She Chose Me

by Tracey Emerson

  Whenever I mention this note, Costello brings up the other women, the false trails I have followed in pursuit of you. Gina Lockhead, William’s mum from the school playground. Gayle Robertson, my English Literature teacher. Something beginning with G. He asks if I could be mistaken about you, as I was about them.

  No, I tell him. You left that note so I could find you. The early newspaper articles about my abandonment say you must have wanted to be traced. Why else would you have signed the note with the first letter of your name? The police never found you though, despite months of investigation and several public appeals. In later news articles, the police suggested my mother might have used a false initial to fool them. They never realised you left that clue for me, not them.

  Dr Costello wants to know how I found you. I never go into details, but I did make the mistake of telling him about our first day out together at the Museum of Childhood—how sad you looked, how I sensed the big black hole inside you—and now he insists on discussing it in every session. He has a theory he keeps asking me to consider. Is it possible, he says, that you saw Grace Walker for the very first time in the museum that day? Is it possible that she was a stranger to you? That you were feeling lost and lonely and you saw her and heard her name and decided to choose her as your mother?

  Nothing I can say to that. He doesn’t understand and he never will.

  At the end of our sessions, we do a guided meditation. I lie on the black chaise longue by the window while Dr Costello tells me how to breathe. Inhale for four, exhale for four. He tells me to go to my safe place, the one we have been constructing together during these relaxations. A tranquil glade in a shady wood. Gurgling stream. Daisies at my feet.

  I don’t go there. Instead, while he murmurs instructions, I travel back to my real haven. I’ve often imagined the months I spent in your womb. Looked at pictures of developing babies so I could recreate them in my head as though they were memories.

  There I stay, happy and snug inside you. Bathed in warm, pink light. Floating at the end of our umbilical cord, like an astronaut tethered to a space shuttle.

  You are my safe place and I will never let you go.

  Your loving daughter,

  Cassie xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

  63

  Friday, 15 September 1995

  Royal Edinburgh Hospital

  In our final session today, Simon made it very clear I had to complete my course of medication after my release. I assured him I had every intention of doing so. No way do I want to end up in that state again.

  He asked if I was looking forward to getting back to normality. I nodded, but dread crept up on me. What if I left this place only to find her waiting? For a moment, I considered telling Simon the whole story, but I feared talking about her would only make her more real.

  She won’t be waiting. I know that. She will be with her foster mother until her new mother can legally claim her.

  Three days before my episode, I visited Fiona Braithwaite at her office near Leith Walk to sign the relinquishment papers. Now that six weeks had passed since the birth, I could officially give my permission for the adoption process to start. Despite the warm day I wore a baggy sweatshirt, conscious of the soft flesh and loose skin that dieting had not yet shifted from my middle.

  Fiona talked me through the paperwork, as helpful and supportive as she had been throughout the whole adoption process. After the birth, she’d respected my wish not to visit my daughter at her foster placement. She’d understood my need for distance.

  Before I signed the documents, Fiona told me a suitable couple had been found for my daughter. University educated—the wife worked in the arts, the husband in finance. I agreed they sounded perfect.

  My pen hovered over the papers. How was my daughter? I asked Fiona. Was she still healthy? Any problems? I’d asked her these questions many times and once again she reassured me my daughter was thriving.

  The first time I met Fiona, I expected her to bring up my failed termination. I’d imagined we would have to discuss it and decide what to tell the adoptive parents. When she didn’t mention it, I found myself unable to broach the subject. I’d assumed that at some point she would contact my consultant or midwife and ask for my medical history. Or that they would contact her. As time passed, I realised this hadn’t happened and possibly never would. I made a pact with myself—if my daughter was born in any way disabled, I would raise her myself. If she was born healthy, I would continue with the adoption and tell Fiona then.

  But as I scrawled my signature in the appropriate places, I knew I wouldn’t speak of it. Surely it would be better for my daughter and I to pretend it never happened? To wipe it from our pasts?

  I held myself together well, but as soon as I left Fiona’s office and stood on Leith Walk, I had the unsettling impression I’d entered a parallel universe. That another me had refused to sign the papers and was on her way to reclaim her daughter. A powerful feeling gripped me. A terrible certainty that this other me was the real version, whereas I was just a ghost.

  64

  Thursday, 24 March 2016

  A warm spring day. Blue sky unblemished by clouds and a gentle breeze that smells like the start of something new. I make my way down Forrest Road and into the University of Edinburgh’s George Square campus. Bristo Square is closed off, due to refurbishment work on the grand domed building of McEwan Hall. I head for George Square. The garden at the centre appears unchanged, but modern buildings have sprung up between the Georgian terraces.

  We used to come here, she and I. To wander round the square, to sit outside the library amongst the groups of chattering students. I wanted her to soak up the atmosphere of learning. How strange that this is where we will meet again.

  Reaching into the back pocket of my jeans, I pull out her photograph and study it. Fascinated by the flashes of me in her dark, shoulder-length hair and her height. Her wide, green eyes display none of her father’s coldness.

  Her name is Anna. A name I didn’t give her, and one I’m not used to yet.

  After putting the picture away, I enter the gardens and pick a bench with a clear view of the three-storey modern building at 50 George Square. Knots of students lounge on the grass around me, taking advantage of the good weather.

  I remove my black leather jacket and smooth out the creases in my khaki silk shirt; don’t want to turn up looking scruffy. Not much I can do with my hair though. After a few months of growth, it has reached that awkward in-between stage, forcing me to tuck it behind my ears.

  I check my watch. Nearly ten-thirty. Ages yet until I see her, but I couldn’t bear to wait in my hotel room. This morning, I’ve already walked along the Royal Mile, up the Bridges and into Southside in an effort to keep my nerves under control.

  My walk took me past my old flat. It looked much the same from the outside, apart from the new windows. After getting out of hospital, I only lived there another two weeks. I was supposed to stay in Edinburgh and attend an outpatient clinic, but I wanted to escape the city as soon as possible. Too many reminders of my daughter. I moved north to Perth, making sure Fiona Braithwaite had my contact details for when the adoptive parents made their court application in two months’ time. At that point, there would be more papers for me to sign, and after that, everything would be over. In Perth, I rented a cheap bedsit overlooking the River Tay and spent the next nine weeks working as a temp for Scottish Hydro. Long days filled with filing and data entry and evenings spent reading travel books about South East Asia and plotting my escape. I phoned Mum once a week, still pretending to be in Germany and promising to visit when the tour ended.

  I existed in a limbo, trying not to think about my daughter and where she might be. Honing the skills of denial that would keep her from me for so long.

  ***

  Half an hour passes. In my mind, I rehearse possible ways of approaching Anna. A pointless exercise. I am only here to look.

  I buy a green tea from a nearby kiosk and take it back to my bench. I
search the faces of the students sprawled on the grass, just in case she has skipped her tutorial. Or come out early, like she did almost two weeks before her due date, sending me rushing to hospital. During the agonising labour, I wondered if I’d caused her premature arrival? If she’d sensed my need to be free of her? Afterwards, I asked the midwife several times if my daughter would be okay. The midwife reassured me she was breathing on her own. No cause for alarm.

  I can’t resist taking her picture out again for another look. I’m sure there is something of Mum in her. Her nose perhaps?

  After Mum’s funeral, I moved from London to Brentham and lived in her house while I finished packing it up. I had no desire to return to the Capital School of English. I had some savings to live off and my inheritance would pay back any debts. I suppose staying in the house was a way of being close to Mum. I hired a small storage unit on a nearby industrial estate. That way, I could still hold on to some of my past for as long as I needed to.

  Sorting through her possessions brought back memories not just of Mum but also of Emma. The boxes we’d packed together, the smears of her mascara on one of Mum’s pillows. I closed all the curtains in the house at night, as if she might still be out there, spying on me.

  At first, I wasn’t sure what to do about Cassie. Shortly after I’d given the police my statement, PC King informed me Cassie had a history of mental health issues and obsessive behaviour. I couldn’t help feeling sympathy for the girl, despite everything she’d put me through. The investigation into the fire proved she’d acted quickly and competently to protect Mum’s life. I know I saw goodness in Emma, so it had to exist in Cassie too. There was still a chance for her, if she could take it. Mum would have wanted that.

  When I decided not to press charges, PC King passed on a letter from Cassie’s adoptive father, who thanked me for my understanding. He said he believed the recent death of his wife had prompted Cassie to fixate on me. He assured me Cassie would be in hospital for some time and wouldn’t bother me again. That doesn’t stop me looking over my shoulder when walking through town. That doesn’t prevent me from waking in the middle of the night soaked in sweat.

  A girl with long dark hair claims a nearby bench, and I lean forward for a closer look. She is not my daughter. I think of Cassie, watching me for all those months. I still don’t know where she found me, but I have considered why she chose me. The old me might have viewed her obsession as another punishment. Retribution for the past. Now I wonder if the secret I’d hidden for so long used Cassie as a path to liberation? Maybe we’d needed each other.

  ***

  11.40 a.m. Not long to go. My legs jiggle with nerves. I could go for another walk but can’t risk missing her. Earlier, during my visit to the Royal Mile, I passed the entrance to one of the dark passageways leading off it. An original Old Town close. I don’t remember which one I ended up in when I had my episode. I only know the police found me there, screaming and tearing at myself.

  I peered into the passageway but felt no compulsion to enter it. Nor did I feel any fear. That part of my past is over. My recent counselling sessions, courtesy of a therapist in Brentham called Eileen, have helped me come to terms with that day and put it in context. According to Eileen, all women possess the power both to create and destroy, a duality I couldn’t comprehend at the time.

  A duality my mother would never have accepted. After she died, amongst the rubble of my grief, I found an unexpected release. The shame I’d carried around with me for years began to shrink. Having forgiven my mother, I decided to forgive myself.

  My stomach flutters, reminding me of the first time my daughter moved inside me, that night in Dan and Stella’s bedroom. The urge for a cigarette takes hold, but I gave up a month ago. I fiddle with my puzzle ring in an attempt to distract myself. When this fails, I reach into my handbag and pull out a creased white envelope. Inside is the letter Anna sent me. No need to read it again; I know it off by heart.

  After Mum’s death, I couldn’t stop thinking about my daughter. Wondering if my absence from her life had left her as damaged as Cassie.

  With Fiona Braithwaite’s help, I contacted Adoption Search Services, an agency that, for a fee, would find my daughter and act as an intermediary between us. Before the process could begin, I had to obtain a replacement birth certificate. I don’t remember what happened to the original. Whether I lost it by accident or on purpose.

  While waiting to hear from the agency, I tried to compose a letter for them to give to my daughter. In the numerous drafts, I asked how she was doing. Was she happy? Settled? I assured her I didn’t wish to disrupt her life. Unless she wanted me to. Unless my actions had caused issues only I could resolve.

  When it came to explaining why I gave her up, my writing stalled. I didn’t want to tell her my reasons in a letter. Did that mean I should ask for us to meet? If she was desperate to find and meet me, surely she would have done so by now? If she had a copy of her birth certificate with my name on it, she could have traced me as I was trying to trace her. Then again, she might be too angry to initiate contact.

  And what if we met and she asked about her father? Shortly after Mum’s funeral, I e-mailed Dan and told him the truth about our daughter. I informed him of my intention to contact her and asked if he wanted to be involved, should she wish to meet her birth parents.

  His swift reply made his feelings clear: While I’m sorry to hear what happened to you, I cannot be part of it. In my mind, that child never happened, and I can’t change the way I feel about it. I have the family I want and beg you to keep me out of this.

  I agreed. Protecting our daughter from his lack of interest was the least I could do.

  ***

  Just before noon, the first students stream out of 50 George Square. I exit the park and hurry towards the main doors of the building, eyes scanning the bodies scattering to my left and right. What if she did skive off her tutorial? What if she’s sick or hungover? There are so many reasons why she might not be here, despite my best efforts to pinpoint a time and place. My online research identified 50 George Square as the location for the History department. I managed to access a student forum showing the timetable for her subject. Lectures Monday and Wednesday and tutorials on Thursday.

  Chatter fills the air around me. More students file out, but I can’t see Anna anywhere. A bad omen. I shouldn’t be here.

  The fish hook niggles at my guts. I look up, wary it might trick me again, but there she is. My daughter. Tight black jeans encase her long legs. Her green bomber jacket is open, revealing a black T-shirt. My lips part, her name ready on my tongue, but the envelope in my hand stops me just in time.

  Before I could finish a satisfactory version of my letter, Sandra from the agency phoned me. My daughter had replied to their initial contact and had written me a letter that Sandra promised to send on immediately.

  It arrived the next day by special delivery. Two pages of typed A4. Dear Grace. Thank you for contacting me. I’ve often wondered if you would one day. I was five years old when Mum and Dad told me I was adopted, so it’s something I’ve known for a long time.

  Mum and Dad. My tears started then and continued as I read on.

  My first name is Anna and my middle name is Lily.

  Lily. The name I gave her. The one on her birth certificate.

  She said she’d always believed I had her best interests at heart when I gave her up. Mum and Dad said you must have loved me a lot to be able to go through with it. She insisted that despite having some difficult moments, she didn’t hate me or have any negative feelings towards me. That’s why I think it’s best for me not to know any more about the past or for us to meet. I hope you understand. My family is wonderful and that’s more than enough for me.

  Relief overwhelmed me. I hadn’t ruined her life. Yet I found myself fighting for breath, winded by a rejection I hadn’t allowed myself to anticipate.

  My breathing is shallow now as she stands near me, chatting to a group of friends
. She joins them in hysterical laughter over some comment their tutor made.

  Her letter gave me a few details to cling to. She was in the second year of a history degree and hoped to go into academia. She had a boyfriend. She was happy. She looked happy in the photograph she’d enclosed with the letter. Happy and healthy. That night, while not sleeping, I lay it on the pillow beside me. The next morning, I contacted Sandra and asked her to tell Anna I was grateful for her letter and would respect her wishes for no further contact.

  Anna and her friends amble away. I follow them down a set of steps and onto a street of tenement buildings that house various university departments. They stop, and after a round of hugs the group splits apart, leaving Anna still talking to a girl in a green suede coat.

  Her letter should have been the end of it, but once I had her name and photograph, I couldn’t get her out of my head. Examining the picture for the hundredth time, I recognised the sooty stonework of the building in the background and the blue plaque attached to it. Squinting, I could just make out the white lettering of the logo for the University of Edinburgh.

  My daughter might have grown up in Edinburgh, I reasoned, but that didn’t mean she would be at university there. Unable to help myself, I did an Internet search: Anna Edinburgh University Facebook.

  I clicked on the first result—Anna Edinburgh Profiles Facebook. A long list of names accompanied by thumbnail pictures appeared. I trawled through the first page with no luck, but halfway down the second page I found her. Anna Mackenzie, The University of Edinburgh. I told myself to stop there, but of course I didn’t. I knew her name and where she studied and what she looked like. I convinced myself I needed to see her. Just once to confirm her happiness and to check she was telling me the truth. As the days passed, I tried to convince myself she’d sent the photograph on purpose, knowing it contained a clue to her whereabouts. What if she wanted to be found?