by Eve Smith
I’d like to say that I made my decision on moral grounds. I’d like to say it seemed the right thing to do. These were factors, of course they were.
But the real reason was, if I didn’t say yes, I probably wouldn’t ever see him again.
CHAPTER 12
KATE
I tap my pen against my cheek, scroll through yet another profile. There must be dozens of Mary Sommers cluttering my screen. I swore I wouldn’t, but here I am, doing exactly what the guidance tells you not to: flitting through random pages of women who almost certainly are not my birth mother. They grin at me, these women, teeth bared; some have grey hair, some brown, some curly red. A few are suited and stern, dressed to impress; others look half-cut, lipstick smeared across their mouths. I know this is crazy, but something inside me has stirred. Like a small, wild creature, it gnaws at me, sends irrational thoughts scampering through my head.
I’ve set my filters for the decade after I was born. I figure if I’m going to find anything, better go pre-Crisis. No death has been registered, so, according to the records, she’s definitely still alive. She’d have been fighting her way up the career ladder back then, assuming she had one. Falling in love. Maybe starting a family. One she wanted to keep.
I click on another profile. A busty brunette smoulders astride a stool, cerise shirt splayed, advertising her ample cleavage. I am shocked at how much people used to reveal of themselves and their lives. All those intimate photos of parties and pets. I have to keep reminding myself that this was the time of plenty, for the West at least: everyone whooping it up like revellers on the Titanic, oblivious to the silent cooperation of microbes. Reading it now makes me feel quite nauseous. Like the morning after a heavy night.
The doorbell rings, making me start. I close the laptop and cast a critical eye over the room, even though I’ve dusted every object and surface at least twice. I spot the recycling box in the hallway and tuck last night’s wine bottle under a carton of juice. It feels as if I’m about to take an exam. Why am I so nervous? This is about her, not me. That’s what I keep telling myself.
I smooth my hand over my skirt, take a deep breath and open the door. On my doorstep is a woman in a mottled-green raincoat with dyed-blonde hair and designer glasses. Her face erupts in a smile.
‘Hello. Kate, I presume?’ She holds up her hand. She looks my age, but could be younger. ‘I’m Janet. From the agency.’
I swallow and raise my palm.
‘You’ll be wanting to check this.’ She flashes her medi-profile dashboard. Verified this morning: a blaze of green. ‘I’m good to go.’
‘Thank you. Please, come in.’
I notice the scruffy leather briefcase clutched in her palm and try not to think about how many germs it’s culturing. As she walks past, I catch a trail of scent: one of those cheap, flowery ones they sell in the chemists.
‘Lovely place you’ve got here.’ She clocks the photos in the hallway, the framed prints. Taking everything in.
‘Thanks,’ I say, trying not to mind. She’s the professional here now, not me. ‘You found me OK, then?’
‘Oh yes. Your directions were spot on.’
I lead her into the sitting room. ‘Please. Take a seat.’
‘Thank you.’ She lifts her briefcase in both hands and places it carefully on the table between us, like a baby being settled in its cot. She takes out a small notebook. I notice her roots are starting to show: a furrow of brown across blonde.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ My eyes linger on the case.
‘Just a glass of water, please.’
I fetch us both one. She takes a couple of sips, sits back and smiles. I’m about to suggest we get started when she takes a breath.
‘So, Kate. You probably want to understand what my role is in all this.’ She nods at me. ‘I’m your caseworker. I’m here to help you and your family. To provide you with whatever support you need during this process.’
I manage a small smile. I wonder how many times a week she says that.
‘It’s very important you take your time over this. That you’re clear about why you want to find your birth mother.’ She runs a chipped pearlescent nail along the spine of her book. ‘Is there a reason why you’ve waited until now?’
She’s studying me closely, but I’ve got my work face on. I don’t answer. I’m still deciding how much to say.
‘I understand your mother passed away quite recently.’
Our eyes meet. Someone’s been busy with their own research.
‘I’m very sorry for your loss.’ She pauses. ‘We find that it’s quite common for adopted children to approach us after their adoptive parents pass on.’
Pass on. Pass away. I wonder how many more of these euphemisms she’s going to use.
‘Some people feel that making that first step is somehow … easier. That it removes any issues they might have about loyalty.’
My throat tightens. She’s tiptoeing around the sinkholes. I should say something, make it easier for her.
‘Have you thought about what you actually want to achieve through this process, Kate? Are you looking for answers?’ Her small eyes blink at me. ‘Do you want to develop an ongoing relationship with your birth mother?’
I take a breath and dive in. ‘The truth is, I’m not sure. My parents told me I was adopted when I was ten. It didn’t bother me then, it never has. They’re the only parents I ever knew, and I couldn’t have wished for better.’ I’m gabbling; I need to slow it down. ‘But when my mum got ill … when things started to deteriorate, well…’ I squeeze my fingers. ‘She was the one who suggested it, not me.’
Janet nods, her eyebrows knitted with concern. ‘And how did that make you feel?’
I shift in my seat and swallow. It’s not much fun being this side of the couch.
‘I don’t know. Sad, I guess. A little conflicted.’
She does more nodding. ‘Of course. That’s entirely normal.’
I suppress a sigh. I’m beginning to see how irritating conversations like this must be for my patients’ families.
She wets her lips. ‘I have to warn you that a search can be a slow and frustrating process. While a lot of information is in the public domain, a lot was lost during the Crisis. There are no guarantees you’ll find your birth mother. And even if you do, there’s a risk she may not respond. As you’re aware, she’s quite elderly now; she might not be in the best of health.’
Janet waits for a reaction. I manage a brittle smile.
‘Then again, many families do find each other. And, eventually, some meet. But even then, not everyone likes what they find.’
Is she trying to put me off? Or is this some kind of risk-management exercise in case it all goes tits up?
‘Of course,’ she continues, ‘I realise in your profession you’re used to dealing with challenging situations. But from my own experience, I can tell you, it doesn’t make it any easier when you’re the one in the frame.’
What she doesn’t realise is that I’ve already been through the scenarios. Violence, drugs, alcohol. Mental illness, religion. It’s the not knowing that’s killing me.
She gives me another of her smiles. ‘That’s why I’m here. To help you think through the implications, not just for you, but for your whole family. Because this is going to affect them too.’
My heart skips a little as I think of Sasha. I’ve boxed that one off. For now.
‘But, before we go any further, Kate, there is something I need to tell you.’
I glance up. The smile has faltered. Her pearly nails tap the page.
‘Quite soon after your adoption, the laws changed to make it easier for adopted children and birth parents to find each other. The Adoption Contact Register was set up.’ Her eyes flick to the case. ‘Your birth mother emailed the register, during the Crisis.’ She pauses. ‘She made a request for no contact.’
My palms press into my thighs. My face has just about held, but if she’s any good, she’ll have noti
ced.
‘I know this must be upsetting for you, Kate.’ Janet’s eyes brim with sympathy. ‘But giving up a child for adoption is an incredibly complex decision. Sometimes, there are situations … pressures, which prevent mothers from revealing their true motives. That compel them to protect their privacy.’
It’s true, then. She really didn’t want me. I have a sudden urge to snatch the case off the table. Rip it open.
Janet leans closer. ‘As I’m sure you’re aware, life was very different. Before the Crisis.’
‘Yes. I was there.’
I push myself up. This was a mistake: I knew it. ‘So, I guess that’s it, then.’ I want this woman out of my house.
‘No, Kate. It’s not. Not unless you want it to be.’ Her hand moves to the case. ‘No one can stop you searching, if you still want to. I have your original adoption records with me, and you’re entitled to see them.’ The buckles on the case snap open. ‘All this means is that our agency can’t pass on any personal information that might assist you in locating your birth mother.’
I stand there, frozen. Unable to decide.
‘Please, Kate.’ She pats the seat beside her. ‘You’ve come this far. Won’t you sit down?’
She gazes up at me, and I notice the lines around her eyes. I shouldn’t take it out on her. She’s only doing her job.
I slump into the chair. It makes a noise like it’s been winded.
Janet takes out a blue plastic wallet that looks ominously thin. She removes two sheets of paper. ‘Would you like me to leave you alone, for a little while?’
I shake my head. ‘That’s not necessary.’ My voice sounds arid, parched. I take the pages from her. I try to hold them still as my eyes pick over loops of black ink.
Mother was working abroad …
… living alone …
… no relationship with the father …
I put the papers face down on the table. In the garden, three sparrows are clamped to the birdfeeder, chucking out the bits they don’t want onto the grass.
I squeeze my palms together.
The mother does not feel able to support her child.
That’s all I amounted to. Just that one statement. No booze problem or heroin habit. No bruises or nervous breakdown. My adoption appears to have been quite a simple transaction: less than two sides of A4.
‘I realise how difficult this is, Kate,’ says Janet, her doe eyes boring into me. ‘It can feel very clinical, just reading the bare facts like that. Particularly when there isn’t a lot of information.’
‘It’s fine,’ I say, forcing some levity into my words. Tears threaten and I furiously blink them back. ‘I wasn’t expecting War and Peace.’ My quip jars like a drunkard in church.
Janet touches my arm. ‘Just because her reasons aren’t recorded in that file doesn’t mean your mother didn’t agonise over her decision. There could be all kinds of circumstances, which had nothing to do with her feelings for you…’
She carries on in her soft, consoling voice, but I’m no longer listening. I don’t want sympathy or sanitary excuses. I am besieged by a whirl of emotions, each vying for my attention. If I meant that little, then why bother? If all I’m going to find at the end of this is a woman who couldn’t care less, then what’s the point?
Janet is still blathering on about agencies and intermediaries as my thoughts begin to settle, solidify, like milk in a churn.
Honi soit qui mal y pense…
My jaw stiffens. And I make the call.
I don’t give a stuff about your privacy, Mary Sommers. You’re my mother.
I’m going to do whatever it takes to track you down.
CHAPTER 13
LILY
‘Miss Alice de Rothschild was passionate about the manor’s spectacular gardens and was always seen with a weeding tool in hand…’
My tablet sags in my lap. I recognise the words but they’ve lost their meaning; they’re just a stream of letters floating past my eyes. I’d actually been looking forward to this trip until yesterday. The gardens are very well stocked. But now the shadow of that news cutting taints everything. Whoever left it must be close. Close enough to try again.
‘Are we leaving soon?’ I ask Anne on her way past. I’m sweating like a horse in this cashmere. We’re all kitted out in our posh clothes, the ones they don’t let us wear very often because they’re difficult to clean.
‘In a few minutes,’ she says, which is what she said half an hour ago. She looks like she’s sweating too.
Behind me there’s a queue of wheelchairs and behind them are the semi-mobile ones, hunched over frames and walking sticks, all lined up like decrepit cars on the start grid. Only this race takes hours to get going. Any respite from here is good, but it’s always the same, these interminable waits. Not that we get many outings these days. Most places won’t take groups our age, and those that do charge a pretty penny, what with all the infection controls, and the insurance. Even so, lots of residents, like Jean, refuse to go. All it takes is one dirty surface. One scratch or sneeze. We aren’t visitors anymore, we are targets. Targets for contagion.
I scroll down another page, try to focus on the flowers. There’s no mistaking Gazania rigens. Definitely a Strelitzia, possibly the reginae. Which Canna is it, though? As I rake through the possibilities a news alert flashes up on my screen.
‘World’s Oldest Person Dies’.
My skin prickles. There are gasps behind and a growing murmur, as if someone’s just poked a stick into a hive.
‘Australian Diane Seymour died peacefully in her bed at 2.21 this morning, aged ninety-four years, seven months and fifteen days. Her son, Michael, told reporters that she had been suffering from pneumonia for some time.’
My body sinks deeper into the chair. It can only be a matter of months since she took up the mantle; the record keeps dropping every year. I remember when they predicted that everyone would live to a hundred. When the Queen needed a whole team of people to help send out her royal congratulations. This king hasn’t sent one.
‘Have you seen this?’ I say to Anne. Every resident is pinned to their screen.
The corners of her mouth fold in. ‘Pam just told me. So sad.’
Someone muffles a sob. None of us knows this woman from Eve, but we still mourn her. As if her death somehow brings all of ours closer.
The news feed switches to a live link inside a hospital for the elderly. A woman in a suit steps up to a podium and leans into the microphone. ‘As Diane’s family are still coming to terms with their loss, Diane’s son, Michael, has asked me to say a few words on the family’s behalf.’
She unfolds a piece of paper and clears her throat.
‘Our family would like to express their thanks to all the people who have sent such comforting messages of support. Their kindness is much appreciated during this difficult time.’
About twenty cameras fire off rounds of flashes. Somehow, she manages not to blink.
‘Our mother, Diane, was an amazing woman. Selfless. Stoic. And kind. We are lucky to have had her in our lives and in the lives of our children for so many years.’ She swallows. ‘We know that we have enjoyed more time with her than most families get to spend together. But it does not make her loss any less grievous.’ She looks straight at the cameras. ‘Had she been permitted one course of antibiotics, she would still be alive today. Her death was completely avoidable. I speak for my mother and for all of us when I say: it is time we put an end to this heinous policy.’
The screen flares with light as the room erupts, the reporters shouting over each other. The woman steps off the podium.
Well. Good on you, Michael. Things are seriously going to kick off now.
Sure enough, reports stream in of crowds already gathering in Sydney and Adelaide, waving their placards and white flags. I click on a photo. A drugs company’s name has been scrawled across a sheet in dripping red letters. Another banner has an elderly woman’s face, with the slogan: Your Turn Next. She loo
ks vaguely familiar. It’s the Australian prime minister. Well, a version of her. Someone’s done a bit of Photoshopping: quite effective, really. I hope they do one of ours. This should certainly step up the anniversary protests.
Another alert jumps onto the screen:
‘Diane Seymour Assisted with Death, Source Reveals’.
Pictures start flooding in of hordes of protestors outside the hospital gates. One group appear to be wearing surgical coats and masks: they’re brandishing some sort of stick. At their feet are sprawled rows of men and women, face down on the pavement. I enlarge the picture. The banner reads: Murdered at 94. Repeal the Devil’s Act.
The Devil’s Act: that’s what the pro-lifers call the Assisted Dying Act. And I see I was mistaken. The protestors aren’t holding sticks. They’re scythes.
Anne peers over my shoulder and frowns. ‘Goodness me.’
I shake my head. ‘What a circus. I’ll bet they set the whole thing up before the poor woman even died.’
The images switch to Diane Seymour’s home: a small white bungalow with a picket fence and a magnificent Jacaranda mimosifolia with indigo flowers. Campaigners jostle outside with news teams, making the fence quiver.
Choice in Life Not Death.
Kill Pain Not Patients.
Stop Doctor Deaths.
Anne tuts. ‘They shouldn’t harass the poor family like that. They’re in mourning. And it was her right to choose.’
Some choice, I think. ‘People like having someone to blame.’
Anne sighs. ‘Won’t be long before the unrest spreads. It’s already going off in Asia. Mark my words, we’ll be next.’
I think about what Graham said. Whether any of it will make the slightest difference. But, right now, I have more pressing concerns close to home. I close the screen and return to the safety of flowers.
Mrs Downing marches up, looking rather flushed. Her spectacles are slightly askew. ‘Right, then,’ she says to Anne. ‘I think we’re there. I’ll take the meds box if you start loading them on.’