Now Luke
Now
Luke
The childhood of an adoptee is characterised by its secrets. Rarely, for example, is the true genetic identity of the child revealed. A successful reunion between adopted child and natural parent relies upon stark honesty between both parties.
Who Am I? The Adoptee’s Hidden Trauma by Joel Harris
Rick has a studio in Clerkenwell, a few blocks down from his apartment. I know exactly where to find him. I’m intrigued to see this place and a little bit excited to catch him unawares, but I hadn’t counted on having to deal with his abrasive assistant first. Of course Richard Fields has an assistant. Doesn’t Damien Hirst have about fifty of them? I should have expected this.
The studio, actually the ground floor of a former factory, has an intercom beside its locked double doors, announcing several companies and the intentionally misleading ‘Fields’.
I press the buzzer and a male voice, not Rick’s, floats towards me.
‘Hello? Can I help?’
‘Yes, I’m here to see Rick.’
See my cunning employment of the abbreviation by which he is known to his friends.
‘Do you have an appointment?’ The man seems unimpressed.
‘No, but if you tell him Luke is here, that will be enough.’
‘Look, Luke, I’m sorry, but Richard cannot be disturbed when he is working. And if you were someone who knew him well, then I wouldn’t need to tell you that.’
‘Perhaps you should tell him his son is here to see him. That might help change his mind.’
Electrifying silence between us, then the buzzer goes and I push open the front door. Behind another closed door I hear male voices, Rick’s slightly raised and his assistant’s more of a murmur. They come out together, Rick frowning, the assistant, a tall man around my own age, with undisguised curiosity on his handsome, model-like face. He’s wearing a white T-shirt that reads Love is the Drug , with paint-spattered Evisu jeans, the iconic ‘E’ visible on both arse cheeks when he turns around.
‘Luke, this is a surprise. Just to say, I hate, loathe, detest being dropped in on, and if it wasn’t for your shock declaration about our relationship, you’d never have got past my assistant. This is Henry, by the way. But now that my concentration has been well and truly wrecked, what can I do for you?’
I struggle, momentarily, for words. Why am I here disrupting this intensely famous artist, who looks fucked off to say the least? But then I remember. Actually it’s me who is fucked off.
‘Shall I say in front of Henry?’
My voice is as hostile as I feel. Rick considers me in silence. He looks at the watch on his wrist, an elegant thing I’ve noticed before, silver with a navy-blue face.
‘Is this your lunch hour? Shall we grab a coffee? I won’t be long,’ he says to Henry, who is watching this interplay virtually open-mouthed.
I follow Rick out of the building and along the street and neither of us says a word until we reach a café with bleached wood floors, white walls and two hostile-looking baristas standing behind a counter.
‘Best cup of coffee in London,’ Rick says. ‘There’s a roastery out the back.’
He orders two espressos without consulting me about my choice and we carry them through to a little courtyard at the back. Rick, who has always been warm, welcoming, fun , is none of these things. It’s unnerving, this cool and silent scrutiny; he’s not going to make it easy for me.
‘I suppose I should tell you why I’m here,’ I say, and Rick just nods and takes a small sip of his espresso.
It’s hard to begin with, to enunciate the interior chaos, the slow and steady collapsing of my world, but once I’ve started, I find I cannot stop.
‘Things aren’t going well with Alice.’
‘Tell me about it,’ Rick says, voice heavy with sarcasm.
‘We grow more distant from each other every day. I don’t even feel like she’s an au pair any more; she’s become a complete stranger. And it hurts me that she cares so much more about Samuel than about me. I don’t seem to interest her at all.’
‘I’ll stop you there, shall I? Can you actually remember what you said to her the day you came back pissed and tried to have a fight over Samuel?’
A small nugget of unease that has been lodged in my gut ever since that day flares up. I’m dizzy with dread.
‘No? Well, you reminded her that she had no claim on your child since she’d given her own away.’
‘Fuck.’
I don’t bother to hide the fact that I’m crying, tears that tip down my cheeks, and I couldn’t care less.
‘She didn’t give you away. She gave you up. With good reason. Can you really not tell the difference?’
‘You’re angry with me.’
Rick shakes his head.
‘More worried than angry. Why do I feel like this whole thing is about to blow up in our faces?’
‘I didn’t mean to hurt Alice. I lashed out because she’s hurting me with her indifference. Isn’t it obvious?’
‘I warned you about this. But you rushed in, you and Hannah, like a couple of bulls in a china shop. No thought for what might happen if it didn’t work out. You’re bloody idiots, the pair of you.’
‘I’m not sure how to patch things up with her.’
‘You could try saying sorry. That usually works.’
‘I’m not sorry. I’m angry.’
‘With us for giving you up?’
Rick’s voice has softened, his eyes too. There’s the gleam of tears, a crack in his voice.
‘For that, yes, and for the fact that neither of you will ever tell me about the weeks when we were together. Where did we live? What did we do? Where are the photos from that time? You’re my father, for God’s sake. Why won’t you tell me these things?’
I glance up and catch a look of shame or guilt or fear on Rick’s face, I’m not sure which. And suddenly I know, with absolute certainty, that Elizabeth is right.
‘You’re not my father. Are you?’
‘I’m on your birth certificate, aren’t I?’
‘That’s not what I asked. You’ve been lying to me all along. Why would you do that?’
The rage is back. I slam my hand down on the table and my little espresso cup rattles in its saucer.
‘Do you think we’re trying to deceive you? Or protect you?’
‘I need to know the truth. I need to know who I am. Is that so hard to understand? Are you my father? It’s a simple answer, Rick. Yes? Or no?’
We are staring at each other while our coffees cool on the table between us. Rick’s face is kinder now; he attempts a smile. In the seconds while he chooses his words, I feel the rhythmic beating of my heart: tell me, don’t tell me, tell me, don’t tell me. I watch his mouth and his eyes, searching for clues. I’m not even sure what I’m hoping for. Do I want Richard Fields to be my biological father or not? The hesitation, the seconds of waiting, are too intense for either of us to breathe or take our eyes away from each other’s faces.
‘The answer is no. No, I am not your father. And yes, we lied to you. Your father, Luke, is … someone else.’