Her Mother's Smile

Her Mother’s Smile

She knew very well it would be a pivotal moment in her life. The point at which she would finally know her identity, her name and her family. Always aware she was adopted, she had planned this moment for over 18 years. Tonight was the night she would meet her birth mother. Her biological mother – a woman whose identity she had sought for so long. This would be the moment when those nights spent exploring the depths of her imagination would be crystallised into reality. She had pictured her a million times in her head and dreams. Always appearing differently – hair colour, style, length; eye colour; complexion; height; build, but one aspect remained constant in each image – the smile. That gentle, warm, loving smile. She’d seen it so many times in movies and on TV from every perfect celluloid mother character from Marion Cunningham in Happy Days and Mrs Walton from The Waltons in America to Grace in The Sullivans and Pippa from Home & Away in Australia. In her mind her own mother would embody aspects of each of these stereotypes – demure, humble and strong but with a vulnerability about her. She didn’t know the details of the circumstances of her conception and subsequent relinquishment – that would come in time, perhaps. Not tonight – too soon. Tonight would be to finally put a face AND a name to the shadowy, apparition-like image she has carried for so long. She would know. She would finally know. The relief of putting pieces of the jigsaw together but also the promise of more unknowns. What would remain unsaid? Would there be matters so deep, so personal that they remain cloistered in the depths of a soul? She knew she would have to tread carefully; go slowly; gently gently. Like a surgeon delicately slicing through the membrane of the womb to release the vulnerable, delicate foetus. One wrong move and all could be lost.

She remembers the moment the email came advising that her mother had contacted the agency requesting contact. Long ago she had lodged her own interest in meeting her birth parents and at last the match up would eventuate. She wondered why it was that her mother chose this time to make contact – was there a particular reason or had it just been “time”? With a mixture of excitement and apprehension she starts to get ready for the meeting. Her hands shake as she applies her make-up. Again, she wonders – does she have her eyes? Will she have the same shape to her nose? Does she have the same tendency to blush when excited? She knows that she will be sitting in the back booth of the café, this they had arranged over the phone on that very first day that contact was made. That glorious, confusing, discombobulating day. The day that marked the start of the rest of her life. She was well aware that this day would mark no turning back. One way or another she will never be the same – her very identity, her sense of self will be altered.

Arriving much earlier than the appointed time was always going to be on the cards. It was her way. Always has been. She wonders if her daughter was the same. Twenty years ago, she had given the child up for adoption. Even in modern times this conception was a scandal. Her own mother had disowned her as a result, never to make contact again. A pariah in the family. She wondered how much of her story, “their” story she should share with Chloe at this first meeting. Certainly not the biggest part of all – her father. Perhaps they could just be in the moment with each other – comparing physical similarities, likes and dislikes, just being present in the moment. The rest of the story could come later, in bits and pieces, slowly slowly, gently gently. For a brief moment she wonders what the paternity revelation would do to their newly found relationship. Would it rip it to pieces beyond repair? When would she know that the time is right to reveal the secret? But then she returns to the present as her attention is drawn to the young woman approaching her. Unmistakeable. The eyes, the shape of the nose, the build, the height. Family traits that are impossible to conceal. Her daughter. Their eyes locked and then came the smile – that smile! One she had seen so often in her mental images of this girl. Her own smile. Without words they embraced. Two souls lost in time reuniting at last. It was palpable. They both felt it. No need for introductions, small talk. At last, they both sat down opposite each other in the booth. It had come so completely naturally – better than either of them had anticipated. No reticence, no holding back, no difficult moments. Conversation flowed unbelievably smoothly and comfortably. No resentment for being given up at birth, no defensiveness about that decision.  That meeting lasted two hours. It flew by as they exchanged life-up-now stories. Both women satisfied with their lives but acknowledging the matching gaping holes in their souls. As they rose to leave the café, the cashier observed “I’ve been watching you two, you’ve obviously been apart for some time. Are you sisters?” It only occurred to Chloe at that moment that they not only resembled each other in looks, but age as well. As they paid and walked to their respective cars, Chloe said: “You know, you do look very young. How old were you when you had me?”. And there it was. The start, the beginning. For the moment she stood transfixed – a deer in the headlights. She had imagined this scenario a million times in her head. How to answer that question without it opening the door to the hell she had so feared for so long. “Ummm I was seventeen” she lied. It was not for now. Not at this first meeting. But Chloe had seen it. The flash of dread, the cloud that descended upon her mother. She saw it and she felt it but knew not what “it” was. What was this secret she wondered, but she would not press her for it tonight. She could see the pain in her eyes and something else – shame, perhaps? They said their goodbyes and promised to meet again, both ignoring the seismic event that had just passed between them.

The drive back to her house was torturous. A mix of emotions, strong and powerful. Joy, fear, shame, disgust, self-loathing. How could she tell her? How could she ever tell Chloe that she is the product of rape. Incestuous rape. That her own grandfather impregnated her mother when she was fourteen years old. How? She wondered why she had decided to locate the baby – she knew from the start it would eventually come out, no matter how long she tried to hide it. She KNEW it! Her sense of revulsion and shame bubbled up inside her as she drove. Higher and higher, pounding its way through her consciousness and into her body. Almost as if her soul were now controlling her body. Powerless. Powerless to keep the car safely on the road. The Road Closed sign loomed large in her vision. Illuminated, flashing lights hypnotic, luring her towards it. Closer, closer. Her foot planted to the floor she fixed her gaze straight ahead. Not in control, just like all those years ago. Her mind and her soul leaving her body but this time not to keep her safe but to extinguish the pain. Forever.