Strange Sally Diamond(29)

‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘You’re a nutcase, but you’re our nutcase.’ She laughed and I laughed because she was right and it was nice to feel that I belonged to someone. I apologized again to Angela. The frozen peas had worked because her face was unmarked.

I asked a lot of questions that day but I didn’t get many answers. Angela didn’t know anything except that I’d been adopted. She had looked up my story on the internet and could glean bare facts. The date my birth mother was abducted, the date we were discovered. Conor Geary’s date of birth and family circumstances (he had one sister from whom he had been estranged). The date of my mother’s death. She did not know how exactly she died but that it was ruled a suicide. The reports that I had been adopted abroad.

Apart from that, we had a nice day. I hadn’t thought to buy them gifts, but Angela and Nadine had bought me a purple sweater that was soft and bright. I was amazed that they didn’t turn the television on at all. They played with Spotify and tried to get me to join them in dancing. They drank a lot. I drank three glasses of wine and that is my absolute limit. Even then, I was feeling sleepy, but I was glad to walk home.

The minute I got in, I turned on the central heating and the television. I was disappointed not to get answers from Angela about what had happened to me. I went into Dad’s office and opened the box marked PRIVATE. There were old Polaroids labelled ‘Denise and Mary Norton’. My birth mother was so young and frail, and in most photos she looked terrified. In photos where her mouth was open, I could see that she had no visible teeth. In the majority of them, she had her arms wrapped around a small child. In bed, on an office chair, standing by a radiator. She wore clothes that were mismatched and seemed to swamp her emaciated body. It took me a moment to realize the child was me, despite the label. I did not, do not, resemble Denise, although she must have been young when she died. I compared photographs of me when I was in my late teens and early twenties. There was no likeness. In the photographs where she was on her own, her face was tear-stained and her arms reached out. For me?

I didn’t recognize her, but with close inspection, I recognized me. My face was taut and pinched, unlike the photos of my seventh birthday party, where I looked well fed, albeit unhappy. Denise looked gaunt. In some of the photos, we are smiling at each other and she appears to be talking to me. I don’t look at the camera. Despite the circumstances, I look like my smile is genuine and voluntary. My sunken eyes sparkle. Toby isn’t in any of the photos.

I went to the mirror and tried to replicate the smile, but I am an adult woman. It is stupid to try to smile like a child.

In the box, also, there were small cassette tapes and a Dictaphone. The tapes were numbered and dated. I slipped the first numbered tape, dated 11/04/80, into the slot, but the batteries were long dead. I replaced them and pressed play. I recognized Dad’s voice immediately.

Tom: Denise, come in, no need to be afraid, this is a safe place. Nobody is going to hurt you here. And this is your little girl, Mary?



Me!

Denise: [screaming] Leave the door open, please open the door!

Child: [whimpering]

Tom: I’m so sorry. Jean, will you leave the door open wide, please?

Denise: Where is she going? I don’t want her to go!

Jean: Tom, it might be better if I stay?



My mum’s voice!

Tom: You’re right. Now, Denise, is that better? Jean will stay and the door is open. Would you like to sit down there, and Mary can sit – oh I see, well, you can sit together. Wherever you are comfortable.

Denise: [mumbles]

Tom: Did you sleep last night, Denise? I know everything must be strange to you after being … away for so long.

Denise: [mumbles a question]

Child: [whispers an answer]

Tom: There is no need to whisper any more, Mary.

Denise: Don’t talk to her!

Jean: Will I take Mary over here to the play area?

Denise: No!

Tom: It’s just a few steps away. You can watch.

Denise: No. I said no!

[A long silence. Jean coughs]

Tom: You saw your mother and father last night, Denise, how did that feel?

Denise: They look old.

Tom: It’s been fourteen years. People age. Do you think you look different to the way you looked fourteen years ago?

Denise: I suppose.

Tom: Jean, can you check that file and see if there are any photos of Denise before …

Jean: Yes, there are some right here.

Tom: Denise, would you like to see what you looked like fourteen years ago?

Tom: Are you nodding your head or shaking it?

Denise: I want to see.

[Sounds of movement]



I think the tape has stopped, but it is just another long silence. Then there is the sound of tearing and scuffling and the child, me, whimpering. Dad is calm.

Tom: Why did you tear up those photos, Denise?

Denise: They want her. They don’t want me.

Tom: Who?

Denise: My mammy and daddy. They want that girl back.

Tom: That girl is you, Denise.

Denise: I don’t know her.

Tom: Jean told me that it was a stressful visit, Denise. You’re twenty-five now, isn’t that right? Can you imagine what it was like for your mammy and daddy, missing you for all those years, wondering what had happened to you?