn’t it?’ I try to laugh it off but neither of them are smiling. ‘Well, no, I don’t share my drugs. If my friends knew I had cocaine they would want it all. Does that make me a bad person? But why would I? It’s expensive. I’m great at stealing make-up and clothes – I do that all the time. I know it’s wrong, I haven’t done that for ages.’ I half-laugh again and quickly add, ‘But I’ve stolen for friends so it’s not like it’s just for me.’

  I wish I would stop talking, but it seems easy with them and, in a strange way, a relief. They stop smiling; I’m not good with silence.

  ‘Do I steal for drug
s? Do you mean do I try and get guys to give me drugs for free?’ I try to sound light-hearted. They both nod.

  ‘Of course!’ My voice is animated again. ‘Isn’t that the beauty of being a girl? Can we order tea?’ I know I’m changing the subject, but I feel I still need to explain. ‘Look, I’m not a prostitute. I don’t have to have sex with them unless I really want to. Maybe I kissed a guy for blow [cocaine] and led him to believe he would get more, but I’m great at escaping, I always have been – Houdini is my middle name. And my boyfriend now, well, that’s different – he actually gave me cocaine for free.’ I pause. ‘Well, he did, but now he charges me. What a nerve!’

  ‘Do you think all young woman behave like this?’ James asks casually.

  ‘I don’t fucking know,’ I say, beginning to feel angry. ‘And quite honestly, I don’t really care. What’s normal anyway?’

  ‘Well, my question is,’ says Terry, pushing back his dark hair. ‘Is your life working for you?’

  I can’t look at either of them. I can feel their eyes on me, and I know they’re seeing me. How can I explain it all – the constant anxiety and paranoia, the feeling of hopelessness and sadness? I had always felt that my heart was broken and I was tired; I was surviving day-to-day, I knew.

  I shrug my shoulders. ‘I suppose not.’ I say quietly, unable to hide the irritation in my voice.

  ‘Why don’t you just try and stop and see what happens? Come to some of these meetings and if you don’t like it, we’ll gladly hand all your misery back to you.’ James looks me in the eye and says it with such kindness.

  I don’t respond for a moment, my gaze wandering to the back of the restaurant, noticing others from the meeting smiling and laughing loudly, their voices full of expression.

  ‘Why would you care whether I do or I don’t? What’s it really to you?’