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

by Zara. H Phillips

  ‘Go on Facebook on your phone, and I’ll show you how to find a photograph of him.’ I can tell even she is excited.

  My hands are shaking as I scroll down until I’m looking at a photo of a handsome man in a pink shirt. He has a deep tan, kind eyes and a smile that’s somehow familiar. I stare at him, the same way I stared when I first saw the photo of my mother. I look at every detail. Finally, a photo of my father! I’ve waited so long for this.

  ‘One of our brothers is an artist. He’s very established in the art world in England. I’ll send you a video. You can see photographs of Antonio when he was younger, too.’

  ‘Thank you! Thank you for being willing to share with me.’

  ‘You’re welcome, sister! So, how do you want to proceed? I can help however you like, but only if you want me to.’

  ‘Would you mind being the one to tell him about me? I think it would be best coming from you.’

  ‘I would be happy to. I’ll call him soon, and let you know what he says.’

  I feel like I’m floating. My mind is struggling to take in all this information. In one moment, everything has changed: I’m no longer the woman who doesn’t know who her father is, I know he’s alive. I know what he looks like. In one moment, I have his name and I know where he lives.

  I’ve spent fifty-one years fantasising about this man. I had spent so long trying to paint a picture of him in my mind with only the fragments available to me. There was another little girl just like me, wondering who her father was. I had a sister I’d never known – I’d never even dreamed that part of the story. In one moment, I had gained five new siblings.

  As I drive home, I try and take it all in. I don’t tell the children anything – I still need to come to terms with everything myself. But I sit at the computer that night, scrolling through Facebook, trying to find more photographs of Antonio. His wife is so beautiful, they have grandchildren; they are regular people, just like my birth mother. I spend a few days with my phone switched off, letting the information sink in. It takes my body time to absorb this new reality.

  21

  Home, July 1st 2016

  Michelle calls me a few days later. She says she’s told Antonio about me, but he’s apparently in total shock and needs some time to take it all in. He has no memory of my mother, but agrees that the time and dates that he was in London match up. He has told Michelle that he will call me when he’s ready.

  Now it’s time for me to tell my family, including Kevin. I tell them all that’s happened and I’m thrilled at how excited they are for me. Only my son Samuel is cautious. ‘Can this really be true?’ he asks. I try to reassure him, but I hear the doubt in his voice. I’m grateful for his concern and understand how insane this whole story sounds. When I tell my close friends, they are so happy for me. Now all I can do is wait: it’s his move.

  I’m trying to be patient, and push all the negative thoughts away. I’m beginning to realise that Antonio didn’t know Pat had fallen pregnant, or has simply forgotten – it’s not what I’d expected, I just assumed he knew. I’m finding that truth difficult.

  The days have turned into a week. He tells Michelle he just needs more time, that it’s a lot to take in. I understand, but I need to hear from him desperately.

  Another week goes by. Am I not important to him at all? Is he going to pretend I don’t exist? What if he never contacts me? How will I make peace with that?

  1st July: It’s my youngest daughter Anna’s fourteenth birthday so I take the girls out for brunch in the local café. It’s a good distraction and I’m trying hard to make it a nice day for Anna despite everything that’s going on.

  Suddenly, as we sit down at the table, Michelle texts me.

  ‘Antonio is going to call you now. Are you ready?’

  ‘Now?’ I respond.

  ‘I’m at the airport, about to go away for the summer. Before I left, I urged him to call you. He will any moment, I promise.’

  I can’t focus.

  ‘Girls, I know this is a special day,’ I say to them both, ‘but my birth father is about to call me.’ I feel dizzy, my appetite suddenly gone.

  ‘What, now? On my birthday?’ Anna seems a bit put out.

  ‘I know, I know. After all these years, he’s going to call on your birthday.’

  She smiles. ‘It’s fine. As long as you still take me shopping.’

  The girls are reassuring. They can see I’m all over the place. Then my phone rings and a rush of adrenaline courses through my body.

  ‘It’s him!’ I freeze up – I can’t seem to pick up the phone.

  ‘Answer it, Mum!’ my daughters are shouting. ‘Go outside, go, GO!’

  I run outside. I can see the girls laughing together as they watch me through the window.

  ‘Hello,’ a deep Italian voice says to me on the phone.

  ‘Hi.’ My voice is faint. I pause.

  He laughs lightly.

  ‘I’m sure this is a surprise,’ I find myself saying.

  ‘You think? This was the biggest shock of my life! I’m sorry I don’t remember your mother. Maybe if you tell me more, I will.’

  I tell him the story that I’ve told so many people, over and over. He confirms that he used to go to Les Enfants Terribles and that he lived above a shop in Victoria, by the station. What’s bothering him is that he can’t remember my birth mother’s name. He has no memory of a woman telling him she was pregnant.

  All those years of wondering about him and he didn’t even know I existed. This is not what I expected – I don’t know how to feel.

  ‘I think we should meet,’ he offers. ‘You can show me a photograph of your mother and we can do a paternity test.’ I agree that we should meet and he ends the call by telling me he’ll call me. I walk back inside and see the looks of love and concern in my girls’ eyes as I wonder if I will hear from him, or if this is the end.

  * * *

  Three days later, he calls.

  ‘Come and meet me at Dunkin’ Donuts in an hour, okay? Ciao, bella.’

  Every hair on my body is standing on end as I scramble to get ready. I’ve already met one birth parent – I should be a professional at this by now. Instead, I’m panicking. What do I wear? I don’t have time to think about clothes. I wish I’d planned an outfit in advance, but part of me believed the meeting would never really happen.

  I call my friend Tom from the adoptees group as I start my car.

  ‘Make sure you take photos,’ he says. ‘Ask him as many questions as you can, just in case this is the only time you get to meet him. Zara, it’s going to be OK.’

  His words are wise, calming.

  ‘I’m going to meet my father, I’m going to meet my father!’ I yell it out loud, just to hear myself say it. As I drive along the highway, trying to focus on the road, counting down the exits, I can’t focus on anything but him.

  At last I turn into the parking lot. There’s a man pacing back and forth, looking into each car that pulls in. I know it’s him.

  I step out of my car and our eyes meet as we walk towards each other. He has tears in his eyes, I can see that. He is exactly how Pat described him, except older. His eyes look so familiar, I can’t stop looking into them: our eyes are the same colour. We recognise something in one another. As we walk in together I can’t help but think of Michelle’s text from earlier:

  ‘Dunkin’ Donuts? That’s where I met him for the first time! Have one with sprinkles for me.’

  We stand in the line together, trying to look like just two normal people grabbing coffee together. Every few seconds I catch him staring at my face. We sit down. I feel surprisingly at ease with him.

  ‘Life is full of surprises…’ He raises his hands to the sky and half-laughing, he says, ‘How did you find me again? My wife, she’s going to kill me! Divorce me!’

  I show him a photo of Pat around the time they would have met. He doesn’t recognise her.

  ‘Please don’t tell her,’ he says quickly. ‘I had man
y girlfriends when I was young. I’m sorry, but it’s true.’

  I can see he’s ashamed by this admission but I don’t feel any judgement towards him. I feel badly for Pat as I know this will be hard for her, though. It’s easy to imagine how he was, a young, handsome Italian in sixties London – I’m sure all the girls went crazy for him.

  ‘Antonio, we all have a past. Believe me, I was no saint.’ He looks sheepish. ‘Really? You too?’ He relaxes a little.

  ‘Yes, really! The only difference is, I didn’t get pregnant.’ He is studying me again, back in denial. ‘Well, I don’t know how we are related but I know that we must be somehow.’

  I explain the DNA test, but I know he isn’t convinced.

  ‘Let’s go and get a paternity test now. Then we’ll know for sure.’

  We walk into the busy street. Antonio takes my hand and pulls me across the middle of the road, in between cars. I’m holding my father’s hand. I feel giggly. I think I held my adoptive father’s hand once when I was a little girl but it’s a completely different feeling now, one I never thought I’d ever get the chance of having.

  We find the nearest pharmacy and walk up and down the aisles, trying to figure out where they would keep a paternity test. Antonio is looking uncomfortable, shifty. Eventually I ask a girl for help and she walks us to another section, but in front of us are pregnancy tests. I crack up laughing.

  ‘Not pregnancy.’ Antonio’s voice is loud, his thick accent filling the space. ‘Paternity, paternity…’ He says it slowly so she understands, but between both of our accents, she’s having a hard time.

  ‘I’m sorry, we don’t have any of those,’ she says as she looks us both up and down.

  I leave him soon after that, telling him I will arrange to meet him again once I have a test – I need to know as soon as possible. He doesn’t want to say anything to his family yet. I drive off, knowing he still doubts my identity.

  But I have no doubts: I know I have finally met my father.

  22

  A Week Later

  ‘Towels, check… Sunscreen, check… Water, check…’ My youngest daughter Anna and I are heading to the beach.

  ‘Paternity test, check…’ I throw the box on top of the bag.

  ‘This family is beyond weird.’ My daughter rolls her eyes.

  I have arranged to meet Antonio back at the Dunkin’ Donuts car park to get a sample of his saliva – I’m just glad he is open to this. My daughter waits in the car as I step out and he says hello to her, his granddaughter. I watch her face: she is serious and unusually quiet, observing the scene.

  ‘I’ve done this before, with Michelle. I know how to do it,’ he says as he opens the test and swabs the inside of his cheek before sealing it up.

  ‘Let me know what it says, okay?’ He is smiling as he leaves. My daughter has been quietly watching the whole time.

  ‘It’s definitely him,’ she says. ‘You’re just like him.’

  I’ve been calling Pat to keep her updated and I send her a photo of Antonio.

  ‘It’s him,’ she replies. ‘I told you he was handsome. He doesn’t remember me, does he?’ I know she’s upset, I don’t know what to say.

  ‘He’s having a hard time remembering that you told him you were pregnant. I’m sure it will come back to him soon,’ I say, hoping to reassure her.

  ‘Well, I told him. I know what I said, and I know what his response was – it wasn’t nice.’

  I feel stuck between the excitement of meeting my father and trying to support Pat. I can see her pain resurfacing – I can’t blame her for being angry.

  A few days later the paternity test company calls me. I’m told that the test won’t work with just Antonio’s sample, they need my mother to complete a test to determine if he’s my father. Sometimes this happens; it depends on what DNA the child carries from each parent. I call Pat and tell her I’m sending her the kit, and ask her to courier it back to the company in the States. She agrees, but I sense she’s still struggling.

  Every day I check to see if the company has received her package. Then I find out she didn’t use a courier, but sent it through the Post Office. I’ve lost all patience. Why is the universe testing me like this? I can’t help but feel angry towards her – it’s like she’s trying to stall things on purpose.

  ‘I asked you to courier it, I don’t know why you couldn’t do that for me. This will take weeks, I can’t wait weeks.’

  ‘We know it’s him. I don’t understand why you can’t wait. The courier place was too far away, I did what I thought was best.’

  ‘We know it’s him, but he isn’t convinced. I need this, I can’t wait anymore.’

  ‘You’ve waited years. What’s a few more days?’

  I knew in some ways she was right, but I needed him to acknowledge me. I can’t seem to focus on anything so I check the tracking number again. The paternity test is stuck in Customs. I phone Chicago and they tell me the package could be there for weeks.

  I call the paternity test company and they suggest that this time they send the package to Pat direct in England. I have to pay another $200, but I don’t care.

  ‘Another kit is on its way. All you have to do is take the test. The postage is paid, and there’s a DHL box near your house,’ I text before giving her directions.

  I send her a second text: ‘Pat, I want you to know that I understand this is bringing up a lot of stuff for you. Thank you for doing this.’

  I know she’s still angry that Antonio doesn’t remember her. She was seventeen years old, a child herself. She was the one who had to carry me; she was the one who was made to give me up. How any mother is able to function after such a trauma is hard to imagine. I think you would have to switch off a part of yourself just to survive.

  * * *

  It’s now been three weeks since the beginning of the paternity test ordeal but Pat finally tells me she’s sent her sample back. Antonio has even called a couple of times. He still sounds unconvinced. My friends are texting me, asking if I’ve heard anything – they’re as anxious as I am.

  I turn my phone off for a while – I need a break from my thoughts. I keep wondering if the Ancestry website has made a mistake. I did, however, buy another DNA test. I drove back to meet Antonio at Dunkin’ Donuts. This time we go inside, as he has to spit in the vial. I repeat the information that my birth mother has told me. I show him a photo of me as a little girl. He studies it for a long time; he has gone silent.

  ‘Why don’t I remember? Don’t you think I would remember if a woman told me she was pregnant with my child?’

  I shrug my shoulders.

  ‘I don’t know what to think anymore,’ I say to him.

  As I leave, he says, ‘Well, maybe we’re related, maybe we aren’t. I’m glad to have met you either way. Let me know as soon as you know, okay?’

  ‘Antonio,’ I smile. ‘You will be the first one I call.’

  I drive home in the intense summer heat. What if the paternity test fails? What if there’s a problem, and he never believes that I’m his daughter?

  * * *

  The girls are staying with their father that night so I’m alone and glad of it – I’m finding it hard to be focused and present as a mother right now. I’ve hidden how I feel from the children, from a lot of people, but how can I explain what it feels like to sit with this man I know is my father, and for him to still be unsure? I’m still battling with the fact he didn’t remember Pat, my whole conception.

  Friends tell me, ‘But you know it’s him.’

  But I need him to know in his heart that I’m his daughter.

  I lie on my bed; it’s late. I’m starting to have that old familiar feeling, the one I had as a little girl when some nights I would feel sadness take over me for no apparent reason. I felt the same way when I met my birth mother, when I looked at my new babies, when I sat holding my adoptive mother’s hand as she passed away. It’s still there now, my familiar companion: I want to be acknowledged, I want
Antonio to believe me, regardless of any tests.

  I stand up and walk around my room. Suddenly I’m overcome by a sudden urge to annihilate myself; it consumes me. I picture myself walking the streets of New York, looking for drugs. The pull to use is the strongest it has been in my many years of sobriety. In this moment, I want to destroy myself: the pain has gone on for too many years, I can’t do it anymore – I’m feeling so much and for the first time I see the direct connection between my addiction and my adoption experience. I know I do have a choice, but I just want to get so out of my mind that I never have to feel any of this again. I’m so tired too.

  I can’t breathe. Somehow I manage to send a group text to some adoptee friends – I know if I don’t reach out to someone, I’ll hurt myself. I’m a mother, I have to think of my children.

  ‘I want to use. I think I’m having a panic attack,’ I manage to text.

  My phone rings but I can’t speak. I hear the gentle voice of Cathy, a fellow adoptee.

  ‘Zara, you spent time with your father today. I know what it’s like to be around our blood connection and feel a sense of familiarity that we’ve never had before. It’s so joyous, but it brings up so much grief and pain.’

  I have no words – I feel like I’ve burrowed down into my very core. Once I start crying, I can’t stop. Cathy’s so kind. She gets me to breathe and allows me to howl down the phone. Finally, I hear myself speak.

  ‘I need him to know who I am – he had no idea I existed. All those years of wondering if he thought about me, I can’t wait any longer. I know Pat is upset with me. I can’t be in the middle again, protecting her from the harsh reality that he didn’t remember her, that he didn’t know about me; protecting his wife. I feel like I have to apologise for my existence – sorry, everyone, for being such an annoyance, a mistake. Sorry to my mum, for wanting to know my birth mother. Sorry, Dad, for needing to know my birth father. I’m so fucking tired of this fucking role! I can’t do it anymore, I don’t want to be a secret.’