The Mistake

by Wendy James

  Hannah realises she should be able to discuss her concerns with her parents sensibly, responsibly, calmly – adult to adult. She’s sixteen, after all. But sixteen or not, she can feel her uncontained toddler self – a self she had thought banished years back – re-emerging; a tantrum – all those inarticulable emotions seething and churning – erupting. She feels her eyes prickling with angry tears, sucks her bottom lip in, then bites down on it hard. She can feel her hands turn to fists, her nails sharp against her palms. She pushes harder, waiting for the piercing, the pain, trying hard to contain, or at least rechannel, her fury. But her anger has taken on a life of its own, until somehow it’s no longer hers to check.

  ‘This is so fucked.’ She hisses the words, looking up and beyond her parents. She can sense their paralysed concern, and their inaction puzzles her, and enrages her further – it’s almost as if this is exactly what they expected, that they’ve steeled themselves against it, have already prepared themselves for her fury. ‘You have just fucked everything. My entire life. This will be … Everyone – everyone will know! Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Any idea at all?’ Her voice comes louder, the rage swelling in her chest like a wave; she can feel it pushing and pounding and expanding inside her, almost breaking through her skin. ‘You’re so fucking clueless. How could you have done this? I knew there was something going on – back in Sydney, that thing with the nurse.’ And then the red-hot question: ‘Why the fuck couldn’t you just do the normal thing, the usual thing, Mum – you know, what anyone with half a brain would do. Why the fuck didn’t you just have an abortion?’

  ‘Hannah, I —’ Her mother is silenced by a look from her father.

  Hannah sees nothing beyond the red that’s coursing behind her eyes. She reaches for the antique cut-glass lamp that’s standing on a nearby table, feels the terrible inevitability, the necessity of her action, of what she’s about to do. Her parents watch her, but remain mutely immobile. It’s as if they’re waiting for her to act, stunned into acquiescence. Hannah picks up the lamp, the square marble base cold to her touch; feels the solid weight of it heavy, heavy, heavy in her hand, then throws it swiftly and precisely, a metre to the left of her mother’s head. The lamp hits the wall base-first with a heavy thud, the crystal shattering, spraying around the room. Her father moves towards her, takes her, sobbing now with distress and fright, in his arms, but her mother just sits there, as Hannah had known she would, impassive, unresisting. Unreachable.

  The Australian, Sydney Morning Herald, Daily Telegraph, The Age, Courier-Mail, Adelaide Advertiser, West Australian, The Land, Women’s Weekly, New Idea, Woman’s Day, Who Weekly, etc. etc. etc.

  Substantial reward offered for any information on the past and/or present whereabouts of the child formerly known as ELSA MARY EVANS, born 18th December, 1986, Belfield Hospital. Please contact Peter Silvers at Silvers Wood and Watson, Arding. (02) 6777 2331 or email p.silvers@sww.com.au

  10

  She is in the ensuite bathroom, cleaning her teeth before bed, when Angus tells her – without any preamble – that he’d had a call from Don earlier in the evening. He is busy folding his clothes away in the walk-in wardrobe, has called out the news to her casually, in a by-the-way manner that she knows can’t possibly be genuine.

  Six weeks have passed since the arrival of Debbie’s letter; the notices were sent out a month ago. Don Phillips, the local police inspector and Angus’s mate, has counselled them to bide their time, to do nothing precipitate. He had predicted the time lag, almost to the day. ‘It’ll take some time,’ he’d told Angus over a round of golf. ‘I’m guessing a month, minimum, to ascertain firstly that your nurse friend isn’t leading them up the garden path, though they’ll pick up on those ads, the media attention. And then they’ll need more time to establish that there’s some sort of case worth pursuing. But if there is a missing child – even if that child went missing twenty-odd years ago – there will be an investigation.’

  Now, with an instant appreciation of the meaning of this evening’s call, Jodie feels her stomach lurch; she retches as she spits out the toothpaste. ‘And what did he say?’ Her voice is calm, doesn’t hint at her agitation.

  ‘It’s what we expected, Jodie.’ Angus is reclining on the bed, now, his pyjamaed legs stretched out on top of the covers, arms crossed behind his head, still determinedly nonchalant. ‘The missing person’s unit has begun an investigation. They’re sending some detective up to talk to you tomorrow. He said that ordinarily they’d get you down to the station for questioning, but that out of respect to me, and to try and head off the press, they’re willing to talk to you here. He’d have preferred to handle the initial questioning himself, but they’re sending this young gun detective up and while he’s agreed to come here, he won’t make any other compromises. They’ll be here in the morning.’

  She moves towards the bed, sits down beside him, casts about for a suitable response. ‘I guess we need to keep it quiet, do we? The police visit, I mean.’ He shakes his head – out of bewilderment at her odd response or in an attempt to clear his head, Jodie can’t tell.

  ‘Jodes. Jodie. You don’t seem to understand the ramifications. This could be huge. At the very least this could destroy your reputation – and by extension my reputation, my career. We could lose everything. If they don’t locate this – your child – the question will be open; you’ll have it hanging over you forever.’

  Suddenly Jodie wants him to say it, to say the word, is sick of the silly game of evasion they’ve both been playing – the continual ducking and weaving around the truth. ‘What question? What question, Angus?’

  Angus looks dismayed momentarily – it is impossible to miss the bitterness of her appeal, the underlying anger. But he recovers quickly, takes her hand, waits a long moment before speaking. His voice is low and gentle, as if he really believes she doesn’t know the answer: ‘The question of whether you killed that baby, Jodie, of whether you murdered your own child.’

  Don and the sharply dressed Sydney detective arrive punctually at the specified time. They bring along a local female officer who Jodie has seen now and then around town, always accompanied by a clutch of fractious toddlers. The young woman usually looks tired, harassed, with that slightly stunned look that’s habitual to women with very young children. But here, official, in her police uniform, she is a different person: poised, cool, collected, her expression unreadable – and it is Jodie who is floundering, out of her depth.

  They have come to the house, the Inspector explains, only because Angus has made a fuss – ordinarily they would have asked Jodie to come to the station. She wonders for a moment why he is explaining this so carefully – she had assumed that as friends this courtesy was only to be expected – and then realises that it is for the benefit of the younger detective, who shrugs and gives a complacent smile.

  She asks – good hostess that she is – whether they would like tea, coffee, but the Sydney detective makes it very clear with icy formality that – whatever the normal social procedure of his country colleagues – this is an official visit and no sustenance will be required.

  They sit in the lounge room – Angus determinedly guiding the officers to the three-seater, while he and Jodie sit in the single chairs opposite, Jodie on the edge of her seat, her hands arranged in her lap, ankles crossed, like a child awaiting a scolding. An odd numbness engulfs her, descending like the cone of silence in Get Smart and extinguishing the sick heat of humiliation and terror that has been burning furiously all through the night. Her panic recedes and everything is muffled; there’s a muted buzzing, like white noise, in her head. She feels – as she has so often of late – merely flat, empty, and utterly disconnected. She knows she won’t be able to make even the slightest effort to thwart the intentions of those around her, that she must let whatever is about to happen, happen.

  She watches with vague curiosity the way that Don – a man who she has known for years, who has visited their home for dinner, whose wife ha
s been on the Grammar fete committee with Jodie, whose son plays on Tom’s cricket team – scratches at the side of his nose when he is uncomfortable, as he obviously is now. He clears his throat – rather phlegmily, she observes with faint distaste – and makes an awkward start to the conversation.

  ‘Well, thanks for this, Angus, Jodie. We should get down to business, then. I’ll hand you over to DS O’Rooke here. He’s going to conduct the, erm … Ask some preliminary questions. I’m just here as a courtesy.’

  Angus raises his eyebrows in a way she is familiar with, and has always found intimidating when directed at her. ‘But this is just an informal discussion, isn’t it, Don? I don’t need to get a lawyer, do I?’

  Her husband’s voice is cold and hard, and she wonders that the other men don’t flinch. But of course, this is a game they’re all used to – the power play between legal adversaries means nothing personal to them. Tonight they will go to their respective homes, and forget all about the personas they have assumed, the people they’ve attacked or defended. Her life will just be a professional problem to be solved, at best. At worst, it will be gossip to be spread about the town.

  The Inspector meets Angus’s eye coolly. ‘Senior Constable Scanlon here will take notes, of course, but no, it’s not a formal interview. This has all come from Sydney, Angus. It’s out of my hands. But,’ he says, turning to the Sydney detective, ‘Jodie – Mrs Garrow – doesn’t need her lawyer present, does she?’

  O’Rooke frowns down at his notes. ‘I understand that you are a lawyer, sir?’

  ‘I am, yes. But naturally, I wouldn’t be representing my wife, and this sort of business is not my area of expertise. However, if this is a formal interview I can have someone here in five minutes. But my wife won’t be saying a word until then.’

  O’Rooke looks up from his papers and smiles. His smile is brief, cursory – more like a wolfish baring of fangs.

  ‘That won’t be necessary, Mr Garrow. This is only a preliminary questioning. What we’re really interested in at this point is finding out where the child – where the young woman, Mrs Garrow’s daughter – is now. We can’t proceed any further until we’ve established whether there is indeed any sort of case to answer.’

  ‘What do you mean – a case? I assumed this was just a fact-finding mission. A case would presuppose a crime, and all we’ve got here is an adoption. And even if the adoption wasn’t done strictly according to the law, so much time has passed – surely it’s all a bit pointless.’ A glare from Angus, bypassing O’Rooke, directed at Don. Jodie notices the female officer give a slight smirk, which is quickly smothered.

  ‘Well, sir. It’s not quite that simple, is it? It’s a little more than just an adoption, as I’m sure you’re aware. It involved the sale of a child, which is a criminal offence. And as I’m sure you’re also aware, there’s no statute of limitations on criminal cases. But you’re correct – that was just a figure of speech; there is no formal case. Not yet.’ That brief display of teeth again and this time Jodie can feel a snarl of tension, like a low growl just below her range of hearing, between the two men.

  ‘Perhaps sir, we could, if you’ll allow me, just go over the facts.’

  ‘Go ahead.’ Angus folds his arms; leans back easily in his chair. ‘The facts – that sounds like a sensible place to start.’

  ‘Mrs Garrow,’ the detective begins, ‘it is our understanding that you gave birth to a baby girl, Elsa Mary, on the 18th of December 1986.’

  And it goes on, through her stay at the hospital, and then to the date of her discharge, the lack of any subsequent official registration of the birth, the absence of any record of adoption through the official routes, the legal – he emphasises the word slightly – channels. The lack of proper documentation – no birth entry, no Medicare registration – pertaining to the child Elsa Mary beyond the indisputable fact of her birth – a fact that is clearly verified by the hospital records.

  There are no surprises, nothing that she, that they, did not expect. The man relates the facts emotionlessly, asks Jodie frequently whether this or that detail is correct, encourages her to intervene if any fact is untrue or unclear, but doesn’t ask her to expand. The DS is as straightforward, as lacking in emotion as Peter had been and Jodie knows that she too sounds calm, composed, her answers unhurried, precise, her demeanour unruffled. On the face of it, they could be talking about someone else completely, could be talking about anybody. Occasionally, Jodie feels a recurrence of her earlier panic, of the giddying fear, but it’s only fleeting, like a sudden pang of indigestion, and she is almost immediately able to return to that more comfortable state of detachment.

  ‘Of course,’ she answers evenly, when called upon to verify dates, places, names. ‘Yes, this is all correct.’

  ‘Mrs Garrow, you can see that it is plainly our duty to investigate this matter further. You must see that we have to ask you,’ the detective spreads out his fingers in a strangely theatrical gesture of conciliation, ‘what exactly happened next. What you did with the baby. You’re the only one who knows, you see. ‘

  She is about to speak, strangely moved by his plea, to reassure him that of course she understands, that anybody would be concerned to find this child, that she will do everything in her power to help the investigation, but Angus speaks first, his voice curt.

  ‘Hold on. You said this would just involve some preliminary questions. You’ve told us what you know, and Jodie’s recollections correspond with all that you’ve said. Anyway, we’ve already made this clear – no doubt you’ve read the papers, seen our notifications. We’ve already begun looking for this child.’

  ‘Oh, come on. We all know —’

  ‘What we all know, Sergeant O’Rooke, is that my wife is under absolutely no obligation to say anything more.’

  ‘Of course, Mr Garrow. And I’m sure you’ve told her to say nothing, or you wouldn’t be the professional that I’m certain you are. But you do understand, that your wife’s status – her guilt or innocence – will be much easier to establish if she assists us voluntarily.’

  ‘Guilt? Innocence?’ Angus’s anger is undisguised now. ‘Innocent of what? I’ve let you say your piece, check your facts, but it’s clear that you’re jumping to some fairly spurious conclusions if you’re already bringing concepts of innocence and guilt into the discussion.’

  ‘But, sir, we need to establish —’

  Angus gets to his feet purposefully. ‘Well, gentlemen, as I say, you’ve said your piece. And now I’d like you to leave.’

  The Sydney detective looks vaguely shocked, appeals to Don. Constable Scanlon is looking down at her lap, studiously picking invisible fluff off her regulation skirt.

  Don gives his viscous cough. ‘Well, Sergeant, I think we may have outstayed our welcome.’ He stands, brushes down his trousers. ‘Well, thank you both for your time, Angus. Jodie.’ He nods. Heads towards the door, followed quickly by the female constable.

  The detective stands, his astonishment obvious. ‘We’ll be back in touch, Mr Garrow. Very soon,’ he says stiffly.

  ‘I’m sure you will.’ Angus sounds mildly amused. ‘But we’ll be making a comprehensive statement to the press ourselves later this afternoon. You might want to get back to us after that.’

  PRESS RELEASE

  Statement of Jodie Garrow

  Almost twenty-four years ago, when I was nineteen, I gave birth to a baby girl, whom I named Elsa Mary. On the advice of the matron of the maternity ward at Belfield Hospital, Sheila O’Malley, the child was given in a private adoption, to an older couple that I knew only as ‘Simon’ and ‘Rosemary’. These may not have been their real names, however. I was given $5000 in cash, which was not intended as a payment for the child, but was to help give me time to recover from the birth.

  Although I knew that the adoption was not entirely official, I at no point realised that I was engaging in an illegal act, having been advised by Matron O’Malley that everything was above board, and that all the
legalities would be handled for me. At my own request, no further details of this couple were ever provided – I was given no surname, phone number or address. I had the impression that they resided somewhere in the Hunter area, but may have been wrong in this.

  At the time I was a student, with no support from either my family or the father of the child, none of whom were aware of my condition. I was content that the baby was going to a loving home and that the future being offered to the child by this couple would be vastly superior to any life I could provide.

  The baby was handed to the couple on the day of my discharge from hospital. I have had no contact either with the matron who assisted me, the adoptive parents of the child or the child herself since that day.

  I have recently come to understand the seriousness of my youthful mistake, and would very much like to re-establish contact with my daughter.

  If you have any information regarding Elsa Mary’s past or current whereabouts please contact Peter Silvers at Silvers Wood and Watson, Arding. (02) 6777 2331 or email p.silvers@sww.com.au

  THE DAILY TELEGRAPH

  ‘Relinquishing mother searches for long-lost baby’

  An Arding mother has sent out a nationwide call to help her find the baby that she gave away more than twenty years ago.

  Mrs Jodie Garrow of Arding, in the New England region of NSW, was only 19 – a nursing student – when alone and a long way from her country home and family, she adopted out her newborn baby, Elsa Mary. The adoption, which was arranged by a member of staff at Sydney’s then-public Belfield Hospital, was far from legal, though this was something Jodie – vulnerable and naive – was unaware of at the time.