Umbilicus: An autobiographical novel

HEART TO HEART

A LITTLE BEFORE 1PM you hear the intercom, and buzz Mom in. You've made an effort to tidy the flat, and bought some fresh milk from Leyden's to make tea. Although she doesn't have a sense of smell, you light a stick of sandalwood incense. You want to create as relaxing an atmosphere for this conversation as possible. There's not terribly much you can do at such short notice about The Crow movie and various goth band posters Prestiked to the walls, but by now you reckon she's probably accepted that your penchant for all things 'dark' isn't just a phase.

She leans against the kitchen counter, looking somewhat uncomfortable, as you wait for the tea to brew. You and Gretchen very rarely use the kitchen, other than to make tea and coffee, and sometimes, after a big night out, eggs on toast. You mostly get by on whatever free meal the restaurants you work at provide for their staff, at the beginning or end of your shift. This flat is just a crash pad, somewhere to bath and change clothes. You're hardly ever here. You're both always out, either at work, or jolling.

Besides her bed in the lounge and yours in the bedroom, there's no furniture. If friends come over, you mostly end up sitting on the floor. A wee bit embarrassed you don't even have a chair to offer Mom, you put her mug of tea on the windowsill above the head of your bed, indicating for her to make herself comfortable against the plumped-up continental pillows, while you perch at the foot of the bed.

'I, um, I've kind of lured you here under false pretenses, Ma. I have, er, something I need to tell you.' You see a look of mild panic cross her face. Another unplanned pregnancy? Oh God, please, no. Not just as you're about to embark on the most exciting adventure of your life!

'Don't worry, it's nothing bad. Although I'm not hundred percent sure how you're going to take it.'

She takes a sip of tea, probably wishing it was a neat shot of Scotch.

Natas peeps round the door separating the bedroom from the lounge. Then, deciding things look a little serious for his liking, turns tail and scampers back to wherever he came from. Music blares from a taxi below, and somewhere in the distance a police siren wails.

Oh boy, this is super awkward. 'I met my birth mother.' There, you said it. It's finally out in the open.

She is deathly still, eyes fixed on the floor. Stunned into silence, as though someone has just slapped her across the face with a wet fish.

'Oh, Mom, I've been wanting to tell you, but I just couldn't figure out when or how.' You reach out and give her a hug. She is unresponsive, wooden in your embrace.

'So,' she says, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible, 'When did all this happen? Was it everything you expected, hoped for?'

You knew it would be awkward having this conversation, but you didn't realise how damn guilty you would feel. It's almost like confessing to having an affair. Telling a jilted lover about the 'other woman' in your life.

'Two months ago. She's actually really nice. I've seen her three times now, and we've got a lot in common.' Oh dear, this isn't making it any easier. The stung expression on her face says it all. 'I wanted to tell you sooner, honestly I did. You know that day you took me to Blue Zoo, to talk about how my plans were coming along for London? That was the day right after I got my file from Child Welfare, before I actually met her, and I wanted to tell you then, but I just couldn't. I'm so sorry if I've hurt you. That was never my intention, I promise.'

'No, no, my darling. I understand. I always knew this day would come. I guess I had just hoped Dad and I would be included in the process.'

'Trust me, Mom, it's better this way. This was something I really needed to do on my own.'

She looks at you then, her eyes wet, her face creasing into something resembling a smile. 'I admire your gumption, Charlotte. You have a lot of chutzpah.'

For a woman who doesn't give a lot of compliments, this is huge. By far one of the nicest things she has ever said to you.

'I also know that you and Dad have known about Beth for quite a few years now.'

She looks a bit taken aback, as though offended by the accusation of doing anything wrong. Then, just as she is about to defend herself, you see her mentally backpedal, as she realises that this is it. The end of the line. The turning point. No more secrets. No more hidden agendas.

'Don't worry. I'm not mad. Well, at first I was. I mean, I wish when I turned eighteen you had come to me and said, Charlotte, we know who your birth mother is, and we know she would like to meet you. If this is something you would like to do, we give you our blessing. When you're ready, we're ready. We're always here for you, and we will help and support you, in any way we can. But instead I felt like it was something I could never talk to you about. I know you always said we could talk about it, but you never made me feel comfortable talking about it. I was always too scared to open up to you about anything actually.'

She hangs her head. You're glad you're getting through to her, making her aware of just how hard, and unnecessary, these extra three agonisingly long years of waiting have been for you.

'But don't worry. I got over it. I understand why you did it.' You hate seeing people hurting, even if you think they deserve to feel bad for something they did. As long as they are prepared to acknowledge they are at fault, then you are prepared to forgive. And move on. If there's one thing growing up with a mother who sulked has taught you, it's that holding grudges is a waste of time and energy. Rather thrash it out and get on with it. Life is too short for pettiness and spite.

'Oh, Charlotte. My darling. I am so, so sorry. For not trying harder. To get you the professional help I knew you needed. I know Dad found that one lady for you to go and speak to, but it didn't work out. And I shouldn't have left it there. I should've tried to find someone else, someone who had experience in dealing specifically with adoption issues, not just run-of-the-mill teenage issues. Preferably someone who was also adopted, someone who had actually walked a mile in your shoes. Or perhaps even a support group, where you could've talked to other adoptees.'

Yeah, that would've been nice. Bit late now, though. Nothing more than lip service. Oh well.

'I told Dad there was more to your acting out than just normal teenage rebellion. That there were deeper issues which needed to be dealt with. But he, like everyone around me, friends I spoke to, said it was just normal teen angst, you were going through a phase, and you would be fine. But I knew you weren't fine. I suspected that many deep-seated adoption issues you were unwilling or unable to talk to me about had become an albatross around your neck.'

You both start crying then. For all the years of struggle and strife. For the breakdown in communication. For the emotional rift which eventually turned into a grand canyon. You know it didn't have to be this way. Things could have been done so differently. Ah, the wisdom of twenty-twenty hindsight. Is this mother-daughter bond salvageable, or has irreparable damage already been done? Only time will tell.

'Here, I have something I want to show you.' Wiping your tears away, you climb down onto the floor and pull the scrapbook out from under the bed before returning to sit beside her. After paging through it together for several minutes, looking at all the photos and remarking how similar you look to various members of your extended family, you give it to her to take home and show Dad. You still can't bring yourself to tell him you've met Beth. After reading that letter he wrote in reply to her letter asking for confirmation of your identity, and now knowing just how threatened he was by her, you'd rather let Mom break the news to him, gently, when the time is right.