‘Do you actually know who my mum was? It’s your names on the original birth certificate.’ She held it up for them to see.
Connie and George shook their heads. ‘That’s not something we were ever told,’ George said.
‘That’s right,’ Connie said. ‘The authorities were strict about the details they gave to us. In fact, there were very few.’
George reached across and took Connie’s hand. He gazed at her for a long time before turning back to Lauren. ‘I believe any adoptee’s original birth certificate is sealed. You can request it from the proper authorities if your biological mother has put her name on the contact register. If she hasn’t, I’m not sure how much information they’ll give you.’
A deep sigh escaped Lauren as she stood up. She walked to the other side of the table and kissed both of their cheeks. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I love you both so much.’ Of course, she knew all the things her dad had just told her; she’d done a lot more research than she was prepared to tell them about. In fact, she had already written her letter to the Department of Child Protection. Dean had proofread it for her, and now she had it in her bag, ready to post after she left her parents’ house.
Connie reached up and patted Lauren’s hand. ‘We love you too, dear.’
George pushed back his chair and got up. ‘Do you know when you have to go in for your next appointment? Does Dean need any help with the children? All you have to do is call, and we’ll be right over. We’re not so old that we’re useless yet.’
Lauren smiled. ‘You’re both far from useless! And I’m scheduled for the next procedure on Tuesday,’ she said with a shiver. ‘At seven in the morning.’ She walked over to the window and stared out. Everything in the garden was the same as it had been when she’d visited last. Her world was in the process of being tipped upside down, while everything else seemed to stay the same.
‘I’m nervous,’ she finally admitted. She hadn’t said that out loud to anyone. Not even Dean. Lauren didn’t want to let anyone know how concerned and frightened she was. She’d told herself sternly that as far as anyone she loved needed to know, she wasn’t worried. Everything would be fine. But now, in the comfort of her parents’ presence, the truth had slipped out.
‘Your dermatologist seems to be very knowledgeable, and I’m sure she’ll have everything in hand,’ Connie said, but Lauren could see the pain in her face. Maybe she wasn’t the only one cracking hardy.
‘What happens after you’ve had the extra tissue removed?’ George asked.
‘I’ll have more tests. A CT scan. Hopefully they’ll find nothing.’
‘Exactly. Hopefully nothing,’ Connie said, determination in her voice.
Lauren nodded, smiling at her. If anyone could fix a problem through positive thinking, it was her mum.
In the car, Lauren slid the letter she’d written to the department from her handbag and read it one last time.
To whom it may concern,
My name is Lauren Connie Ramsey and I’m requesting information on my birth parents. Born at Subiaco Hospital on 12 May 1969, I was fostered to George and Connie Jenkins, of 32 Hunter Avenue, Gooseberry Hills, Western Australia, when I was three days old, until they adopted me twelve months later.
I have recently been diagnosed with a life-threatening illness and would like to know if there were any other cases of this disease in my birth family. I would also like to know more about my biological family’s history in general.
I’m undecided about whether I would like to meet any surviving biological relatives, but any information you have would be most gratefully received.
Lauren finished with every contact detail she had: phone, school fax, email and postal address. She’d even included a stamped self-addressed envelope.
After folding the letter neatly and sealing it in its envelope, she placed it on the seat next to her before backing out of her parents’ driveway and heading towards the nearest post box. In the flow of traffic, she came to a stop at a set of lights. As if on their own, her eyes were drawn back to the letter. Impulsively, she reached over, picked it up and gave it a kiss for good luck. As the lights turned green, she saw the man in the next lane over staring at her as if she was quite strange.
She kissed the letter once more before she carefully placed it in the post box.
Back in the car, her phone beeped and she remembered the text messages she’d received while talking to her parents. ‘Bugger, bugger, bugger,’ she muttered, picking up her phone. When she read the first two messages, anxiety shot through her. They were from Skye. The first was short and to the point: ‘Can you pick me up from the pool?’ The next one, ten minutes later, said: ‘Don’t worry, I’m obviously too much of an inconvenience for you, since you can’t be bothered answering.’
Dean just asked, ‘Hi honey, how’s your day going? Did you talk to your parents? What would you like for dinner? Thought I’d cook. xx’
Lauren dialled Skye’s number but wasn’t surprised when it went through to message bank. She left a short message: ‘Hi sweetheart, Mum here, sorry to have missed your text messages. I was with Nana and Papa, having an important conversation. Give me a call if you’re still at the pool, and I’ll come and pick you up.’ As she hung up, she realised that her words were wrong. In the sort of mood Skye was in, she’d take exception to ‘an important conversation’ being the reason Lauren hadn’t answered the phone.
Driving towards home, Lauren dialled the landline and listened to it ring out. Then she tried Stu, who picked up straight away. ‘Hi sweetie, just wondering if you’ve seen Skye?’
‘She was at the pool earlier, but I haven’t seen her since she left an hour or so ago. I’m leaving now, so I’ll be home in about half an hour.’ He paused. ‘What’s she done this time?’
Lauren let out a small laugh. ‘Nothing, Stu. Why do you assume that?’
‘Because I know her.’
‘I’ll see you at home.’ Lauren pressed the ‘end’ button. Trying the home phone again brought no answer, and she hit the steering wheel with the palm of her hand. Her body felt as though the world’s weight was pushing down on it.
She wanted to grab Skye and shake her. Of course teenagers were self-centred and thought the world revolved around them, but couldn’t Skye see that everyone in the family had been given a shock when the melanoma diagnosis had come through? It didn’t give her the right to behave as she was.
If the melanoma was in Lauren’s lymph nodes or had gone further, how would Skye take that news and how much further would her behaviour deteriorate?
The streetlight glow edged the curtains in Lauren’s bedroom and, once again, she was awake after the dream had assaulted her. This time it had been the old nightmare of being in the dark—still disturbing, but familiar. She reached for the air-conditioner remote to turn it off. It beeped softly and the low hum of its engine stopped.
Lauren got up and padded to the bathroom. As usual, she knew there wasn’t any point in going back to bed. Her thoughts were in overdrive.
That afternoon, she’d driven home only to find that Skye still wasn’t there—and she wasn’t answering her phone. Leaving Stu in the house in case she arrived back, Lauren and Dean had driven to all of Skye’s favourite haunts, checking clothes shops and fast food places. Lauren had suggested she go by herself so that Dean could enjoy a couple of hours watching the cricket with his mates, but he’d insisted on coming.
It was dark by the time they gave up their search and drove home. Lauren alternated between angry and extremely frightened, in two minds about whether to call the police. In her heart of hearts, she was sure that Skye would come home in her own time. But what if she didn’t?
‘She’s had a shock with your diagnosis,’ Dean said. ‘She needs to be in the fold of the family, not out somewhere stewing on it by herself. She wouldn’t talk about it when I tried to speak to her again this morning. I’ve tried and tried—’
‘So have I,’ Lauren interjected, then wondered i
f that was really true. She remembered sitting Skye down in the lounge room, but she’d still had one earbud in and refused to take it out. Lauren was sure she couldn’t concentrate like that, so she’d thrown her hands in the air and walked out.
‘We’re not getting through to her, babe,’ said Dean. ‘I’m quite worried.’
He ended up driving around their neighbourhood again later by himself. Finally, he found Skye only a few blocks from their street, walking home.
They tried to talk to her when she came home. Dean asked her to sit down, tell them what she was thinking.
‘My thoughts are private,’ Skye said. ‘That’s the one thing you can never know.’ She crossed her arms.
‘Sweetheart, we understand if you’re frightened or worried. We are too, but we’re a family and we need to stick together. For Mum, for all of us.’ Dean squatted down and looked her straight in the eye, while Lauren stood off to the side.
She couldn’t make herself go to her daughter, and she wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was Skye’s indifference or anger—surely they were masking fear, but they were so hard to deal with. Again, Lauren thought how unlike Skye this was. She wondered if there was more to it than the cancer. But what? It wasn’t as though Skye had anything to be worried about: she never needed or wanted for anything.
Now, tonight, somewhere in the back of her mind, a little thought jolted Lauren. Your attention, it said. She wants your attention. But Lauren dismissed it. Skye was getting plenty of that.
Lauren went downstairs and walked along the hall, stopping to look at the family photo that had been taken last Christmas. There was Skye with her long red hair hanging around her face, a wide smile and her arms slung around Lauren’s neck. Things were very different now. As Lauren gazed at the photo, she decided to ask Holly to recommend a colleague who specialised in teenagers and cancer.
Lauren glanced down to see her fists clenched. Not good. Not at five o’clock in the morning. She shook them out and took a few deep breaths to calm herself.
After she turned on the computer, her fingers hovered over the keyboard, wanting to type ‘melanoma’. What would Dr Google come up with? Timeframes? Symptoms? Holly was right, it was best not to do that. Lauren was sure it could only mess with her state of mind, and that was fragile enough as it was.
She wiped away the tears that had arrived from nowhere and leaned her head on the palm of her hand, thinking about the days ahead.
Tomorrow, she’d try to get some bed rest and read a good book. On Monday, she and Holly were finally meeting with Dirk’s mum. And on Tuesday morning, she’d be back at the hospital for surgery. Michelle had said it wouldn’t be tricky or hard, but it would make her arm a lot sorer than the previous procedure. She’d also explained that because she’d be taking out a bigger portion, the wound would take longer to heal and limit the use of Lauren’s arm for a couple of days. The stitches could come out in ten days, as long as everything went according to plan.
Straight after she’d finished with Michelle, Lauren would have her blood tests and CT scan. They’d know so much more then. In a way, Lauren was looking forward to it. She was sick of the uncertainty. As Michelle had said, having a plan was always the best thing.
Chapter 13
Over the weekend, when she wasn’t at work, Tamara watched TV alone in her motel room and tried not to think about the funeral.
On Monday morning she touched base with the temp who was running Angelic Threads in her absence. All sorted. She then spent even longer than usual getting ready. She applied makeup twice—the first time was less than perfect—then dressed in her pre-planned outfit and headed off.
When she arrived, all the parking in the churchyard had been taken. She was surprised that so many people had turned up to her dad’s funeral: she couldn’t remember him having many friends. Taking a side street, she finally found a space under a large gum tree, thankful for the shade. As she locked the car door, a breeze blew and rustled the leaves. A couple of dead ones floated down and landed on her car windscreen. A magpie warbled. She tucked her handbag underneath her arm and started to walk towards the church.
‘Tam?’
There was Craig, dressed in black jeans and a black shirt, standing on the footpath in front of the church. His beard was freshly trimmed and his hair was combed back into a neat ponytail. Sunglasses hid his eyes and his hands were shoved in his pockets.
She was so astounded to see him that she couldn’t speak. She had never told him when or where the funeral would take place.
‘I called around to find out the details,’ he said, by way of explanation. ‘I couldn’t let you go through this alone. Your dad was an arsehole, but that doesn’t make it any easier. I should know.’
Tamara nodded, overwhelmed. They walked side by side into the church.
Considering the number of cars outside, there were very few people sitting on the pews. Angela was in the front row by herself, her shoulders back, staring straight ahead. Unmoving. Tamara’s conscience twinged: maybe it would have been better if she’d sat with Angela. Whether she liked it or not, Evan was her father, and her mother was now a widow. Which left Tamara as Angela’s only living relative—life would be lonely for her now.
But it was too late to sit at the front, Tamara decided, as music began to filter from above. The service would start soon.
Craig let her go into a pew first before following her. They were right at the back of the church.
Tamara scanned for the source of the music: small speakers had been screwed into the ceiling. Next to them a fan spun lazily, shifting the humid air. Filtered light shone in beams through the stained-glass windows, and the few people sitting in front of them fanned themselves with the Order of Service. At the front, on a trolley, lay a coffin with a wreath of yellow and pink roses sitting on top, along with a photo of her father. Tamara sucked in a sharp breath as she looked at the picture.
Evan had aged badly. His wispy grey hair was brushed in strands across the top of his skull, and his eyes stared at the camera with a weepy, dull expression. The skin under his eyes sagged so that his whole face appeared to droop. If she’d been a betting woman, Tamara would have wagered a whole week’s pay that this was the only photo Angela had of him as an older man. He’d never been one to have photos in the house and despised any being taken.
Angela hadn’t mentioned how he’d died, Tamara suddenly realised. In the shock of her mother’s reappearance, Tam had never even thought to ask. Had he been sick? That would certainly explain the pallor of his skin.
The minister’s silky robe rustled as he walked past, indicating the start of the service. ‘Welcome, everyone, to this celebration of the life of Evan Thompson. It is customary to come before God and pray for the souls of our loved ones . . .’
The sound of his voice faded into nothingness. Tamara could feel Craig’s leg against hers and hear the rustle of paper. Someone coughed and the fan whirled.
What she heard the loudest was her dad’s voice in her head: ‘Clean that room of yours. It’s a pigsty.’ ‘Don’t answer back!’ ‘Do as I say, or else.’
A burst of music made Tamara jump. Craig gently pushed his leg into hers to remind her he was there. It was over.
The funeral directors moved to the doorway, pushing the trolley with the coffin on top. Angela followed slowly, her head cast down, a handkerchief clutched in one hand. As she arrived at the end of Tamara’s aisle, their eyes locked. The relief and emotion that crossed Angela’s face made Tamara swallow hard. A lump appeared in her throat that made it difficult to breathe.
The cobbled stone courtyard at the back of the church had a large wisteria vine growing up through the pavers and a wall of graffiti. There were tables covered in white cloths and plates of sandwiches set out.
‘Nice spread,’ Craig said as he helped himself to a ham sandwich and glanced around. ‘Pretty cool place for a church too.’
Tamara stood next to him, her high heels beginning to make her legs ache. In the sh
op, she always wore a medium height heel, not her extra-tall formal black shoes. Shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other, she decided that enough was enough. She’d done her duty.
Duty? Is that what it was?
Remember the secret birthday party? the Tam prompted. She tried to love you.
Not very fucking well, the Tamperer responded.
You need closure, the Tam argued. That’s what Doctor Kerr would say.
The funeral was enough closure, said the Tamperer. Done and dusted.
‘Come on.’ Tamara took the empty plate from Craig’s hand and put it on the table. ‘Time to go.’
‘You haven’t talked to your mum,’ he said around a mouthful.
‘I don’t need to. She saw me as they walked out, so she knows I was here. I didn’t come to be the prodigal daughter.’ After taking a few steps towards the door, she stopped and waited until Craig caught up.
‘Tamara?’
Her stomach dropped as she saw Angela in the doorway.
‘Tamara, I’m so glad you’ve come.’ Angela didn’t move forward, but extended her hands towards her daughter.
Not knowing what to do, Tamara glanced at Craig, but he had faded into the background and was now talking with another mourner, his back to her.
Bugger him, she thought. He’s done that on purpose.
She gave her mother an awkward smile. ‘Thought I should.’ She shrugged. ‘No big deal.’
‘It is to me.’ Uncertainty crossed her mum’s face. ‘Who are you with?’ she asked, gesturing towards Craig.
‘Just a friend.’ Tamara’s tone invited no further questions.
‘Oh.’ Angela looked down at her hands, her fingers twisting together.
‘Sorry about, uh—’ What should she call him? He hadn’t been ‘Dad’ to her for years. Still, that’s what he was. ‘Sorry about Dad. Had he been sick?’
Angela nodded. ‘On and off. Trouble with his kidneys. But in the end he went to sleep one night and didn’t wake up. In one way it was expected, and in another it was a very big shock.’
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