Death's Door. Meryl Sawyer

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      After a while Paul and Ruth had unfolded their legs, got up, and gone off to do other things, leaving her there with her plate of chocolate biscuits. She put her half-eaten biscuit aside, went to her bedroom, threw herself on her bed and cried. She was careful to be quiet because she didn’t want to upset Mummy and Daddy; they’d been sad before and she didn’t like it when they were sad.

      They said nothing had changed; that she was their little girl and would be theirs forever. But something was different. She didn’t really know what it was; it was just a weird feeling inside. Like when you felt a bit sick after eating too many chocolate chip biscuits, or maybe empty after you’d thrown up those too many chocolate chip biscuits.

      The odd, slightly empty feeling never really went away, but she never discussed it with Paul and Ruth. They were wonderful, loving parents, who had always been supportive, caring and encouraging. The last thing she’d ever want to do was hurt them.

      But as much as she’d told herself over the years that they were her real parents, there was always a question mark. Sometimes it was a deep pain; the rest of the time it just sat there as a feeling of being somehow incomplete, hollow.

      To their credit, Paul and Ruth had always encouraged her to search for her biological roots if and when she felt the time was right.

      But she’d always thought starting the search while they were alive would be disrespectful. What had also stopped her was knowing she wouldn’t be able to let go, would be totally consumed. It was the same wilful streak she’d channelled into a successful career in journalism. She could never stop at just knowing names of people and places.

      The deaths of her parents had caused the itch of curiosity to become a strong ache of needing to know. The investigation had kept her distracted for over three years, and had given her a certain sense of closure. But three months after its completion, the questions that had been burning inside her could no longer be ignored.

      Returning from her week off after the plane crash story had gone to air, Nicola had been mortified to find herself back covering the crappy stories of old; shock mobile phone bills, used cars that turned out to be lemons, pensioners struggling to make ends meet.

      It wasn’t that they weren’t worthy of coverage, it’s just that she needed something she could really get her teeth into, do some serious research and groundwork on; something really gritty.

      When Bill had tersely reminded her that these stories were the bread and butter of Life and Times –’It’s what the audience wants’ – Nicola had wondered if it was time for a career change.

      Three months ago, she’d decided that she’d put off her own story long enough; she really had to start the search that might lead nowhere, might lead somewhere – somewhere she might or might not like.

      One lunchtime she’d gone into the South Australian government adoptions website where she found a link: ‘Searching for birth relatives’. She’d quickly scanned the screen, pausing at a line that said to consider other parties involved.

      What if her biological parents didn’t want to be found? What if she was setting herself and others up for heartbreak? Scott always said you should look ahead in life, not back. But life wasn’t that simple.

      Anyway, she might not even get that far. She might not even have enough information.

      Nicola had selected the form for an ‘Adopted Person’ from the list, pressed print, and raced to the printer to collect it before anyone else in the office did. Back at her desk, she hadn’t been able to quite believe how straightforward it was; ironic really that something so important could be put so simply. Just five questions were all it took.

      She’d picked up the frame containing her birth photo, turned it over, and copied the details from those in blue biro on the back of the polaroid:

       Baby Nicola Born 16^th April 1977 Port Lincoln Hospital

      Nicola had paused at the two options underneath ‘What information are you seeking?’ and shaken her head. How would anyone be satisfied with just a birth certificate? She ticked the box for ‘All information relating to the adoption’, and then with her hand shaking even more, inserted her signature and the date.

      She’d got out her cheque book, pausing with her pen hovered above the printed form to acknowledge the further irony of such a plain, uncomplicated number (fifty dollars) for something that was anything but.

      She’d torn the cheque from its stub, placed it in the middle of the two A4 sheets of paper and folded them into three. She’d dragged an envelope from her desk drawer and slid the wad inside. Nicola had then returned her baby photo to its normal position and sat staring at the envelope.

      She’d done it; taken the first step. But could she take the next one and actually send it?

      Nicola picked up the silver frame containing the picture of Paul and Ruth. ‘You’d approve, wouldn’t you – say I’m doing the right thing?’ she whispered. She’d planted a kiss on the glass between their smiling faces and held it to her chest. Then she’d filled out the address on the envelope and posted it.

      Three months on and she was still waiting for information to arrive.

Chapter Four

      The tightly packed room of round tables draped in white linen reminded Nicola of mushrooms grown in boxes. Kept in the dark and fed on shit, she mused.

      Another boring dinner with an information session about the stock market was the last thing she felt like tonight. In fact, she’d been on her way home, picturing a steaming bath full of bubbles and a glass of wine, when Scott had phoned to ask her to get him a clean shirt and tie; he didn’t have time after all. Nicola had managed to hide the fact that she’d completely forgotten about his industry function; had thought it was next week. ‘Yes, fine, I’ll meet you at your office at six,’ she’d said and hung up.

      Nicola had finished her drive home in a huff and four hours later, having showered and dressed in a black pantsuit, wasn’t feeling any more congenial. ‘Oh well, fair’s fair,’ she muttered to herself, as she stood just inside the doorway looking for Scott.

      They’d left his office in separate cars, and she’d had trouble finding a park; he should already be here somewhere, she thought, scanning the mingling crowd.

      God she hated turning up to these things alone. She didn’t mind introducing herself to strangers, just the initial awkwardness of standing alone surveying the room for someone familiar.

      Men stood around in grey-suited clusters – plain and pinstripes – their ties the only splashes of colour. The uniformity went further than their dress-sense; the younger ones were trim and muscular, probably gym junkies like her Scott. But once they hit their mid-to-late-forties it seemed there was a collective giving up on trying to keep pot bellies at bay. And there must be some kind of weird agreement over hair as well; in all the younger men, not a speck of grey in sight, but plenty of grey and even white amongst the older set. Regardless of age, they all seemed to have the same style, short back and sides, slightly longer on top with a neat but sweeping fringe parted on the side. The younger lot had their fringes up and СКАЧАТЬ