Now Luke
Now
Luke
The guilt at giving up a child is ravaging and inescapable and a birth mother will normally react in one of two ways. She will become deadened inside, closing off her grief in order to carry on. Or she will become utterly tormented by it.
Who Am I? The Adoptee’s Hidden Trauma by Joel Harris
The drive to Southwold takes less than three hours, powered by Rick’s silver Alfa Romeo and maniacal driving.
He tells me about his and Alice’s flight from the hospital, in an old Morris Minor with red leather seats.
‘You and Alice slept in the back seat the whole way, and you woke up just as we arrived at the beach for sunrise. In spite of all the heartbreak, it felt like a new beginning. Like we’d been given a second chance.’
I learn on this journey how Rick was, to all intents, my father for a short while; Rick, Alice and me, a team of three.
‘You and I spent a lot of time together in the first few weeks. I wanted Alice to have the space to grieve and so I’d take you out wrapped up in a shawl and tied to my chest. We’d walk for hours along the beach and over the marshes, and when we got back, Alice’s face would be red from crying, but she always made a point of smiling for you. She never cried in front of you; she said she wanted you to only know love and happiness. I’m not sure how she managed it.’
‘Poor Alice.’
‘She never got over it. A love like theirs is a rare thing. They weren’t just lovers, they were connected on a much deeper level. For one thing they’d both survived abusive childhoods and they held each other up. Together they were strong, but without Jake, Alice couldn’t function. I asked her to marry me once; I thought it was the solution after he died. But she wouldn’t have it. She’s never loved anyone except Jake. I don’t think she ever will.’
‘Did you have to give me up?’
I see the way Rick tightens his grip on the steering wheel. I understand that the question hurts him in the same way it hurts me.
‘Perhaps not. Perhaps we could have found a way through. It was a decision that wrecked her life. Even more than losing Jake, I think. She closed off, lost her character, became someone else. I kept thinking she’d recover, but she never did.’
We are silent for a long time after this.
It’s Rick who speaks first.
‘You look just like Jake, same voice, mannerisms, everything. It’s almost unbearable at times, even for me.’
‘You think I remind Alice of him?’
‘I know you do. She told me she cried herself to sleep the day you first met. So happy to find you, so devastated all over again that she’d lost him.’
‘Why did she get so obsessed with Samuel?’
‘Because he’s exactly like you. It was hard for me too, seeing Samuel the first time, don’t you remember? It was like we’d got our baby back. Alice hasn’t been very well these past years – that’s obvious, isn’t it? And I think she used to disappear into a fantasy world when she was looking after Samuel. In her mind, she allowed Samuel to become you, the baby she’d lost. She didn’t mean any harm. It was the escape of a rather sad and heartbroken woman. But she went rapidly downhill when you stopped her seeing him. She was talking about Southwold all the time, the months we had there, the things we used to do, and I just wish I’d realised where it was all heading. She was fixated on saying goodbye to the baby.’
‘And did she call him Samuel?’
Rick turns his head to look at me for a second.
‘Nope.’
‘I could see it happening, but no one believed me. I started following Alice around the park most days, and I know how that sounds. But I knew something was wrong, something I couldn’t put my finger on.’
‘Her mental health has been fragile for a long time. The reunion with you, something she’d longed for, tipped her over the edge. It was as if Jake was back in her life again and she’s missed him so much. Only, of course, he wasn’t. Obsessing over Samuel was easier than dealing with all that pain again.’
‘I wish we’d had this conversation before it was too late.’
‘It isn’t too late. We’re having it now.’
‘You don’t think …’ I break off. Fear has vacuumed up the words that cannot be spoken. But Rick needs no explanation.
‘She loves him. She wouldn’t hurt a hair on his head.’
We have arrived in Southwold now, in good time; there’s still plenty of daylight left, there’s still heat in the sun. I’ve never been here before, don’t know what to expect, am slightly amazed by the chichi-ness of it, although I don’t know why. Architecture in colour-coordinated pastels with Farrow it used to have a moving shelf of pennies – you know the kind? – and when the pennies tipped over the edge, you laughed your head off.’ There’s a wistfulness in his voice, and it makes me sad to think of Rick and Alice, those two young art students with their baby.
‘Rick?’
He turns around from the steering wheel, tears in his eyes as I expected.
‘Maybe everything can be all right between us.’
‘It can, Luke. I know it can.’
He is turning down a side street, and now the sea is ahead of us, a silver skin dissected by a cloudless sky. We pull into a little car park in the showstopper car, the beach in front of it lined with a row of candy-coloured huts: pink, yellow, blue and green. My heart is surging with hope and fear.
‘This is our beach. The first time we came here, Alice and Jake and Tom and me, we drove through the night and arrived at sunrise. We made that same trip the night we ran away with you. This beach means so much to her; it’s the last place she was with you before she gave you away.’
A thought strikes me.
‘Can I go alone?’
Rick looks at me. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I think it’s important. Just me and him and her. I want to get it right.’
At first, I think the beach is empty. It takes a few moments for my focus to land on the woman and child sheltering against the breakers. Even from here, I know it’s them.
I want to run, shout, yell, rage, but I force myself to stay calm as relief surges through me. I take out my phone to text Hannah.
Got them. He’s safe.
What I see, as I walk towards them, is how tenderly Alice cares for the small boy on her lap. One arm curved around him as she picks out pebbles and shells for him to inspect. Alice and Samuel. Or Alice and Charlie. It doesn’t much matter which in this bizarre reshaping of our past.
When I’m closer, just a few yards away, she looks up and sees me. Panic flits across her face. She grabs Samuel, holds him against her chest, both arms wrapped around him as if she will never let go.
‘You can’t take him,’ Alice says not looking at me. ‘I’ve changed my mind.’
‘Alice.’
I crouch in front of her. I need to be gentle, as I coax her back into the present.
‘Will you look at me, Alice?’
She shakes her head.
‘Alice?’
Still nothing.
‘I’m Charlie, Alice. I’m your baby. I grew up.’
She does look at me then and I watch the comprehension flooding her face, the fear that follows it.
‘Forgive me,’ she says, head bowed.
I hesitate, not wanting to break the spell.
But then Alice turns Samuel around to face me and he shouts in joyful recognition. She makes as if to pass him to me but I shake my head, grab his tiny fist in my hand instead.
From somewhere deep inside I understand Alice cannot go through it again, the handing over of her child on a wind-blown Suffolk beach.
I sit next to them on the damp sand, make clown faces for Samuel the way Alice taught us, rewarded with his instant chuckle.
I feel the cool salt wind on my cheeks, listen for the rhythmic lull of waves breaking on the sand. A sound from now and then, a fragment of deep connection to my past if I can just hold onto it for a moment longer.
‘Let’s sit awhile, Alice,’ I say.