I hold a soft leather shoe, one that I had played dressing up in as a child – it used to be so big on me. I lay it alongside my foot, but they were now too small. My feet had been larger than my mother’s since I became a teenager. Our bodies were different in every way. Confused, I keep walking, touching the shoes. Then I stop, and I’m standing by the dressy shoes that she wore to my wedding, a light pink satin with jewels. How she loved those shoes. How she had loved choosing her dress, so excited her daughter was finally getting married, that she was finally doing something normal.
I hold the shoe against me, rubbing the satin between my fingers. What would she think now? That the wedding had been a waste of money and a waste of time.
‘Excuse me, Madam,’ A woman’s voice is behind me. ‘Can I help you with something?’
‘Oh, it’s okay, I’m just looking,’ I say, not turning round.
‘Let me know if you need anything. I’m always here, you know.’
That voice, that high lilting voice… Turning slowly, I see the back of the lady, the pink glistening mother of the bride dress, her coiffed grey hair.
* * *
Cassie comes to see me the next morning.
‘The Queen has arisen,’ she smirks. ‘Your hair looks awful, you need to get your roots done. I didn’t know you were so grey.’
‘Fuck off!’ I reply.
‘What are you doing?’ she asks.
I’m sitting on my cousin’s bedroom floor, holding a box that I had taken from my Dad’s. Sitting down beside me, she looks in the box and pulls out a book. She reads the title: ‘The Library of Inspiration: A Collection of the World’s Greatest Literature.’
‘They were from my dad,’ I explain. ‘When I was about fourteen, he had gone out shopping and came back with books. We were standing in the kitchen when he said, “Zara, I have something for you.” I was stunned. It wasn’t my birthday, he’d just bought them for me because he knew I liked poetry.’ I pause for a moment. ‘He had never bought me a present before that wasn’t for my birthday or Christmas. I felt so touched that he thought of me when he was out, I’ve never been able to part with those books. He never ever did it again, just that one time.’
‘Oh, your generous father! He should have showered his little girl with gifts.’
I smile grimly.
‘Simon never bought me a present. He thought if he did, it meant we were really having an affair.’
‘What did he think you were doing?’
‘Who knows?’ I begin to cry again, and then laugh at the absurdity of it all.
‘We should sit photos of them side by side,’ Cassie says. ‘And place them high on your shelf. Those two tight-fisted men can keep each other company, to remind you of the little crumbs of love they signify.’
* * *
I head over to see my father in his little flat and knock loudly on the door. He doesn’t hear me; the TV is at its usually deafening volume. The door is unlocked so I enter. I’m relieved that he’s there.
‘Oh, hello.’ He smiles up at me, his frame appearing small in the large leather chair where he always sits. ‘I didn’t hear you. Just a minute…’
It’s warm in London, almost summer.
‘Dad, do you still have the heat on?’ I’m sitting next to the radiator. ‘No wonder you’re sweating so much. Wouldn’t you feel better if you turn it down?’
‘Don’t touch the heat!’ he yells. ‘Leave it alone.’
I feel myself recoil, as I always do when he raises his voice. He has mellowed with age, but still has his moments of anger. We sit silently for a moment.
‘Make us a cup of tea?’ he asks, gently this time.
We spend the afternoon talking about nothing in particular, the usual surface-level conversations. His back is bent and twisted as he tries to heave himself out of the chair to go to the bathroom, a walker now needed for every move. My strange, distant father is now so vulnerable. It’s hard for me to watch. Now that his body has begun to let him down, he can no longer hide his emotional fragility. It’s his turn to panic, reaching out to me like a child as he approaches the end of his life.
I have a clear choice: I could punish him for his past behaviour, or be there for the person he is now. Now though, I feel compassion for this man, although he has caused me more hurt than he can ever imagine. I know he has no idea of the effects his behaviour has had on me. I always longed for the impossible. Despite everything, I still want him to act like a father.
‘If you like, I could take you out to dinner one night, Dad?’ I hear myself say gently.
‘We’ll see. I’m not sure I want to go out.’
‘Have you been downstairs to join in any of the entertainment? They have a quiz night and music.’
I straighten out his papers as I talk.
‘Not much – they’re full of old people who never speak,’ he grumbles. ‘But I did meet a new friend.’
‘I’m so glad you gave it a try, you might enjoy yourself.’
He makes a face like a child.
‘You might need to be the one to start the conversation. You always let Mum do the talking.’
‘I didn’t let your mother do the talking,’ he replies, finally a small smile on his face. ‘She wouldn’t stop talking, and no one could have made her. Maybe if she had met the Queen she would have been quiet, although I’m not sure about that.’
I laugh.
My mother’s face is looking at us both from a photo on the side table. I pick it up.
‘Dad, I love this picture. It really captures her personality. You can almost hear her laughing, can’t you?’
‘Yes.’ He smiles wistfully. ‘I miss talking to her, Zara. Sometimes I still chat to her while I’m watching television. I miss her so much.’ He turns back towards the TV.
‘Go downstairs and find some company, Dad. It will be good for you. Other people here have lost their spouses. It might make you feel better to talk about it.’
‘Okay, Zara,’ he says to my surprise. ‘I will… Soon.’
18
New York, November 2015
We have moved into a lovely new flat. The children are happier. Both my girls are now at high school, Anna a freshman and Katie a junior. They can walk to school. We love the neighbourhood. There is a bagel shop right opposite that they keep running over to. I had been told that it takes at least two years after a divorce for things to be normal again, and it had taken two years to get this right. I didn’t want to hear it at the time, but it was true. I had underestimated how long the adjustment would take. But here we are, celebrating Christmas in our new home. Life is feeling better.
A few months earlier I had been at an adoption conference – I attended them regularly now. I sat in a room listening to a man talk about a new DNA organisation, 23andMe. This is another organisation, alongside Ancestry, that has been set up as a way to connect with family members. After spitting in a test tube they can predict your ethnicity and match you up with other family members who have also taken the test. There is now a way to test both sexes with an autosomal test, so a woman can now get matched with their paternal side. It used to be just the male who could take a Y chromosome test father to son/son to father but this new test, where both male and female share the DNA, can link the woman to the male side, opening up the possibilities for women to finally find their fathers. The speaker intrigued me so much that when the time came for him to answer questions, I walked straight up to the microphone.
‘Hi, I’m British, and I wondered if you’d had any luck with Europeans taking the DNA test?’
(After I had been to the Italian festival in Clerkenwell Road in London, I joined a page on Facebook for Les Enfants Terribles, the club where my birth parents had met. But I had no luck in finding my father, or anyone who knew him and I knew the whole thing was a bit like looking for a needle in a haystack. I hadn’t thought about my birth father for a while after that, accepting that the likelihood of finding him after all this time would be ve
ry slim but I’d been hearing some stories and the DNA tests were inspiring me to think about searching again.)
‘I’m afraid not. Europeans don’t tend to do them. Our database shows us it’s mainly Americans,’ the speaker told me.
At this my heart sank. However, it seemed new discoveries in DNA were changing things for the adoption community. The speaker advised me to sign up and take a test on Ancestry.com, as they have a bigger database. So I did, later that same day, and sent off a sample of my spit. I was put in touch with a woman called Gaye – who I now call my ‘DNA search angel’ – whose job is to then pool my results together from the three main sites that now exist: Ancestry, 23andMe and Family Tree DNA. I told myself I wouldn’t get my hopes up, after all my previous searches, but when my results came back, I couldn’t help but be excited – they show that I really am Italian. After all this time, I just knew it. It made it all the more real, like beginning again.
19
London and New Jersey, 2016
It’s been two years since my journey has started. The girls are with Kevin and I’m back in London on my own, performing my one-woman show, Beneath My Father’s Sky. I’ve now been performing the show for three years. I’ve been all over the States with it and I’ve been so happy with the response.
So many people are coming tonight, old friends I haven’t seen in years. Once again I’m staying with my cousins from my adoptive mother’s side. We have become closer since our mothers died. It helps me stay connected to that side of our family. I don’t invite my adoptive father, nor do I tell him I’m performing the show – at his age, I don’t think he should have to deal with this. We have never discussed that I have a biological father out there somewhere. I know he sees me as his daughter, and he is the only father I’ve ever known.
A Soho-based website publishes an article on my search for Antonio, my birth father. Someone who knew him might read it and contact me, I think, although at the moment, I’m more focused on my show than finding him.
I’m nervous as I wait backstage. All my friends and some adoptive family are coming. I wish my cousin hadn’t invited them. I know she means well, but she has already told me off for having photographs of my parents as part of the set. She feels the play is too revealing, that I’m not letting my father defend himself. But I’m not sure what he needs defending from. I’m irritated that she would bring this up when I’m about to go onstage.
‘You knew what this play was about, you read the script ages ago. I don’t understand why you would say this to me now.’
‘I just didn’t realise how intimate it would be. I’m not comfortable with this, I think you should take down his photograph.’
‘No, it’s part of the play. And many people here know what he looks like. I need to get ready to go on.’
She needs to go. I want to push her away from me, but I have to focus.
I can hear that the room is full. I know my birth mother and sister are here too. As I sit backstage, my nerves are increasing more and more. Anger rises in my stomach, as it always does when I’m made to justify myself to someone. I need to give this all I’ve got. It’s time to tell my story, I walk out onto the dark stage…
* * *
They seem to have enjoyed the play. I spot an ex-boyfriend from when I was fifteen seated way in the back. My friends beam at me. I see the line of adoptive cousins a few rows back.
It’s time for the question and answer panel. My cousin comes to facilitate. One of my aunts asks the first question.
‘Are you ever going to get over this? Will there ever be closure?’ Her voice is pompous. I pause for a moment, considering how to answer.
‘No,’ I tell her directly, ‘I won’t ever get over losing my biological family and not knowing who my father is, but I still live a productive life.’
‘Are you?’ she says loudly.
I’m furious. The crowd is silent.
‘I’m an artist.’ Why do I even try and explain this, I think to myself. ‘This is the work I do. I write about it, perform it to others, and try to educate people.’
I’m rescued by an adoptee, crying in the audience, who says that the play touched her. Thank goodness, this is a tough crowd.
I look over at another aunt, who I can see wants to tell me the same thing: that I’m overreacting.
‘This is my story, why are you trying to make it yours?’ I say quietly and calmly.
At the end of the show the room is full of old friends coming to say hello. I feel depleted but content – I know I did the best I could. As I arrive back at my cousin’s house later that evening, I’m greeted by all of them seated silently around the kitchen table.
‘Vicky is furious. She feels you ignored her completely. None of them are happy,’ my cousin says, without so much as a hello.
‘Ignored? I had eighty people to say hello to! I invited them to the green room and they didn’t come. I’m tired of this.’ I want to cry – I feel unsupported, the way I always did around my adoptive family.
‘Well, we all feel that the reason you feel the way you do,’ my cousin continues, ‘is because you had a very difficult time with your dad and brother. If you had been raised differently, you wouldn’t feel this way.’
‘You all feel that?’ I’m almost laughing at the nerve of them, imagining their discussion and analysis of my personality. ‘I’ve been around hundreds of adopted people who all feel the same way I do, I’m not alone. Why is it so hard for you to understand?’
They don’t get it and they don’t want to. I feel like my work has failed to explain what it’s like for adopted people. I’m sinking as I stand in front of them.
‘By the way, when are you leaving? Not that I’m throwing you out or anything.’ My cousin has become cold.
I can’t sleep that night. They have always shown kindness to me – I can’t understand why it’s been withdrawn so quickly. The next morning, I get up early and pack my bags. I go to stay with a friend. My friend comforts me as I cry. A day later, I drive to the airport. None of my adoptive cousins have tried to contact me since I walked out.
* * *
I’m back in New Jersey. It’s February and the ground is covered in snow. I’ve sunk into a deep depression. I miss my friends back home and feel little connection to anyone here. My adoptive cousins have cast me off and I can’t shake the feeling of abandonment. Once again, I feel like I don’t fit in anywhere. Will I ever be fully a part of anything? I know it’s all so self-pitying, but the thought has taken a hold of me.
I had given my cousin a suitcase of family photographs, which contained pictures of both our mothers. One afternoon, we sat going through them, and I told her to take the ones that she liked.
‘Look at the resemblance,’ she had said, gazing at yellowed photos of grandparents and aunts. ‘Look, you can see my children in every face.’ It was true; the family resemblance was uncanny.
‘I should keep all these photographs. Let’s face it, your children don’t look like any of these people – how could they?’
‘How can you say that? They’re my family too.’
I would never truly be a full part of that family; I wasn’t sure why I still cared.
* * *
Winter turns to spring, and my mood is lifting. These days I spend a lot of time writing. I’ve been asked to write a book based on my play for a new agent that I had been introduced to who had seen my play, but I write more than that: I write about a woman going through a divorce, I write the story of the reunion that she has with her birth father. I’m enjoying imagining what that would feel like.
‘This is my way of healing,’ I tell my adoption group. ‘The chances of me ever finding my birth father are so slim, it seems the best thing to do is to try and make peace with it all.’
I’m tired of being sad. Another layer is being peeled back; life is asking more from me again.
‘How many more layers? We must be close to the core,’ I laugh with James on the phone.
‘Zara, it’s a lifetime of work. Now get off the cross, we need the wood! Start having some fun,’ he tells me.
20
Father’s Day, 2016
I haven’t dated anyone since my divorce, but I went on Tinder recently after some of my friends urged me to do it. I find it so strange, flipping through photographs of men. My friends have told me I’m too fussy. But it’s not a fun experience – the last guy I chatted with was young and still newly married. I was so upset that after only two years of marriage, he already wanted to cheat. I started sending him ridiculous messages.
‘I think you’re nice and everything, but I don’t think that’s your body in the photo.’ The man in the picture was tanned and well-muscled, his face out of the frame.
‘How did you know?’ he messages back.
‘Just a feeling. Why don’t you want to show your face?’
‘I’m married. I don’t want anyone to know I’m on here.’
‘How long have you been married?’
‘Two years.’
‘Two years and you’re already having affairs?’
‘Is that bad?’
‘Yes, it’s bad. Go fix your marriage.’
‘Really? So you don’t want to meet me now?’
‘I’m not meeting anyone without a head! You should get off Tinder, you’re young, and believe me, divorce is hard.’
I call Cassie afterwards. ‘You’re never going to have hot sex if you keep counselling everyone on Tinder,’ she laughs.
Somebody's Daughter--a moving journey of discovery, recovery and adoption Page 15