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

by Zara. H Phillips

  I’m so grateful for my music that I can write and put all these emotions somewhere.

  ‘Do what’s in front of you,’ my friends tell me. ‘One step at a time, one moment at a time.’

  I feel like I’m back in early recovery, where I’m walking blindly. I know things will change, but I wish it would all hurry up.

  I open the window, feeling the cool air on my face, watching each full raindrop fall and split as it hits the ground. How mysterious is life that a person can be in the deepest pain, going through something so difficult and yet the world just keeps on turning. Shouldn’t the earth stop spinning for a moment, or at least pause and acknowledge what one was feeling, a death, a break-up, a birth? But then again, I think if the earth had the manners to do that for each person, the world would stop turning altogether.

  When they get home from school, the girls jump into bed with me. Their cold feet and faces brush against me. I let them see me cry.

  * * *

  The months are rolling on and we are all trying to adjust. Samuel is getting ready to leave high school to go to college. He is full of rage. It’s so strained between us. I know he needs to leave, no matter how much I will miss him. It’s time for him to leave and find himself and make sense of what has happened in his family.

  I still believe that Kevin and I should stand together as a couple for the sake of the children, but it’s not easy. How can it be the same? It can’t be. I know I have expectations. Kevin makes it very clear he does not want to be around me, he withholds all emotion. I keep thinking we can be friends, but it’s too soon.

  When Samuel comes home he is still angry and decides to stay with his father. I understand, but it still hurts.

  ‘It will change in time,’ Terry tells me.

  ‘Will it?’ I’m not convinced – I’m blaming myself for everything and it’s exhausting.

  ‘You were always good at giving yourself a good thrashing.’ James is trying to lighten my mood as I call him in tears. ‘Zara, it is what it is. Be gentle with yourself, keep it in the day.’

  ‘Well, I suppose it’s only fair,’ I tell Cassie one night when my heart feels like it would truly break. ‘When Samuel was little, he only wanted me. I used to feel bad for Kevin then. Now maybe it’s Kevin’s turn to know what that feels like.

  ‘But Cassie, I can’t take my own son refusing to speak to me. I feel like my right arm has been cut off. I can’t believe what I’ve done.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Zara!’ Her frustration with me is clear. ‘People get divorced all the time. Kids have to blame someone. I promise he’ll come back to you.’

  ‘Will he?’ I’m not so sure – I feel like such a fool. ‘I wish my mother were alive so I could talk to her,’ I cry to Cassie down the phone.

  ‘Zara, she probably wouldn’t have been as helpful as you like to remember. Now go to sleep, and stop trying to solve all your problems at once. I have to go – I have a date and I’ve put on ten pounds. Nothing fits anymore. Call me tomorrow.’

  * * *

  Three weeks later, Simon comes to New York for a meeting. My mood is brightened by the thought. I end up spending the night with him. That night, I show up in a PVC nurse’s outfit, my fur coat covering me to enhance the surprise. Thigh-high stockings and a tight plastic dress cling to my body; I look like a leftover rock star from 1977. The tacky look always drives Simon mad. As I take off my coat, I say, ‘It’s time for your medicine.’ We can’t stop laughing. I let him take some pictures for his collection, which turn out badly – I look like some street tramp. I sit on top of him, unpopping the dress, and start kissing him firmly until he responds. I feel him hard against me, my mouth exploring every part of him. In that moment I knew that I had him, but I knew it would only ever be for a moment. He didn’t talk, which was unusual. I kept kissing him, I loved kissing him… I pushed away thoughts of my ex-husband. I’d been a coward, not wanting to be the one to face our problems. I had just run away, trying to maintain normality.

  Simon pulls me back, looking into my eyes. There’s a question in his eyes, but he doesn’t say anything. I want to cry to curl up with his arms around me. I need him to hold me tight and tell me everything is going to be all right, but I have rarely shown my vulnerable side around him. Instead I smile to try and hide the tears I can feel surfacing and pull him into me, pushing away the feelings. As we lie together afterwards, our sweaty bodies mingled together, he strokes my hair gently. He kisses the top of my head, as he often does, like I imagine a father would to his child.

  ‘What’s wrong, Zara?’ he says, not looking at me.

  ‘The divorce is final.’

  I turn to look at his reaction. He is silent for a moment. I feel an immediate distance from him.

  ‘Well, that’s what you wanted,’ he says.

  ‘Does anyone really want this?’ I reply.

  ‘I told you, Zara, you should have kept fucking him.’ He stuffs a pillow behind his head. ‘How could you expect a man to stay with you if you wouldn’t? I told you, stay with him and keep seeing me.’

  Moving away from him, I prop myself up on one elbow.

  ‘What?’ I’m in a state of disbelief. ‘You think a woman should have sex with her husband even though there’s nothing between them emotionally? You think she can feel close to a man who criticises her every move? You really think she should have sex regardless of all that?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says firmly.

  ‘You are so fucking 1950s! I know you’re older than me, but you actually think that?’

  ‘Yes, Zara, I do. You gave the man no choice. It’s your fault that your marriage ended.’ He isn’t looking at me now, instead busying himself with his phone.

  I’m in shock. As I sit up in bed, naked beside him, my fury is now palpable. ‘Maybe I’m just not like you, maybe I can’t fuck people I have no feelings for. This is a joke! If you care about Kevin’s feelings so much, why don’t you call him up and tell him you chased his wife, that you fuck me as much and often as you can? That you take photos of my body and send me dirty texts?’

  Standing up, I grab the nurse’s outfit from the floor and squeeze myself into it. Tears stream down my face. I had never let him see me like this before.

  ‘You don’t have to start crying,’ he mutters. ‘You made your choice and now you have to live with it. I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.’

  ‘I really hate you sometimes,’ I yell. ‘You’re so fucking selfish, it’s always about you. You take no responsibility for your part in any of this, you never have. I hate men! You’re all a bunch of wankers.’

  I can see him smiling.

  This isn’t funny. Where’s my fucking nurse’s hat?’

  He points to the floor, his face solemn again. Grabbing my bag, I walk away. He texts me the moment I’ve reached the lift.

  ‘Zara, please come back. Don’t go home.’

  Pausing, my tirade of emotions stilled, I stop. I’m so tired. I make him wait a few minutes. Another text: ‘You can’t leave, you look completely ridiculous in that outfit.’

  I walk back to his room. He’s lying in bed, grinning at me. I jump on top of him, grabbing a pillow, and hit him over and over. Then we kiss slowly, and he’s so tender. That night, we sleep wrapped around each other. In the morning, it’s the same old routine: he leaves, as always, and I don’t know when I’m going to see him again. But one thing is becoming clear: if I want to find some peace, I have to look deeper within myself.

  16

  New York, 2015

  It’s been eighteen months since Kevin left. Some level of normality is returning. The first time the girls go to stay with their dad I’m a mess. They’ve only been gone an hour and already I miss them. I’m not sure what to do with myself. I spend most of the evening trying to breathe and calm my forever-spinning mind. I surrender to the silence.

  Many of my divorced friends have gone on Match.com. They urge me to do it straight away, but it’s not for me: I’m in no hurry for a f
ull-time relationship, I’m just not ready. I feel such a physical ache at the separation of our family. I miss our dog, who has stayed with Kevin. It’s so quiet. I wonder if I wouldn’t feel so lonely if I were in London. I crave home, but I have to stay for the kids – it was part of the divorce agreement and I know it’s the right thing for them. The first week, I have a panic attack. I lie hyperventilating on the bathroom floor, but I don’t call anyone. I still can’t bear for anyone to see that side of myself.

  We’re living in an upstairs apartment. It’s just a stepping-stone until we move somewhere nicer. I couldn’t stay in the old house – the neighbours had been distant and unsupportive. When you go through a divorce, people move away from you, the invitations slow down. I’m not sure why. Maybe we divorced people are a reminder that this could happen to them. I had one neighbour whisper to me that I was the brave one. And there I was, thinking she had a perfect marriage. I know people felt the same about mine.

  A few weeks ago, I started meditating daily – I didn’t know what else to do with all these feelings that seemed to wrap themselves around me. I couldn’t change what had happened, the mistakes I’d made. My whole life I’ve struggled to be gentle and kind to myself. Someone told me about Esther Abraham Hicks, a spiritualist who talks about how our thoughts determine our lives. I listen every night, and she gives me hope. I find myself worrying I’ll never be able to change my thoughts, that I’ll never be happy. But it’s a comfort, another way of connecting with something greater than myself. Right now I haven’t a clue what I should be doing. Every day I meditate and work diligently on changing these negative thoughts; I’m trying to do an inside cleanse.

  Before the divorce, I had written a one-woman show. After my mother died, the dreams about my birth father took me by surprise. I didn’t know he was still on my mind, but obviously he was. For many years I had avoided talking about men. I had put all my energy and focus into being a mother, and working on my relationship with my adoptive mother. Now left alone with my dad, I’m forced to have more contact than I ever had before. Until my mother died, we rarely spoke to each other. Here I am, in my forties, communicating with my father for the first time. I decide that if I’m never going to meet my birth father, I will write about what it feels like not to know. I will heal my lack of fathering using my art. Dramatic though that sounds, my play is hitting a nerve with many people and I love acting.

  It’s 11am and the kids are at school. I’m sitting at my computer, working on my play. For the last few days, I’ve noticed the power going on and off as the winds have kicked in. That’s normal for our town. The houses here in Montclair are old and beautiful. We have lived here for ten years now. It might be the most artistic and diverse city in the States, but the electrics are shoddy. I’m supposed to go into the city, but I decide to stay home: the sky is turning grey and higher winds are expected. Then I notice a burning smell. I stand up, fear creeping in, and go downstairs to check the rest of the place. I don’t see anything wrong, but decide to call the landlord’s handyman.

  ‘Hey, it’s me. I smell burning. I think you should come over.’

  ‘I can’t,’ he says. ‘I’m stuck with my head in a sewer! Call the landlord.’

  But my landlord isn’t picking up and the smell is getting stronger. A popping noise has started coming from the walls. I stand still, unable to move.

  What’s going on?

  The sound gets louder and louder, like fireworks. My body has gone into high alert. I turn my head and see flames jumping out of the plug socket. For a second, I can’t move – I can’t believe what I’m seeing. The fire rapidly grows ever higher and crackles all around me. My computer is right next to the flames.

  ‘No!’ I shout at the fire. ‘Get back, I need my computer!’ With shaking hands I grab it. I wonder if I should grab the kids’ computers too. Should I get my guitar? My favourite pair of jeans? But my inner voice is screaming, ‘Get out of the house, now!’ I can’t remember the number I need to dial: 999? No, that’s England. What is it in America? I can’t remember. Finally, I punch in 911.

  ‘911, what’s your emergency?’

  ‘The house is going to explode.’

  ‘Okay, Miss, calm down. Where are you located?’

  I give the operator my address.

  ‘Please vacate the property. Get everyone out, including any animals.’

  Thank goodness I didn’t have my dog with me.

  I run downstairs and bang on my neighbour’s door. He grabs his little dog and we get outside as quickly as possible. I can see smoke pouring from the window of my attic room. Everything I own is in that room, all my lovely clothes and shoes, I think to myself, aware of how shallow I am at times. Six fire engines show up and the firefighters run into the building. My other neighbours are saying that their houses had no power and they also smelled smoke. Is the whole street about to go up in flames?

  Later, when everything is calm, I’m allowed back inside. Everything I own is covered in a thin layer of soot. I stand there, trying to take it all in. I don’t cry; I just can’t believe it. My guitars are ruined. My bed is soaked and covered in dust from where the ceiling caved in. I see the blackened remnants of my desk.

  The landlord arrives: he wants to blame me for the fire. I’m in a state of shock – I don’t understand how this can happen to me on top of everything else. Thank goodness for my insurance. Everything worth saving is taken away to be cleaned and the rest put in a pile to be thrown away. The marital bed I kept after the divorce has been ruined by the fire. Now all the remnants of my marriage have been wiped away, it really is time to start over.

  17

  London, 2015

  ‘You’re laughing,’ Cassie says, as we sit together in a café in London. ‘You’re feeling better, I can tell.’

  ‘Am I? Maybe I’m just getting used to my new life as a single, middle-aged woman.’

  ‘You’re free now,’ she says, moving towards me in her seat. ‘You can go and shag whoever you like and there’s nothing to feel guilty about. I’m jealous.’

  ‘I don’t know why – you shag whoever you want and I don’t think you’ve a guilty bone in your body,’ I tell her, moving to take another bite of cake. ‘There are two kinds of people, the ones who can lie without it affecting their lives and the ones who can’t. You’re just like him,’ I add between mouthfuls.

  ‘Oh, now that’s a dig.’ Cassie shakes back her dark hair, just like she used to when she was a little girl. ‘Please don’t compare me to Simon, the love of your life, or the shag of your life. Let’s face it, if you were with him night and day he’d drive you mad and then you’d be the one he was cheating on. When the mistress becomes the wife, there’s a vacancy.’

  ‘She’s not his wife. Maybe she turns a blind eye,’ I mutter. ‘How could she not? But why does she stay?’

  ‘Because they love each other, and it’s easier than leaving.’ Cassie looks me directly in the eye, sipping her coffee. ‘Men like that are weak,’ she states. ‘And selfish. I know you don’t want to hear it, but you need to. Everything in your so-called relationship has always been about him, on his time frame. He didn’t even call you on your birthday. I’m sorry, Zara, but don’t you think it’s time to turn things around?’

  ‘He told me he might be separating from her. He’s unhappy, he needs me.’

  ‘Zara, what’s important is what makes you happy.’

  I text Simon to remind him that I’m here, the way I usually do, but the reply is not what I expect.

  ‘I’m a married man now. I can’t do this anymore.’

  I feel sick to the stomach. It takes me a moment to absorb what I’m reading.

  ‘What? You didn’t tell me you were getting married. I thought you were splitting up? That the relationship was over? That’s what you told me.’ My hands are shaking.

  ‘I didn’t know then. It all happened rather quickly.’

  ‘What, in the last three weeks? Did she drag you down the aisle? How co
uld you keep texting me and say nothing? Do I really mean that little to you?’

  I’m furious; I feel so betrayed. We text back and forth rapidly, Cassie interjecting with what she thinks I should say.

  ‘Let’s meet,’ he texts. ‘We need to talk.’

  But I realise the only reason he wants to meet me is because he’s scared I’ll say something to his new wife.

  ‘I don’t want to see you again.’ I’m crying hard, I’m so embarrassed.

  ‘Stop being so dramatic, Zara,’ he texts. ‘I never promised you anything.’

  He’s trying to control me, but I stand firm. The truth is he never cared about me. For him it’s only ever been about sex. I’m reeling. I feel like I’ve been slapped in the face, woken from a stupid, stupid dream. Why had I allowed myself to be treated this way? Was this all I deserved? I feel betrayed, not just by him but also by myself. He keeps texting, asking to meet me, but I don’t respond – I can’t let him see me this way.

  I can’t do anything that evening. Cassie lets me sit on her bedroom floor and cry, comforting me as best she can. I cancel my plans, and as I go back to my cousin’s house where I’m staying, I say nothing to them. As I lie in bed that evening in their attic room, I’m a little surprised that mingled in with my sadness is a sense of relief: it was over. Simon had done what I probably never could have.

  I deserved much more, didn’t I?

  Part of me can’t believe it. I call Terry and he lets me sob until I have no more tears left in me. But as I learned so many years ago when I first got sober, it’s never too late to start over. Finally, I close my eyes. I’m dreaming again. This time I’m in a shop, walking up and down each aisle, looking at shoes, boxes and boxes of endless shoes. It takes me a moment to recognise that they are all my mother’s shoes. I touch them gently, lifting each one. I notice the shape of her foot still imprinted in those familiar shoes, some that she had kept for many years.