I Knew You'd Have Brown Eyes (17 page)

19

When Julia Gillard gave her apology to the mothers of forced adoptions in 2013, I felt sad for those women who endured that cruel process. I didn’t identify with them because I was not forced into relinquishing Michael. Of course I knew that I had little choice, and had I the financial and moral support I may not have chosen that route. It was, as Gillard said, ‘a dark period in our nation’s history’. I felt relief that we were now living with a value system that did not condemn a girl to secrecy and shame just because she became pregnant. And when I looked at those women who sat in the Great Hall listening to Gillard, I hoped that they could all meet their children and tell them their story, just as I had been able to do. It was gratifying, too, to hear that the Government acknowledged that there had been no counselling and was prepared to set aside some funds to begin that process.

Not all mothers from that era were forced into adoption or left with adoption as their only choice. There were families who supported their pregnant teenagers. Trevor has a daughter-in-law whose mother was seventeen when she became pregnant with her. After her birth the matron advised Tracey’s mother that it would be best if she relinquished the baby. Fortunately for Tracey, her grandmother was in the hospital at the time.

‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘This is one of us, she stays with us.’

But this was rare and hopefully now there are more parents who are willing to accept and support their pregnant teenagers. Some schools these days even provide an environment for pregnant teenagers to continue with their studies, which again is an enormous moral shift.

Being so far removed from the day-to-day goings-on in maternity hospitals, I assumed that by this time, with contraception and changed social attitudes towards single parenthood, the need for adoption would no longer exist. Desiree, a paediatrician, enlightened me.

‘In your day,’ she said, ‘it was called closed adoption, meaning there was no contact between birth parents and their child.’

‘And nowadays?’

‘We have “open adoption” and birth parents have access to their children.’

‘How does that work?’

‘The contact is regular and supervised.’

‘I can’t imagine how that would work. You’d have to have very supportive adoptive parents and a great deal of counselling for the birth mother.’

I didn’t know how I would have felt if I’d heard my young son call someone else Mum. And yet I could not help but think that given the right circumstances – adoptive parents who were open to the contact, counselling for Michael and myself – it might just have worked. I could see that given different attitudes and expectations and carefully managed meetings, it could be a good option. However, my cynical self also thought that with so many people in the equation there would bound to be problems. Adoption is a life-long experience. Challenges occur in any family and to add the complexity of adoption might just be too much for some. I hope by now that adoptive parents understand that the mothers who relinquish their children are not doing it without a great deal of thought and sacrifice.

Occasionally I have seen television programs showing reunions between children and their adoptive mothers. These programs made me flinch, as I couldn’t see why people would want to display such a private experience in public. Likewise I did not like to read fiction or see television programs that used adoption as a sad event in the story. Adoption is not entertainment. But grudgingly I can see that these media serve to highlight a societal change and I’m grateful for that.

Inevitably I asked myself the question: Did I make the right choice? Even given Michaels’ silence, I think in my circumstances I did.

20

‘Once I gave someone away, because I had to, then I found him, and now he’s lost again,’ I wrote in my diary.

When Michael stopped answering my mail and messages, I thought I must have offended him. On his next birthday I sent a card wishing him well. I didn’t have his home address so I sent it to the Townsville Hospital. I didn’t get a reply.

Having told my friends about our amazing reunion, they often asked me how things were going, if we’d seen each other again. I had to answer no, he had just stopped communicating and I had no idea why.

Perhaps he’d had an accident. Or worse, he could be dead. I speculated on all the possibilities – paraplegic, car accident, a stroke like my father had had at his age. I contemplated writing to his mother to ask if anything had happened but, knowing that she was unhappy about our reunion, I stopped short of that.
Maybe it was because of his mother that he felt conflicted? Did he feel guilty about meeting me?

There were times I felt angry. Had I rejoiced too early? I had exposed my secret to most of my inner circle and now there was nothing to report on. The more my friends asked for news, the more I regretted telling them about him. I felt despondent. On the surface I was light-hearted, but internally I was burning with questions and confusion. I thought we’d got along. I thought the loss was in the past. I thought we were moving to a shared experience and building a future relationship. I was lost.

When he turned thirty-two, I rang Townsville Hospital and spoke to a receptionist who confirmed that he was listed in their directory and that any mail sent to the hospital would be put in his pigeon box. At least he’s alive, I thought.

I wrote a birthday card and concluded with these words: ‘I hope that I have not offended you in any way. If I did, I’m sorry and it certainly wasn’t intentional. I trust that things are good with you and wish you well. I won’t keep trying to communicate with you, because I don’t want to be a burden on you.’

I decided it was best not to persist in contacting him. He was a young man, getting on with his life. Perhaps our meeting was all he needed from me, to know who I was and the circumstances of his adoption and, now that he knew that, he could move on. The worst thing I could do was to keep pestering him.

The next time Desiree and I were out running with our dogs on the beach, she asked if I had had any news.

I told her about my card and said, ‘You know, I’ve thought a lot about our reunion and I don’t think I did do anything wrong.’

‘Of course you didn’t.’

‘Then why did he stop communicating?’

‘Maybe he feels confused.’

‘Yeah, it’s odd. I know he’s busy …’

‘Of course he is, he’s in his final year of Medicine. I’m sure the mystery will be solved one day soon.’ That was Desiree, always coming up with a positive solution. ‘From what you’ve told me, not many children make contact with their birth mothers; you have to be grateful that he did,’ she continued.

‘I am, of course I am! But I wish he could just give me a sign that he’s okay and not angry with me.’ Our dogs came panting back after their frolic on the beach and we collected our shoes.

As we went our separate ways I said, ‘Well, whatever happened, I’m so lucky that I got to meet him. If I never see him again, at least I know that we had a very special time together, and now I know my son.’

The years that followed were busy. Sam finished school and went to live in Melbourne, having obtained a place at the University of Melbourne. Although she was very happy with her studies, she was often lonely and struggled with the study–life balance. I flew to Melbourne on many occasions to be with her.

When the swimming pool study came to a close I worked at the Children’s Hospital supporting families of children with disability, with lifestyle changes to assist with weight problems. I threw myself into sport, my old standby when life got tough. Trevor bought me an Orbea bike for my fiftieth birthday and, having more time on my hands, I competed in a half ironman. I called this my ‘self-obsessed journey’ since it required training six days a week, sometimes attending two training sessions in one day. It was one way to ameliorate the stress. I was aware that I was running away, but it seemed a good journey to be on, for the time being.

My sister Teresa died. Her life had fallen into the abyss of drugs and illness. At her funeral I grieved, not for the person she was at her time of death, but for the person she had been in our childhood and our youth. When we were children I looked up to her. We were very close. She was a talented musician who did clever things with music, like making songs out of the words to the scientific laws we had to learn at school. She was artistic, creative and vibrant. She never did anything in half measures, it was full-on or nothing.

When I was a child I used to think I grew up in a happy family, better off than most. We were solid, lucky, no major problems. But when Teresa died, this vision of my blissful childhood family disintegrated. Now I had two dead siblings – both had mental illness, both had not received any form of care that could cure them and we, their family, had been unable to protect them. Teresa had been difficult in her final years, but she once told me that she loved Mum and her support was invaluable.

Despite my misgivings about my family, I had survived a major life trauma and my older brother and younger sister were successful members of society. It was hard to know if we the lucky ones, born with a determination, a resilience that our other brother and sister didn’t have. I wondered if our family fell apart when Dad died.

I read the eulogy at Teresa’s funeral and concluded it with this:

Our sister, Teresa, could be achingly frustrating, achingly sad, achingly kind, and achingly funny. Unlike most of us, her life was completely exposed due to her illness. We can all choose to remember her in our own way, but for me it will be of her singing Faraday’s Law on the train home from school, or the early years of her marriage with her children when she was vital, funny, caring and kind, so kind.

When Alex finished school, Trevor began a new venture in Chile, and the three of us moved there. Alex took a gap year while she decided what she wanted to study at university. The week before moving to Chile I found an unusual lump on my arm, had it excised and was diagnosed with a rare type of melanoma. I had to delay my journey in order to have further tests, more surgery, and to see an oncologist. My prior knowledge of melanoma was that the more serious types, like the one I had, were fatal. I thought I was going to die. Among a myriad of other thoughts, I thought about Michael. Would I ever see him again?

My GP saved me from these grim ruminations when she called me and said, ‘You’ll fight this Mary. You’re healthy and a diagnosis of melanoma isn’t like it used to be. We know much more these days.’

She’s right, I thought, I haven’t endured all life’s traumas just to curl up and die of a small melanoma. I jumped from planning my funeral to feeling excited about my future.

Chile was a great relocation for us and though I have had two subsequent melanomas removed, I remain positive and diligent with skin checks and covering up in the sun.

One hot February night, four years after our move to Chile, I was on holiday in Perth, and alone, staying in a rented apartment. Trevor was to join me a few days later. It was Valentine’s Day and my mobile phone rang.

‘Hello, Mary, this is Mike.’

I was stunned.

‘I’m sorry I’ve not been in contact with you over the past however many years.’

I was standing on the balcony of the apartment in West Perth, looking out over the lights of the city.

‘What happened?’ I replied.

‘In truth, I thought I was old enough to handle contact with you, but I went to pieces after I came back from Perth.’

‘I’m so sorry to hear that. I was worried something had happened to you.’

‘I’m the one who should apologise,’ he replied. ‘I always knew I would contact you again sometime, but I needed time and a bit more maturity. I’m really very sorry if I caused you any pain.’

‘No, no. I thought I’d done something wrong, or said something that offended you.’

‘You certainly didn’t. Well I am sitting here with Narelle, my wife. We just finished off a bottle of wine, and I decided it was time to call you.’

‘I kept my mobile phone number, just in case,’ I told him. ‘I live in Chile now.’

‘Really!’ he said.

‘Yes, I’m just home for a couple of weeks – you were lucky you caught me – this number only works here in Australia.’

‘I kept the same phone number for the same reason. Are you sitting down?’

‘No, why’s that?’

‘We have three children, three girls. The oldest one is your doppelganger.’

‘Really …’

We chatted about his work, the new home they’d bought, and his wife and children. After we had hung up I sat on the balcony in a daze. I thought,
something has changed
. In the past it had been me who had taken the mature role but now I felt Michael taking charge. He was older, a father, not a boy any more.

Minutes later my recently purchased iPhone began to ping with the images of three beautiful little girls and their mother.

Six months later, I flew to Townsville and met Michael’s wife and three girls. He and I took up where we had left off. Our relationship was more like aunty and nephew. I felt very much at home with his family.

One evening my doppelganger, with her large brown eyes, kept asking me, ‘Was yer name again?’ As if to say, ‘Who are you? And how do you fit in here?’

One day, she will know our story.