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

by Zara. H Phillips

  I’m trying to be more present. I want to make my marriage work. We’re having moments of connection, but the huge gulf between us still hasn’t been filled. I can’t seem to get over my mother’s death, and Kevin can’t handle my emotions. I do what I do best when I’m in pain: I push him away. I don’t want him, or anyone else to be close to me. The going back and forth between countries is taking its toll. I’m torn between wanting to return to England and doing the best for my children.

  It has taken a few years for him to convince me but I finally agree to meet Simon while I’m back in London packing up my father’s house. We are selling our family home that we have had for forty-six years – it was time to get my dad into assisted living. I can’t imagine not having the home anymore and I know I’m not thinking properly.

  I stand in front of the mirror, trying to decide what to wear. It’s been many years since he last saw me and I want to look good. I pull on a pair of tight jeans and a black top, casual but a little bit sexy too.

  ‘I know it’s pathetic,’ I tell Cassie, ‘but I just want to know if he still wants me.’

  ‘Wanting to have sex with you and wanting you are two different things. I doubt very much that he’s changed. You haven’t aged too badly. He’s probably half-blind by now anyway, so it doesn’t really matter,’ she says with a cheeky smile.

  ‘Hilarious,’ I answer.

  * * *

  The sun shines weakly through the clouds as I drive towards Baker Street, nervous but excited. The last time he saw me I was so young. Now I’m a mother, a middle-aged woman, I think to myself.

  I knock on the door of his office. A young man opens it.

  ‘Yes,’ he says sharply. I can hear the self-importance in his voice and I’m suddenly reminded of how people behave around Simon: they get intimidated by his presence.

  I hear his voice before I see him. Then he comes running to the top of the stairs and leans over the balcony. His hair shorter than I remember, but still falls in his face the way it always did. We both smile as I climb up the stairs. He takes me in his strong arms.

  ‘Let me look at you.’ He steps back. ‘You look amazing! I was worried you’d be fat after having three kids.’

  Cassie was right: he hasn’t changed. ‘Charming,’ I reply. ‘You look great too, for an old man.’

  I sit beside him on the sofa; I squeeze into the corner, not wanting to touch him. We eye each other cautiously. It’s always so strange, seeing someone after so many years, I think. I’m not sure what to say, but he’s good at small talk. He asks to see photos of my kids. I sense his surprise at seeing them all there in front of him. He asks me polite questions and I answer automatically, thinking about the time I had with him years ago. I still find him attractive. He’s older, but still childlike. I had forgotten what an ego he has, how he doesn’t care what other people think; I had always admired how free he seemed.

  An hour goes by quickly. I see him looking at me and wonder what he’s thinking. He’s still with his girlfriend of many years; they have no children. I could never have given that up, not even for him.

  He wants to spend more time with me; he asks me to drive him to his next appointment.

  We walk down the street but I can’t seem to find my car.

  ‘Oh, Zara! You haven’t changed, have you?’ He chuckles.

  ‘It’s a rental, I just don’t recognise it.’ I’m embarrassed.

  I feel a wave of relief as I finally spot the car. The moment we get in, he pulls me towards him and starts kissing me. For a moment I kiss him back, but then I pull away, confused and annoyed.

  ‘I haven’t seen you in all these years and you kiss me straight away, without asking?’

  ‘Sorry, do I need to sign a contract?’ He giggles sheepishly but I’m not amused.

  ‘I haven’t seen you in years.’

  I’m flustered. Now that I’m with him, it’s as if no time has passed at all. We’re picking up right where we left off, but this time I’m not a young girl with no voice.

  ‘You always liked my outsides, but that’s about all. What about who I am on the inside? Does that still not matter to you?’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Zara!’ He rolls his eyes. ‘I always knew you liked me, but I was unavailable at the time. You knew that, I never lied to you. I still want to fuck you. I’ve been thinking about how I was going to seduce you all day, I’ve thought about it all these years.’

  He’s only giving me crumbs of the affection I yearn for.

  It confuses me but I couldn’t go back there again so easily.

  I know he’s disappointed as he kisses me on the lips. ‘I still want you,’ he says as he gets out the car. ‘Text me.’

  Almost high from the encounter, I call James on my way back to my dad’s.

  ‘You need to decide what you want. Do you want to jump back into that fire again? Remember, every action has a consequence,’ he tells me.

  But I knew what I wanted: I wanted for everything to be normal again. I wanted my mother to be alive, for Kevin and me to be the way we used to be. I wanted to feel how I used to feel when we were newly married, when we were excited about our life together and I had no resentment towards him. Life was asking more from me, but I didn’t think I had the energy to start again: I needed to go home, I had to try and make it work with Kevin.

  * * *

  For the next couple of days, I’m back at the house, immersed in the packing. The family home is now up for sale after forty-six years.

  I hold my mother’s favourite soft grey cardigan and cover my face with it, breathing in the lingering smell of her. After a few moments, I place it in my bag to take home.

  ‘Dad, do you want to keep this?’ I hold up a painting of a Spanish-looking house.

  ‘Oh, we bought that when we were in Majorca,’ he says, smiling. ‘Lovely holiday, that was. Your mother and I went on a tour together.’

  ‘I’m glad you have those memories.’

  ‘I can’t keep everything, though. Chuck it in the bin,’ he says.

  The number of things we have to sort through feels infinite.

  ‘What about the dining room table? It’s too big for your new place.’

  I stand in front of the table, its lacquered top now dull. There’s a small dark stain on it, right where my mother always sat. One afternoon, she had been sitting in her usual chair when she handed me a pot of hair dye.

  ‘I’m going to teach you how to do this. They charge a fortune at the hairdresser,’ she explained. ‘You’re good at painting so it won’t be that difficult.’

  I stood behind her nervously, holding a small brush. My mother tilted her blonde head back.

  ‘Paint it as thick as you can at the front – that’s where the grey is.’

  I set to work as carefully as I can, but it isn’t as easy as it looks.

  ‘I can’t get any more on,’ my thirteen-year-old self said.

  ‘Zara, don’t paint my forehead, just my hair. It’s a bugger to get off.’

  Trying to wipe the gloop off with a towel, I realise I’m smearing the dye even more onto her forehead. ‘Sorry, Mum, your forehead is stained.’

  ‘Oh, Zara!’ She looks in the hand mirror and tries to clean it off herself.

  The empty packet of hair dye lies next to her, the words ‘Buxom Blonde’ on the package.

  ‘Mum,’ I say, starting to giggle, ‘the dye is called Buxom Blonde. Is it going to make your boobs bigger?’

  ‘I doubt these breasts could get any bigger. Now stop laughing and get this dye off the table before it stains,’ she tells me.

  I had never been able to get it off completely, no matter how long she had made me scrub the table.

  Touching the stain, I turn back to my dad. He has tears in his eyes. I realise I’ve never seen him cry before.

  ‘All those lovely dinners your mother made, all the times we had family and friends over, it was all around that table,’ he says, pointing to it.

  ‘I know, Dad,
’ I say gently, ‘I know.’

  ‘Oh well, it’s better someone else gets use out of it. It would just be a reminder for me,’ he says finally.

  * * *

  The moving van arrives a few days later. Our house is finally empty.

  Once they’re gone I walk into every room, saying goodbye. I go into my parents’ room, my brother’s room and then my own. Touching each door, I whisper my farewells. I’m glad no one is there to hear me.

  For a long time I stand by the kitchen door, the way I’ve done since I was a little girl. I see my mother standing by the oven, cooking soup in batches, placing the contents in Tupperware and carefully writing on each one the date, the type of soup, when it should be eaten by. She was always prepared – we never ran out of food the way I do now, my kids yelling at me to go food shopping.

  I remember once when I had finally plucked up the courage to ask her about sex.

  ‘Nice girls, my dear, do not have sex before they are married. That’s all you need to know,’ she had said, sealing the lid on her barley soup.

  ‘So you and Dad never had sex before you were married?’ I couldn’t imagine them doing it, nor did I want to.

  ‘During our engagement we fooled around, but that’s all we did. Trust me, Zara, it’s best to let them wait, to make a man think you are the only one for him.’ She winked at me, sticking another white label on the bowl. ‘They need to think they are the only man…’ She begins to hum, as she always did when she was cooking.

  ‘But, Mum,’ I began cautiously, ‘does that mean my birth mother wasn’t a nice girl? She had me before she was married.’ My mother’s hand slowed down, not responding for a moment.

  ‘I don’t know. I’m sure she was a very sad girl.’

  ‘Mum, I sometimes wonder about her,’ I whisper, trying not to sound too urgent.

  ‘That’s natural, I’m sure.’ She mixes the soup faster.

  Cassie calls as I’m finishing up my ritual and drags me out of my reverie.

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Zara, you do like to drag things out! I say good riddance to all those crap memories, your bloody brother and your father too. Slam that fucking front door hard when you leave! Make sure it’s shut tight, so those memories stay in there forever.’ She pauses. ‘We’ve both come a long way, haven’t we?’

  Once I feel ready, I close the front door for the last time.

  * * *

  The next day I’m sitting having dinner with Cassie at our old local pub, The Orange Tree. It’s a nice break from all the stress of moving. My brother hadn’t helped, using his bad back as an excuse – I still found it hard to be around him anyway.

  I call my dad to see how he’s settling in. His voice sounds wrong somehow. Alarm bells are ringing.

  ‘I have to go and see my dad. Something’s wrong,’ I tell Cassie.

  ‘Go,’ she says.

  I hurry to his flat. He is slumped in his chair, barely conscious. I try to talk to him, but his words are muddled. I’m shaking as I run upstairs to find a nurse.

  ‘Please can you come downstairs,’ I say urgently. ‘There’s something wrong with my father.’

  One lady comes quickly, and takes his blood pressure.

  ‘We need to call an ambulance.’ She’s trying not to alarm me but I can see the seriousness on her face. Soon the ambulance is here but my dad doesn’t seem to know what’s happening.

  I call my brother. Despite everything, I know he should be here if the worst was to happen. I’m thankful when he arrives at the home quickly, not living too far away, and we follow the ambulance to the hospital.

  Gary and I sit in the waiting room, both staring into space. They’ve moved my dad onto a bed where he’s now being worked on by doctors and we can hear him moaning. Not so long ago we had been in the same waiting room, the three of us waiting for news of my mother.

  My father is taken to the Intensive Care Unit. We follow him in. A tall, grey-haired doctor comes over to us.

  ‘We need to perform a procedure right now. His heart is surrounded by fluid and we have to drain it. It’s his only chance of survival. You need to understand that he might not make it. We have no choice but to operate.’

  My brother and I agree to the procedure and anxiously return to the waiting room. I can’t quite believe I’m here. After everything that I’ve been thinking about, and after meeting Simon, it’s a slap round the face in terms of reality checks. I realise it’s best I don’t talk to my brother, though I feel so alone: we would just argue. Gary, however, talks to me about what we’ll do if our dad passes away. But I can’t seem to answer; I just let him talk. After what feels like an eternity, the doctor comes back.

  ‘Your father made it through the surgery, but tonight will be touch-and-go. Please go home and rest. We’ll call if there’s any new information.’

  I drive back to the hotel.

  That night I dream about my father. He’s floating in the sky and I’m standing below, my hands held high. My mother is above him, her hand stretched down towards him. None of us are touching. My father bounces between us like a rubber ball.

  It takes three days for my father to come back to us. I have to change my ticket again to stay longer – I know it’s a lot to place on Kevin, but there’s nothing I can do.

  ‘What can I tell you?’ I say to him. ‘My parents either die when I’m here, or they get critically ill. Maybe I should stop visiting.’

  I have another sleepless night before I go back to the hospital to check on Dad. His bed is by the window, the sun warm against the glass. He looks so weak, but he manages a smile.

  ‘Isn’t it funny that my kidneys started failing as well as my heart, just like Mum’s did?’ He lets out a small laugh. ‘The doctor told me what happened – I don’t remember anything.’

  ‘You’re just a copycat.’ I smile back.

  ‘I didn’t know there was anything wrong with my kidneys.’

  ‘No, Dad, it’s a surprise to us all,’ I reply, tucking the blanket in around his feet.

  ‘I’m glad you didn’t inherit all our health issues. In some ways it’s lucky you’re adopted.’

  At this I go completely still, my hands resting on the bed: I’m shocked. Dad has never acknowledged that I was adopted before, he’d never even said the word.

  ‘Yes, Dad. I suppose that’s something.’

  I look into my father’s eyes.

  ‘Dad,’ I almost whisper, ‘do you think it’s possible to love more than one person? A partner, I mean?’

  There’s a short silence. I regret immediately what I have just said.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure that some people can, but not me. I only ever loved your mother. More than anyone else in the world.’

  ‘But Dad,’ I persist, ‘you didn’t exactly treat her well all the time. She often seemed to irritate you. I suppose that’s marriage.’

  ‘I did treat her well,’ he said insistently. ‘I gave her a lovely life, didn’t I? Didn’t I, Zara?’

  I find myself pausing. ‘Yes, Dad, you did. I know you loved her, and she loved you. Get some rest.’

  13

  New York, 2013

  I remember the moment Kevin got the courage to confront the truth. It’s the morning after I’ve come back from my trip to London safe in the knowledge that my Dad is out of hospital and getting the care he needs. I’m in a jet-lagged fog.

  I’m in the small kitchen of our rented house. The kids are upstairs in their rooms. I had tried to hide in the kitchen when I heard Kevin come in, busying myself making toast. As soon as I saw his face, I knew he wouldn’t let me run anymore.

  ‘I’ve been thinking a lot while you were away. I know you’ve had a stressful time with your father,’ he says firmly, ‘but the reality is our marriage isn’t working, Zara. It hasn’t for years. No matter what’s going on in your life it’s always the same. We need to think about moving on. It’s obvious you don’t love me. We sleep in separate rooms, we don’t have sex – you avoid intimacy at all c
osts. I know you’ve been seeing other men, I’m not stupid. You’re making a fool out of me and I’ve had enough.’

  Tears are welling up in my eyes, but he isn’t finished yet.

  ‘When I met you, I thought you would eventually get over your problems, but you haven’t. It just goes on and on. I can’t take it anymore. I’m sick of your family stuff, I’m tired of your adoption issues. Why don’t you want to be close to me? What’s wrong with you?’

  I look at the face of the man I had fallen in love with all those years ago. He was still handsome, his dark hair now sprinkled with grey. Yet here I was, standing in the kitchen as my husband asked me for a divorce.

  I had never been in a long-term relationship until I met Kevin. I didn’t have a very good track record, flitting between boyfriends, never fully committing. But when I met him, it felt so different. He was not like any of the men I had ever been with before and he wanted me; he wanted a family, we both loved children. Maybe I felt that if I didn’t take this opportunity it would never happen? I had felt when I met him in some ways cured of the old me. I thought by choosing him I was doing it differently; I thought that I had resolved so much, but it appears that I still have so much to do. All those years were me trying, imperfect though it may have been. No matter what he thought, I had loved him.

  ‘I don’t need saving anymore,’ I say quietly, ‘and you don’t know what to do with that. You’re suffocating me.’

  ‘You think being married is suffocating?’ he replies. ‘You think your husband caring about you is suffocating?’ Kevin runs his hand through his hair in exasperation. His face is hard and angry. ‘That’s what couples do – they live alongside each other, they care about each other. But to you it’s an intrusion, it’s someone getting in your space,’ he spits sarcastically, no longer willing to hide his bitterness. ‘I’ve tried and tried to understand you, but I don’t. I can’t do this anymore.’

  We look at each other, both silent now. I take off my wedding ring and watch it spin around on the table, fast to begin with, then slowing down before coming to a stop. Kevin does the same, slamming his ring down on the table next to mine. Despite the tears falling heavily now, I feel like a weight has been lifted: we didn’t have to pretend anymore. I’d been hoping that magical thinking would get me to fall back in love with my husband, but it didn’t: it was over.