The Secret Daughter (29 page)

‘Absolutely,’ I said softly. There was a flash of light behind us and I saw James bringing the car up close. We both turned around and he flashed the lights and waved to us.

‘He’s probably worrying that I’m going to freeze you half to death out here in the cold,’ Lilly murmured. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine,’ I said. Although I was very much looking forward to returning to the heated car, I wouldn’t have cut those moments short for anything. Even before I knew about Lilly herself, I’d dreamt of a visit to Orange to hear about my own birth. Even before I understood just how complicated things really were, I’d
always
wanted to better understand my origins.

‘Just a few more minutes and we’d better go back to them. Just through there were the delivery rooms, and you were born in room one. There was a window in that room, and it lead out to a courtyard in the centre of the hospital where a plum tree was growing. There were these tiny, beautiful little flower buds on the tree . . . I stared out at it while I was in labour, whenever I could manage to keep my eyes open. I thought it meant that spring really was on its way, some secret sign from the universe that things were going to be okay after all.’ Her voice started to waver, and she cleared her throat several times before she continued, ‘I kept worrying about this poor woman I could hear – she was screaming for help, but no one seemed to be coming for her and she sounded so desperate and in such pain. Then, as each dose of whatever they were drugging me would wear off, I’d realise that
I
had been the one screaming all along.’

‘Oh, Lilly …’

‘I’d always wanted to study history, but after what happened with you . . . I was more determined than ever, and I didn’t care how long it took. I didn’t realise how widespread this kind of thing was at the time, or even how
wrong
it was . . . I don’t think any of us did. But I wanted to be a person who brought history to the next generation, because if we don’t learn
about
our history, how can we learn
from
it? And we
have
to learn from it, Sabina. We
can’t
let these things ever happen again. We just can’t.’

‘It wasn’t fair,’ I choked. The thought of what Lilly had been through was almost overwhelming, even just hearing her recount it second-hand. I realised that at some point during the conversation I’d withdrawn my hands from the sleeves of my coat and had wrapped them tightly around my stomach and I knew that the gesture was not just a result of the cold. I almost felt guilty at my own fortune – to be born just late enough in history that such experiences were unthinkable, rather than the standard.

‘Life isn’t fair,’ she whispered. ‘But that doesn’t mean it has to be cruel.’ She pulled her hands out of her pockets now and pulled me close for another hug. It occurred to me that in twenty-four hours, Lilly had given me more hugs than Mum had in my adult life. ‘I want you to know, Sabina – I don’t feel any shame about what happened to us, only regret. That’s why I want to show you these things and as we get to know each other, to really talk about what happened and bring it all out into the open, no matter how
hard
it is to do. When I let myself feel shame or guilt or regret, I feel powerless.’ She took a deep breath in, and her voice was strong and clear when she said, ‘They took almost everything from me, Sabina, but I won’t ever feel powerless again.’

The lights on the car flashed toward us again. It was almost completely dark now, and my ears and the tip of my nose were stinging from the cold.

‘All right, all right,’ Lilly said, and she laughed a little and released me from the hug. ‘Let’s go meet your siblings.’

THIRTY-FOUR

Megan—September 1973

We started trying for a baby as soon as we were married.

The world felt like our oyster back then. I thought I’d snagged the best guy in the world, and we had such grand plans. This was back before we fell into the drudgery of married life – back when I couldn’t understand women who got frustrated with their husbands for not picking up the towels or making the bed. I
loved
to do those things for Graeme.

Through that first year I felt I was a child playing house. I shopped for trinkets and art and linen and Grae pretended to be interested in my purchases. I tried new recipes nearly every night and waited for that magic day when I’d suddenly be able to cook, and when that day never came, Grae
usually
pretended to like my meals anyway.

By the second year, he wasn’t pretending quite as well, but I was still trying. And I was watching the months coming at me, faster and faster it seemed, and beginning to wonder why my period was always on time. At first, Grae did not want me to see the doctor about our lack of success in conceiving. He was so confident that our baby was just around the corner,
supremely
confident in his ability to get me pregnant. And I was so determined to please him that even as the warning sounds in my mind became louder and louder, I did not mention my concern to anyone at all.

By the third year, I was getting annoyed with the wet towels on the floor, and I’d occasionally only made half of the bed in a gesture of defiance. Grae complained
incessantly
about my cooking, but was not unhappy enough to take the task on himself. And I had taken to noting down when my period was due and making sure that we had not planned anything social for that evening, as I’d inevitably be locking myself away with a glass of merlot and a box of tissues.

Grae suggested we see a doctor well into that year. We were both nervous – I was wondering who was to blame, and
praying
it wasn’t me. I wanted a baby more than anything – anything, except of course, Grae himself. If
he
happened to be infertile, I’d stay with him, but if
I
was infertile, I was
sure
that he would leave me. From our very first dinner together Grae talked about the children he wanted. Two sons and a daughter, he’d decided, probably in that order. And he wanted good, traditional Australian names: Bruce and Barry, and maybe our daughter would be Kylie. He’d even planned their sporting activities; the boys would play cricket and rugby league, and little Kylie would concentrate on her schooling and maybe learn an instrument.

Apparently Grae’s sperm count was exceptionally high, so the first round of tests absolved him of blame. At first, they thought I was healthy too and the doctors seemed bewildered as to why we hadn’t conceived. We tried some drugs, and I actually fell pregnant – I remember the breathtaking joy just like it was yesterday. It was only weeks though before the dream shattered. That first loss was the hardest, because I never even saw it coming.

Still, we dusted ourselves off, waited the long period of months the doctor recommended before we risked another pregnancy, and then I went back on the drugs and we hoped for the best.

And then we did all of that again, and again. If we weren’t failing to conceive, we were failing to stay pregnant – but there was always failure, seemingly at every turn. It took years before they put a label to my problem,
hostile uterus
, and even now, years and years later, I still don’t even really know what that means. The day the doctor finally told us, though, we sat down at our kitchen table for dinner and I stared at my plate and told Graeme to leave.

He was still young, and in spite of his terrible domestic habits, quite a catch. I knew he would remarry quickly, and within a few years he’d have the family he dreamed of.

Graeme pushed aside his (burnt) roast dinner and reached for my hand on the table. He told me that he was in this for life, baby or no baby. And that was that.

Grae isn’t really one to gush, but that night, I gave him an out, and he did not take it.

So then came two new dimensions to our relationship, dimensions which were equally unwelcome and confusing: gratitude and guilt. Maybe things had never really been equal, maybe I did all of the housework in spite of us both working, and maybe he tended to be bossy at times, but throwing into the mix the fact that I now felt incredibly
lucky
that he was
staying
with me, and
guilty
that he would never be a father because of me, I danced on a knife-edge every day. Every single time we disagreed about something, I would tense and wait for him to end the conversation with a shrug and a hasty exit, as if even an argument over the damp towels would be the straw that broke the camel’s back.

No one used the word ‘adoption’ for a long time. When Grae finally did, I shot him down the instant he said it. Every now and again, he’d raise the subject again, but even
considering
it felt like giving up to me – and I was nowhere near ready to give up.

I didn’t just want a baby. I wanted
my
baby. I wanted the joy of the positive pregnancy test without the grief and misery that inevitably followed it for us.

If I couldn’t have
my
baby, then maybe I didn’t
want
a baby. Maybe I could live without one after all.

That was not the case for Graeme. He just wanted a baby.

He’d have begged, borrowed or stolen one, if that was at all possible.

And I’d have done almost anything for Graeme.

THIRTY-FIVE

Sabina—April 2012

The Piper family met periodically for dinner at a bistro alongside a historic pub. Lilly explained the rationale as we walked to their reserved table.

‘Simon and Emmaline live just a block away from here, so they can walk down with the twins in the pram. And the food is good, and the servings are huge. They reserve this area for us now whenever we need it.’ We took our seats and I picked up the menu. It was typical pub food; steaks and hamburgers and the like, and several roast dinner options on offer.

‘You watch,’ Lilly murmured, ‘Charlotte will get the Caesar salad, Neesa the kid’s chicken meal, Simon will get a medium rare scotch fillet, Emmaline will get the soup of the day, and James will order a Chicken Parmigiana.’

‘I go to a café, with Mum and Dad sometimes, for brunch,’ I said, ‘It’s exactly like that. We all order the same thing every time. There’s something really lovely about the consistency of it, don’t you think?’

‘I
do
think that,’ Lilly said, and she was surprisingly excited by my random observation. ‘I
really
do. That’s why I make them come here. The menu never changes, and the décor never changes, but this is
our
place. The others don’t get the beauty of that . . . not at all.’

Ted took a seat beside me, and James sat beside Lilly. A young family with a twin pram approached us and my heart started to race. Simon was
clearly
my biological brother, there was no denying the genetic link. There was something breathtakingly exciting about seeing people who looked
exactly
like me.

‘You
must
be Sabina,’ Simon said. His brown eyes were twinkling, and he’d extended his arms even as he approached me. I pushed back my chair and stepped back from the table just in time for him to envelope me in a hug. ‘It is just wonderful to meet you. I can’t tell you how happy we all are that you’ve found us.’

I was surprised by the hot tears that filled my eyes.

‘I’m so happy to meet you too.’ I whispered, then I cleared my throat and smiled at his wife. ‘And you must be Emmaline?’

Emmaline was tiny and blonde, and both beautiful and exhausted. She shook my hand, then held it a moment too long with a squeeze.

‘Welcome to the family, Sabina. We’re so excited that you’re here. This is Dominic, and Valentina, your slightly evil twin niece and nephew. As soon as they get bored of the pram I’ll pull them out so you can say hello properly. If we time it just right they’ll be able to smile at you before all of the screaming and hysteria starts.’

I leant awkwardly to peer into the pram. Dominic and Valentina were rolled towards each other, reaching clumsily for each other’s chubby hands.

‘They look so innocent.’

‘Don’t believe it,’ Simon snorted. ‘Em had three hours sleep last night, in four stretches. They are hell on pram wheels.’

I chuckled, and he and Emmaline shook Ted’s hand, then Simon invited his wife to sit while he retrieved us all some drinks from the bar.

I recognised Charlotte the moment she entered the bistro, her tween daughter in tow. There was no mistaking her, she was every bit as stunning in real life as she’d been in photographs, and I felt nervous again. I felt an immediate connection with the others – I could see myself in them, and they felt strangely familiar. But Charlotte was different, and that difference made her intimidating. Her long blonde hair was in a perfectly messy plait over her shoulder, she was wearing a full face of perfect makeup and a linen shift dress and heels. I glanced down at the jeans I’d worn, and wished I’d at least put some mascara on.

‘Sabina,’ she said, making a beeline for me. ‘I’m Charlotte, this is my daughter Neesa.’

‘I’m so happy to meet you,’ I said. I waited for her to approach for a hug, but instead, she shook my hand. It was a brisk contact – long enough only for me to note the perfect crimson manicure of her fingers and how smooth her skin was.

‘Here again, Mum?’ she sighed, after kissing Emmaline on the side of the head and making appropriate noises toward Dominic and Valentina.

‘It works for everyone, Lottie.’

‘Sabina will think we’re savages after she sees the food.’

‘I’m easily pleased,’ I assured her.

‘I like the chicken,’ Neesa interjected. She had Lilly’s dark hair, just as Simon and I did, and the same big brown eyes. ‘And they always give me ice cream.’

‘I hear you like to sing, Neesa?’

‘I
love
to sing,’ Neesa’s enthusiasm was adorable. ‘Nan said you’re a proper singer; that you went to uni and everything.’

‘And you’re a teacher,’ Charlotte said. She was staring at me, her cool blue gaze uncomfortably intense. ‘Just like Mum.’