I Knew You'd Have Brown Eyes (16 page)

18

Meeting Michael was not an easy ride. At times I felt as though I was on a rollercoaster – some days high and others very low. I remember having such mixed emotions. At times, they were difficult to understand. There was no road map, no prescription, no guidance. Sometimes my emotions went into overload and many times I didn’t know what I was feeling. I couldn’t find the words to express them.

Some years after our initial meeting I became friends with a lady whose now ex-husband had been adopted at birth. When he reunited with his birth mother it caused their marriage to break up. She told me that after her husband met his mother he became a little crazy. He took her on a trip and when they returned, he and his mother were wearing matching wedding rings. Her husband had replaced his wedding ring with this new one. My friend was very unsettled by this development and with the change in her husband’s behaviour. Though it seemed a crazy notion I understood this confusion, they were forging a bond.

It reminded me of a conversation I’d had with a friend of mine, Helen, when I told her about Michael.

‘Wow, what an amazing story!’ she said. ‘What’s he like?’

I told her about how we had met and how nervous I had been, about our common interests and how I found it very easy to be in his company.

‘You know, Mary,’ she said, after I had finished, ‘when you talk about him, you sound like someone who’s falling in love.’

What a strange thing to say! And yet there was some truth in it. I was getting to know this person and was enamoured with him. But to refer to that as love seemed a strange way to look at a relationship between a mother and a son. Eventually I answered.

‘Well I guess in a way it is like falling in love, not in the romantic sense, but falling in love with the person and obtaining a level of mutual respect.’ There are no words to use for this kind of love, we had to build and define our relationship with no tools, no experience to call upon.

I had been given advice about adoptive reunions through a booklet titled
No More Secrets: Personal Experiences
. Two points struck me as pertinent.

For birth mothers, in particular, the prospect of contact will cause feelings, fears and memories suppressed from many years to surface. It takes time for them to ‘grow the baby up’, to adjust to the fact that their relinquished child is now an adult and a stranger
.

And this.

Reunions often show a pattern of a ‘honeymoon’ period followed by problems arising as participants face the demands and commitments of their usual separate lives
.

The booklet recommended that initially it was advisable to use a mediator. Michael and I did not take that advice. I don’t recall ever discussing it with him. After our initial exchange of letters there seemed there was never any doubt that we would get along. I began to wonder now if that had been a mistake.

After our meeting, the memory of Mike’s birth and adoption became less important to me. I was sure that the sheer fact of having seen him caused the sorrow I had carried around with me to fade. Until we met, recalling his birth only caused feelings of distress, sadness and guilt. Afterwards, that mourning was replaced with the pleasure of coming to know this person and enjoying his company.

One thing that did stay very much in my memory was the aroma of soap. I had bought a cake of soap – Pears Herbal – with me to the maternity hospital and used it after his birth. I sometimes bought it after that time, but not always, as I associated it with the events surrounding his birth. Sometimes, though, I would go to the soap aisle, not even realising I was heading there, pick up a bar and smell it – the aroma would take me straight back to the maternity hospital. In Woolworths one day, soon after returning from Hervey Bay and our first meeting, I went to the soap aisle. I couldn’t find it and I panicked. I found an attendant and brought him to the aisle.

‘I can’t find the Pears Herbal soap!’ He pointed out the Pears soap.

‘No there’s another one, same brand, different soap – it’s called Herbal,’ I replied in a shaky voice, which was unlike me. But I could see that he had no idea what I was asking him and I had to calm myself down. Soon I was thinking,
you don’t need the memory any longer, you have met your son
. I wondered how I would have reacted in that moment had we not met.

Alexis and her family came to visit us after Michael had stayed. I showed her the album and told her about our reunion. She was delighted for me, and after she returned home told Mum about his visit. When Alexis told me, I was upset because I had decided not to tell Mum. I didn’t feel after all these years of silence that I could talk to her about him. And I felt that Michael and I were getting along so well that I didn’t want to mix our relationship with the one I had with my mother. The event of his birth was so integrally tied up with my past relationship with her. But Alexis told me that she seemed genuinely delighted that we had reunited.

Soon after that, Alex and I went to Brisbane – there was to be a reunion with some of my old nursing colleagues. After some thought, I took the photo album, reasoning that perhaps I should break the silence with my family. The album was a way of approaching the long-forbidden subject. It was time to heal the past. So many years had elapsed, attitudes had changed. Mum was mellowing, I convinced myself. We stayed with Mum and John. One night after Alex had gone to bed, and with a great deal of trepidation, I brought it out.

We talked briefly about her conversation with Alexis and then I placed it on the table near her, and let her turn the pages.

‘Can you see the family likeness?’

‘No. Has he made contact with Bryan?’ I was a little taken aback, but persevered.

‘He went to Gregory Terrace and was raised a Catholic.’
Was I trying to endear him to her, since her Catholic beliefs overpowered every aspect of her life?

‘Really? A coincidence?’

‘No. I stipulated that in the adoption papers.’ All this time she was turning the pages with not an ounce of emotion.

‘Mmm, and to think you don’t go to church any more.’

‘He’s training to be a doctor,’ I said.

‘Oh, so we have a doctor in the family.’
Now he’s family?
‘Oh well, you’d fallen out of love with his father anyhow.’ She closed the album.

I was stupefied. I wanted to scream at her.
Did she still think that remaining silent about his birth was appropriate? Did she have no sympathy for me? Could she not share in my joy? Did she still blame me?

I have read various accounts of teenage pregnancy, from both personal and professional perspectives. They invariably discuss its invisibility, which does not stop with the birth and adoption. The silence continues, the experience of adoption is ‘a particular kind of hell we weren’t allowed to talk about’. I think that was how my mother saw it too, but for me that was the past – there was no need for secrecy and denial anymore – and I couldn’t understand why she couldn’t see that, and share in my happiness.

Now I knew irrevocably that she had no understanding of how I had suffered. I had wanted her to see it from my adult eyes. I had grown up, Michael had grown up, and we were reunited in a very happy way. But it seemed to me that she still wanted to deny this mistake of mine. Had I not been punished enough? And wasn’t that all behind me now? Or was it that she truly believed that a girl could have a baby and forget about him? Did she really think that because Bryan and I broke up I didn’t feel the pain and sorrow of the loss of my baby? I vowed I would never, ever, bring up the subject of Michael with her again.

But I did. Five years after this my mother and I had a conversation about Teresa. Amongst other things we were talking about, I mentioned that Teresa had been supportive of me throughout my pregnancy and in the years that followed. Mum made no comment at the time but in the following months whenever I made reference to my next visit to Brisbane she avoided the topic. When I arrived she didn’t want to see me.

‘You’ve had some sad and difficult times in your life and I’ve supported you in those times, now you should go and spend some time with your friends.’

This hurt me. Despite our difficult times Mum and I had managed to keep a superficial relationship going. This rejection reminded me once again that some subjects of our shared past were taboo. It left me feeling disempowered. How could we possibly resolve our issues if she shut the door and insisted on silence? That she had been planning this action while I was busily emailing her to arrange to take her for a walk in a national park made the rejection all the worse. The unexpected rebuff left me feeling humiliated.

I thought hard about how to deal with this situation. Despite the difficult times we had had, I still wanted her acceptance. If I tried to talk to her in a rational manner about why she was upset with me, I knew it would end in more misinterpretation. I finally woke up to the realisation that my mother and I are at cross-purposes. I let her down by getting pregnant at seventeen. I didn’t marry a Catholic boy. Worse, I married a divorced man and I hadn’t raised my children as Catholics. For my part, I wanted a mother who could accept me for who I was. She often told me that she found change difficult and if I extrapolate that to how she saw my failings, it makes sense. I did not fulfil her expectations and her inflexibility, her inability to change, meant that I either accepted that or I had to put distance between us. But it is a hardline defence that leaves no room to move, no room for mistakes. The paradox is that as a result of one distressing sorrowful event in my life I became empathetic and – I like to think – less judgemental.

I don’t think my mother is unusual. Other people I know have mothers of her generation who are inflexible, are unable to express themselves well and suppress their anger. When difficult situations arise they hold steadfastly to their concept of morality and expectations. These are mothers who find it difficult to let their children grow up and leave home. Sadly, this gets in the way of acceptance, empathy and mothering. On the other hand I have friends who have warm relationships with their mothers. I can’t change my mother and too many years of misunderstanding have passed between us. I can only try to be a sympathetic mother to my own children. But when I am really honest with myself I know that had she not had strong views about abortion – which no doubt influenced my decision – I may well have chosen an abortion. I have her to thank for that.

Soon after that day I went to see Teresa. She had long been separated from Frank. Teresa had many difficulties in her life. She was being treated for medical complications from the many operations she had had earlier, and she was still addicted to prescription drugs. She lived on government handouts and begging. She was mentally ill and was a sad sight.

Alex came with me that evening to visit her and I brought the album. We pored over it and cried and she held my hand as she turned the pages. She hugged me when she was finished and told me she couldn’t believe how much he reminded her of Dad and Ken. We talked about the home for unmarried mothers and the time after Michael was born – and the sadness, the sadness, the sadness, all the sadness.

‘But that’s all over now, Teresa. Remember how I always believed that we would meet one day? Now it’s happened and I’m looking at the future now.’

‘I’m so happy for you Mary. I know how hard it has been for you all these years.’

My brother Charlie was headmaster of a Catholic school west of Brisbane. One day, on this same visit to Brisbane, I borrowed his car and arranged to pick him up after school. In the car on the way home I broached the subject of Michael. Charlie and I had never discussed his birth or the subsequent years. Jill had rung me a few years earlier because one of Bryan’s sons had contacted her to ask if I’d had any news. He knew that Bryan’s name was not on the birth certificate and he thought that, if Michael had wanted to contact his father, it could only happen through me. At that time I didn’t have any information, so I never followed up on his phone call. I presumed Jill would have told Charlie about the call, but guessed that had probably been the first time he had thought about it in years. He had not mentioned it to me. A little anxious, I broached the subject.

‘I’ve made contact with my son.’

Silence.

‘You know, my adopted son?’ Nothing from Charlie, so I continued and told him a bit about Michael.

‘So how did it go, meeting him?’ he said finally.

‘Good,’ I replied. ‘We first met in Hervey Bay a few years ago,’ I continued. ‘Then he came to Perth and met my family. We all got along very well.’ Charlie remained silent, so I continued.

‘He went to Terrace and thinks he knew one of Teresa’s boys.’

‘What’s he like? Does he call you Mum?’

‘No, he has a mother that he is very close to. He calls me Mary.’

Then I told him that I had brought the album with me and would like to show him. I told him I’d shown it to Mum because I wanted things out in the open, unlike Mum, who kept secrets. I told him how like Charlie’s sons he was and how I would love for us to arrange a camping trip together sometime. He remained silent.

All he said was, ‘By the way Jill has had a difficult three months with her business.’

I never showed him the album and he never asked to see it.

I’m still baffled by my brother’s response. We have always been close. Maybe it was too much information, too fast. Maybe he felt embarrassed to bring it up later, after he had had time to reflect. Maybe he didn’t want his sons to know. Maybe I could have raised the subject again at a better time. It was also possible that he was too caught up in his own struggles at work to take in the enormity of what I was sharing with him. Whatever the reason I didn’t feel comfortable raising the subject with him after that. I had to take him as he came and didn’t feel I could change him. Charlie had never asked me about my son and it seemed to me that he was not ready to do that now. I wouldn’t be the one to raise it with him again. In the end I reverted to the silence that I had kept for so long – it seemed the safest place to be for the time being. If the subject was raised again it would have to come from him.