Now Luke
Now
Luke
The adopted child grows up keeping his innermost feelings secret. A habit may be formed that leads to clandestine behaviour in the adult.
Who Am I? The Adoptee’s Hidden Trauma by Joel Harris
One of the benefits of working in the music industry is that long lunches go with the territory, so there is plenty of time for me to pop back home, make myself a sandwich – smoked salmon and avocado on bread that has seen better days – and then head out to Clapham Common.
I’d expected Alice to be here with Samuel napping on his little sheepskin rug, but instead the house is empty. It’s my house, so why do I creep around it like an intruder, picking up Alice’s things and scrutinising them? A scarf that hangs over the banister, long, thin and made of blue silk patterned with red and cream flowers. I hold it between my fingers; the material is beautifully soft. The instinct to put it up to my face and inhale comes from somewhere deep inside me. I’ve registered her scent – that same sharp, citrusy smell, more aftershave than perfume – before I drop it back on the banister, riddled with self-mockery. What kind of loser am I?
In the kitchen, I see that Alice has already made something for our supper. Our orange Le Creuset dish sits above a gas ring ready for our arrival. I lift the lid and look inside – beef casserole with squishy-looking root vegetables and the delicious waft of red wine. She made us this casserole once before and it lifts me up to think of her doing it, lovingly preparing a meal for her long-lost son, one she never expected to see (though I suspect she doesn’t romanticise it in quite the same way).
There are fresh flowers on the kitchen table, which means she must have been out to the high street this morning. I picture her and Samuel buying beef from the butcher, carrots from the greengrocer, irises from the florist. I lean over to inhale the subtle sweet smell of the flowers. Hannah loves irises; uncanny how Alice always picks the right flowers, the two of them so easily, so flawlessly, connected. A needlepoint of jealousy right there.
My hand hovers over Alice’s sketchpad on the kitchen table; it will contain drawings of Samuel and I long to see them. Any reason why I shouldn’t? I have a little argument with myself while my hand remains poised, ready to flick the cover open. Most people in their own home, knowing a sketchpad is filled with drawings of their son, would just idly take a look. Wouldn’t they? And yet, somehow, I cannot shake the sense that I am snooping, that looking at Alice’s sketchpad is tantamount to reading someone’s private diary. I won’t allow myself to stoop that low. I’m hoping Alice will soon transfer some of her affections onto me; I’d hate to let her down.
Instead, I make my sandwich, clearing up the debris – plate and knife washed, dried and returned to the cupboard, crumbs swept from the worktop – and then walk out into the early-afternoon sunshine. I look at my watch. All this and it’s only 1.30; there is still time to take a quick stroll around the park before I go back to the office.
Our house is a ten-minute walk from Clapham Common, depending on which way you go. I take the shortcut through Grafton Square, a classical square with white Regency houses facing out onto a little playground, quick scout around to see if anyone is there, before coming out at the zebra crossing on the outskirts of the park. By entering the common here, you pass the hippy café, purple walls with spray-painted flowers on the outside; ramshackle furniture, vegan brownies and breastfeeding mothers on the inside. A cluster of mums at the picnic tables, chatting over bowls of lentil soup while their toddlers fight over the Little Tikes seesaw. That will be us soon. I love Samuel at six months so much, his perma-smile, his wild, addictive laughter, his solemn brown eyes and fat pink cheeks. I know I will mourn the passing of each stage.
At the new skate ramp there are two teenage boys – fifteen? sixteen? – passing each other like synchronistic weathermen as they execute their perfect mid-air turns. I wonder why they aren’t at school, then wonder why I even care. I’m twenty-seven, not fifty. I can imagine Hannah laughing at me: ‘So go report them, Grandpa.’
Just beyond the skate park is the pond, filled with fat brown ducks gliding above a sheen of emerald scum. I search its perimeter casually, looking out for a tall, dark-haired woman pushing a buggy; she’s easy to spot, this head-turning mother of mine.
And at this moment, just as I’m about to leave, Alice and Samuel come into view. They are too far away to see me, loitering under a tree on the other side of the pond. From this distance it looks like Samuel is asleep, Alice walking slowly behind him, steering the pram with one hand, taking her time. The obvious thing to do, the only thing to do, is go and meet them, say hello, a quick chat with Alice, a cuddle with my son if he happens to wake up.
Instead, I stand, rooted in the shadows, watching until my eyes hurt. For it’s like watching a video of the missing weeks of my childhood, this unguarded view of my mother and the small child in her care. I am silent, motionless, transfixed, addicted to this fragmental scrutiny of everything I lost.