The main rules are ‘No Sex’ and ‘No Mess’. Leaving an unwashed cup in the main hall isn’t allowed. If someone does, then a meeting is called. Everyone has to attend and stay until the cup or plate is washed. Sometimes there are three meetings a day; sometimes a meeting is called late at night. For heaven’s sake, just wash your cups!
All clients have been encouraged to keep a journal. Writing is allowing me a new clarity of mind, and I have begun to worry less about my future. Writing allows me to define my dreams. Writing allows me to discover who I truly am.
I have learnt many things from alcoholics and addicts more messed up than me. Sometimes it is amazing who you can learn from. Sometimes it is strange where you feel safe.
Sixty Five
Everyone has been supportive of my decision, except my husband. I hear on the grapevine that he believes I have freaked out and joined a cult. I wish he could trust in me and understand my need for what I am doing and going through. But it seems his feelings are more important than mine. As I grow stronger, I feel him drifting away.
After two weeks I was allowed to make phone calls, and it was good to talk with family and friends again. Then after two months I was finally allowed out on day trips. Today, the early bus to town has emerged through the chilly fog at the end of the dirt track. It is always foggy and moist in the hills in the mornings. I shiver and imagine freshly brewed coffee at the markets. The market is a favourite place to shop for those with limited cash.
Around noon I catch the tram from town to my friend’s house. My friend grows hydroponic marijuana and pays cash money to help trim the leaves from the heads. I earn good money on my day trips. It is the only way I can cope on the budget the rehab centre has set.
On my return to rehab it is compulsory to provide a urine sample for testing. I always come up clean. I am glad the staff have no way of testing my clothing or skin.
I am happy that I am not missing the drinking and smoking any more. I am happy that I have time to spend by myself. I walk down to the creek and listen to the birds.
Bird Song
Life is extinct
Without bird song
Dream birds
Arrive at dawn
Message birds
Tap windows
Guardian birds
Circle the sky
Watcher birds
Sit nearby
Fill my ears
With bird song
I will survive.
Sixty Six
Dad passed away suddenly. He went into hospital for a routine procedure and didn’t make it back home. Everyone is in shock. It seems surreal to be attending his funeral and to see all the family together. Mum tries to be brave. Dad was her best friend and the love of her life. Now she is alone.
I feel sorry for Mum; she enjoyed a caring and strong marriage to Dad cut short only a few months before their pearl wedding anniversary, and I offer to stay with her for a while. She says she is okay, but I still watch her, silently, when I can. She is different than me in her vulnerability. She doesn’t lash out or overreact, even when her feelings must be hurting. She prays a lot and trusts in God. Her way of coping is somehow alluring. But I don’t believe in her God.
I think Mum feels sorry for me too, but she doesn’t understand why I don’t go back home. The thought of a divorce seems to sadden her. For me, it seems my best option.
Mum does notice the new happiness in my eyes sometimes; she has told me so. Slowly I have begun to share my story of the past years with her, and we talk as women. Today she listened more closely than usual to my thoughts and feelings, and then reached over to hold my hand. She knows that I still need her, and I need to feel safe. We make good company for each other.
And after some of the almost inedible meals cooked by clients at rehab, Mum’s cooking is exemplary.
Sixty Seven
I realise I need to try to find my birth mother again. I hope I am successful this time. Mingari’s mum helped me when I was eighteen, but we were unsuccessful. My counsellor refers me to an Aboriginal woman named Rosemary in Port Adelaide. She runs a counselling service for Aboriginal people. I don’t know why I am so nervous to meet her. She is a beautiful, powerful, and strong woman, inside and out. I want to be just like her. She tells me I already am.
Her workplace is right across the road from the beach. We spend a lot of my appointment times walking along the shore. She tells me she grew up in the same area as me, and she clearly remembers the racism she suffered at school. We talk a lot about grief. I can’t believe how similar her story is to mine. Somehow I feel stronger knowing her story.
Rosemary tells me about the Aboriginal Link Up service in the city. I make an appointment. My caseworker is another Aboriginal woman named Heather. She explains that there are hundreds of people like me, trying to find their Aboriginal mothers. She tells me that she was adopted from the same nursing home as me. Her story is so similar to mine. I’m finding it hard to believe all this is happening, after so long of not knowing who I am. I feel overwhelmed by it all.
I spend a lot of time with Rosemary and Heather. Sometimes I feel like a small puppy running after their heels.
Sixty Eight
The rehab staff help me rent a house in the beach suburb where I was born. The house has a sunroom, and fruit trees, and a vegetable patch in the back yard. Mum gives me Dad’s old ute for transport. I feel my independence returning, and it feels good. I celebrate my first year free from alcohol and drugs with my friends from the rehab centre and the NA meetings.
The house is across the road from some close friends of mine. They give me a puppy, a Red Heeler–Akita cross, and we name him Merlin. He looks like a little golden bear cub and is so cute. He sleeps on my bed, and I tell him all my secrets. I spend a lot of time with my friend Michaela across the road. We drink coffee together, op shop together, and on lazy days watch the weather channel. I spend a lot of time with her son Zak. He is my special little friend and teaches me to enjoy the simple, fun things in life. We share lots of laughter together.
What a wonderful surprise! Big Brother has tracked me down through the Nunga grapevine, through some of his cousins who also attend NA meetings. I haven’t seen him since my accident.
He asks to move in with me, and tells me about how he found his Aboriginal family a few years ago, weaving wonderful stories about the west coast, where his mother Pearlie lives on her homeland. He describes the nearby beaches, sand dunes, the fishing trips, the occasional family feud, and the drinking bouts with his siblings. I wonder what I will discover if I find my family.
Big Brother explains how finding his family helped heal the hole in his guts and strengthened his identity. But a new hole dug its way into his heart. His wife struggled to understand his journey to find his true self, so they eventually separated. He is worried sick that his connection with his three children will be lost.
Big Brother and I are an odd couple in many ways. He likes cleaning the house, while I fix the ute, collect firewood, and tidy the garden. Our friends across the road often tease us, but we don’t care.
Wrapped in blankets in front of the open fire we watch old video tapes of each of our weddings. Neither of us attended each other’s wedding. We laugh at the formality of his church wedding and the total casualness of my ceremony on the beach. We laugh till we cry at the efforts we made to fit into a society that wasn’t ours.
Other times we re-watch scenes with Mum and Dad in them. We treasure the knowledge that they never ceased the parental role they had devoted themselves to. I hope Mum will continue to be proud of me as I move closer to my true identity.
Big Brother and I seem to know each other’s thoughts. We pool our last few dollars to buy some takeaway, and then drive to the country for a surprise visit to Mum.
Sixty Nine
Big Brother and I argue about money and overdue rent. Eventually he moves out. I haven’t spoken to him for about four months when Mum knocks on my front door to tell me h
is ex-wife has died. Mum tells me it was suicide. She drives me to his new address.
As soon as we see each other we hug, and Big Brother begins to cry in my arms. Mum doesn’t know what to say, so she makes us a cup of tea. She can’t seem to deal with the idea of suicide. Some of Big Brother’s Aboriginal family arrive from the west coast. They are happy to meet Mum despite the sad occasion, and everyone treats her nicely, showing her respect.
Family, friendship, and respect are the only gifts we can give my brother at this time. He is so concerned for his children. When I ask Mum to drive me to the bottle shop, she is surprised but agrees. I just can’t face the politeness of another cup of tea. After a drink I start to feel more relaxed, but then one of Big Brother’s cousins arrives drunk and tries to chat me up. I react to his insensitivity, and when he doesn’t take no for an answer, I push him into the fence. Mum decides it is time to leave. I promise to call her the next day.
After the funeral Big Brother moves into his ex-wife’s house to be with his children. I think it is a crazy decision, but he doesn’t want to disrupt his children’s lives and routine any more than necessary. Eventually I manage to overcome my fear of ghosts and tortured souls and call around for a visit.
We are all lying on the mattresses watching TV when his youngest daughter asks me, ‘Aunty, have you got a boyfriend?’ I smile. ‘No,’ I reply.
‘Have you got a boyfriend?’ I ask. She giggles, ‘No, I haven’t.’
Big Brother says, ‘I haven’t got a boyfriend either.’ We all shriek with laughter.
Hesitate
I hesitate to tell you
I miss you
because I do
Every word you say
Every feeling thought
you share
I watch your body
Your face when you
sleep in my eyes
I hesitate to tell you
I love you
because I do
Seventy
Today is a very special day. Michaela is by my side. She continues to be a great support to me, and cooks me breakfast and helps me pack my suitcase. Two carloads of friends are accompanying me to the airport. Today is the day I will meet my mother.
Just as we are leaving the house, a friend from NA rings. She tells me she had a dream about me. She dreamt she was in a dark forest, watching as I transformed into an owl and flew above her. She watched the owl land in a patch of seven flowers. ‘Thanks,’ I said to her, as I ran out the door.
I feel so jittery. I can’t stop smiling at everyone I see. I don’t feel I can cope with all the emotions building inside me. But my friends keep me laughing with their mad sense of humour. I am so grateful for my friends, but I know that once I am on board the plane I am alone.
My restlessness is evident, and I am really craving a drink of bourbon to calm my nerves. But I don’t want to risk wrecking the day. I don’t trust myself to have a drink. I may not be able to stop, and I really don’t want to get drunk. So I fidget, and drink too much tea. I lose count of how many times I go to the loo.
Seventy One
After six long hours the plane finally arrives in Canberra. The other passengers jostle past me, rushing to get to their destination for the evening. My knees feel weak, and I have trouble breathing. I worry that our reunion isn’t going to be as special as I had imagined.
I walk across the airport terminal, and when I see her it is like walking up to a mirror image of my own self. There she stands before me. My mother! She is holding a bunch of gerberas and looks as nervous as I feel. She hands me the flowers, followed by a very gentle hug. I don’t think she is speaking. I am certainly speechless, staring at her. She has my eyes! As we wait at the carousel for my luggage I count the flowers. There are seven of them.
In the car I struggle to find the words I want to say, even though my mind is racing. The person beside me is a stranger, yet she is my mother. I stare out the window as we reach the freeway. She is a terrible driver. This time I am really lost for words. The tension inside the car is unbearable, but at least it is a short journey to her unit. And then she virtually just dumps me.
Sitting inside her lounge room she confesses that she has been incapable of telling anyone about me. She says she needs to visit her fiancé, to tell him the truth. She asks me to reiterate, to any of her friends that might drop by, that I am her niece. She says I probably need some quiet time by myself. How would she know? She’s only just met me. And we have barely spoken. She gives me a house key, says she is sorry, and drives away.
It feels strange to be alone in her house. I help myself to a long, hot shower and change my clothes before checking out the other rooms in the house. I stand inside her room, looking for clues to get to know her. I listen to her CD collection. I admire her collection of books. I find photographs of children. Suddenly I want to know everything about her.
Hours pass, and it gets late. My mother still hasn’t returned. I use her phone to call my friends. I don’t tell them she is not here.
Murri River
we cross into
another language group
we drive towards the river
dying slowly
there is no one to meet us
by the circle trees
we watch canoe trees
turn to ghosts
as the water reduces
to rust I wonder
will the serpent lose its rainbow
when the river runs dry?
Seventy Two
I have planned to spend two weeks getting to know my mother. In the morning I set the table and prepare breakfast. I am relieved when I hear her car pull into the driveway. I don’t mention the night before, and neither does she.
Over breakfast we begin to talk. She steers the conversation, wanting to know about my childhood and teenage years. I tell her about life on the farm. She tells me about her early years out bush, before the mission. I can’t believe that my son was conceived near where she was born. I can’t believe I lived years before on our traditional country. I can’t believe the old people along the railway line were my family.
She has decided to work during my stay, so I spend my days alone. I don’t mind the solitude. My mother lives in a quiet street with avenues of maples lining the footpaths. A huge tree grows in the front yard and is part of a beautiful garden. With the sun shining, I lean against its trunk and think about my two mothers.
I’m beginning to realise that my birth mum is an intelligent woman. She holds a senior position in the public service, and she is involved in politics, and is always reading the paper and following the news on television. She has talked about her position as Co-Chair of National Sorry Day and the work she does for reconciliation. I picture her mingling with politicians at Parliament House.
Her fiancé holds a senior position in the tax office where he has worked for most of his life. Before I met him I thought he would be boring and stiff, wearing a suit, but when I first meet him he is wearing jeans, is very friendly, and has an appealing dry sense of humour. Over dinner one night we talk about music and art, and Mum shows me some paintings from Maralinga and Ooldea, where she was born. It is easy to see they love each other. I can see it in their eyes.
Spending the evenings together Mum and I walk and talk. Sometimes we eat in, and sometimes we eat out. Often we sit quietly, glancing at one another, comparing the similarities. It is so strange getting to know someone that looks so much like me. My mother is a beautiful woman, even in middle age. I always thought I was ugly, but I decide that I can’t be if I look so much like her. Her dark hair highlights her brown face, especially when she smiles.
I begin to wonder if my son looks as much like me. I tell my mum about him. I tell her that he was conceived along the railway line where she was born.
It is hard to accept that my mum also grew up without her mother, and that she was separated from her sisters and brother. It is hard to accept that I repeated her history when I adopted out
my son. She shares her memories of when she gave me up for adoption, how empty and wrong she felt afterwards, and how she threw herself into her nursing career. I tell her I suffered the same feelings after I gave up my son, although I threw myself into taking risks, with heavy drinking and drugs.
Sharing our stories helps us feel closer to each other. We share a little champagne as we chat.
The impact of learning family stories is powerful. Each night I write in my journal, trying to capture my new family history. Poems appear at midnight, and I hasten to scribble them down. My mind seems to evolve from past confusions and doubts, and I feel a sense of healing by writing the words on the page. I understand the notion of forgiveness, and begin to release the guilt I have been holding inside me since walking out on my son.
Seventy Three
Too quickly our two weeks together have ended. Today I will fly back home. When I woke this morning, I felt trapped, as if I was locked in the body of a little girl. I feel worried that we may not see each other again. She reassures me—that will not happen. I ask if she minds me calling her Mum Audrey. We hug for a long time, and I cry and cry and cry.
In the car she hands me a collection of family photos, including photos of my brother and sister and grandmother. I am too happy to care about her bad driving. She chats about my brother and sister all the way to the airport.
My friend Michaela is waiting for me at the end of my flight. She laughs when she sees me. She says my feet weren’t touching the floor when I got off the plane, and she says that my face has changed. I sure feel different.
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