In Her Mothers' Shoes (37 page)

When Kate was a teenager, Aunt Doris used to say that Kate came from ‘bad seed’ – that she had inherited her mother’s genes for promiscuity and would do nothing but give the family a bad reputation. Rose half feared she was right as she watched her daughter chase after boys every time they went to the beach, to the skating rink, to the rugby. Kate was incorrigible, managing to transform her perfectly respectable clothes into something that made her look like she had no self respect, made her look just like her friends, who hitched their skirts up above their knees, teased their hair in a matted pile on top of their heads, and stuffed cotton wool inside their bras to make A-cups into a triple-C.

Rose remembered that Saturday afternoon when Kate was thirteen; she’d driven past the ice-rink on her way to visit her old friend Joan and there, in the carpark, was Kate and two of her school friends, skates hanging carelessly off their shoulders, looking much older than their years, talking to a group of boys gathered around a large white low-slung car. She’d been so surprised, she’d driven around the block and parked on the other side of the street, far enough away to remain unseen but close enough to see what was going on.

The boys were smoking. They’d offered the girls a puff and Kate had taken the cigarette, held it up to her lips then puffed out a plume of smoke towards the boy who’d given it to her. Rose had been so outraged she almost leapt out of the car, rushed over the road and plucked it from her daughter’s fingers. Almost.

When Kate handed the cigarette back, she leaned over and gave the boy a kiss.

That’s when she noticed Kate was wearing lipstick and the jersey she had on was not the same jersey she’d left home in just after lunch. This jersey was tight, black and polo-necked. Even under her jacket, her chest was fully outlined. Rose couldn’t believe it was her daughter.

‘You mark my words,’ Doris had said, ‘that girl’s heading for trouble. Her mother was nothing but a tramp, and now the daughter’s taking after her. You shouldn’t let her behave like that.’

~   ~   ~

The Adoption Amendment Act was passed and still Kate didn’t say anything. It wasn’t until after James was born that the subject came up. Rose was visiting her daughter and new grandson at the Women’s Hospital, carrying camellias and rhododendrons from the garden. Kate was alone, sitting up in bed reading a magazine.

‘Where’s my new grandson?’ Rose said after she’d kissed her daughter.

‘He’s away in the nursery. They seem to think I need a rest.’

‘And so you do. You make the most of it.’

‘I know, I know. There won’t be much sleep when I get home with him.’

‘I’ll just be a minute. I’ll find a vase.’ Rose was half-way out the door.

‘No, don’t. Not yet. There’s something I’ve got to ask you.’

‘What is it?’ Rose had a sense of dread. By the look on Kate’s face, something serious had happened.

‘The results came back from James’ heel-prick test today, and they said he tested positive for cystic fibrosis.’

‘What? Surely not?’ Rose sat down hard on the big high-sided nursing chair next to the bed.

‘Yes. They said not to set too much store by it yet, that it’s only a preliminary result. They’ve taken another blood sample and are doing more tests over the next few days.’

‘Well that’s something.’

‘But Mum, I have to know . . . Kate put her magazine down and pushed herself to sit up straight. ‘. . . if there’s any cystic fibrosis in my family. It’s important.’

Rose wilted under her stare. She knew perfectly well just what Kate meant by ‘my family’. She didn’t mean Rose and George, or her parents Amelia and Jim. She didn’t mean the taciturn C.T. and his wife Margaret. She meant her own birth mother: she who could not be named. And her birth mother’s family, whoever they were and whatever their state of health.

There was a long silence.

‘I’m going to have to track her down now. You can see that, can’t you?’

‘I’m not sure I . . .’

‘Whenever a doctor’s asked me “Do you have any of these diseases in your family’s medical history?” I’ve never been able to answer it. And it’s always bugged me. But now it’s of vital importance. I’ve got to find out what’s in my genes, because now it’s affecting my children’s genes and it’s just not fair on them. I need to know what the past can tell me about my baby’s future.’

‘Of course.’ Rose felt utterly defeated. There was nothing she could do now to stop it. The rollercoaster ride she’d always dreaded was about to begin – the rollercoaster that she’d been told twisted and turned and looped back on itself whenever anyone tried to find their birth family.

She’d talked about it with Joan over the past few months, ever since the first reports had appeared in the newspaper about the changing law. Both Rose and Joan had agreed they would never bring up the adoption law changes with their daughters; they would wait for them to broach it. And neither girl had.

Now Rose realised that had probably been foolish, that she’d had her head in the sand and of course the issue hadn’t gone away.

‘Will you help me find her?’ Kate asked.

‘Of course,’ Rose repeated numbly. She would have to support her on the path to discovery, or at least pretend she did. Much as she loved Kate, she wasn’t sure she could ever welcome the search taking place. What if she lost her to her birth mother? What if Kate found she liked her birth mother a lot more than she liked Rose? The woman would be a lot younger than her, for a start, and probably a lot more with-it. She’d probably have her own family, the brothers and sisters Kate had always wanted. She’d go off with them and Rose would never see her again. That’s what had happened to one of the old ladies at Woodchester. Her adopted daughter had found her birth mother and had little to do with her adoptive mother for years afterwards, only coming back to her when her birth mother had remarried.

‘Don’t look like that, Mum.’

‘Like what?’

‘Such a long face. Anyone would think I was going to rush off with her and never see you again.’

‘Well, I was thinking that, yes.’

‘Don’t be so silly. You’ve been my Mum for over thirty years. I’m not going to run off on you now.’

‘I suppose not.’ But Rose didn’t feel convinced.

~   ~  ~

A few days later, when Kate was back home from the hospital, further tests came back to say that James did not have cystic fibrosis.

But Rose had given it a lot of thought.

Soon after the test results came through, she copied the relevant details from her daughter’s original birth certificate onto a piece of paper.

‘I wanted to save you the bureaucracy of having to ask for it officially,’ she said as she handed it over.

‘Is that my original name?’

Rose nodded.

‘It’s nice.’

Rose didn’t like the sound of that, or where it might be heading. If Kate thought her original name was ‘nice’, did that mean she’d feel that way about everything connected with her origins, including her mother?

‘Underneath is the name of your birth mother and father.’ But she could tell Kate had already seen that. She was holding the photocopied piece of paper as if it were the Holy Grail. She took a seat at Kate’s kitchen table and traced her finger along the groove in the polished rimu.

It was a while before Kate spoke. At last she said quietly, ‘Thanks Mum.’ She came over and gave her a hug. ‘I don’t expect it’s easy for you.’

Rose decided she might as well be honest. ‘No.’

‘I’ll show David.’ Kate left her in the kitchen and carried the piece of paper reverently away to the nursery where David was changing James’ disposable under the watchful eye of Amelia, never far away from her baby brother.

~   ~  ~

In the spring Rose marked her birthday by retiring from her weekend duties at Woodchester, farewelling the elderly patients with difficulty – she felt they had become part of her life, even though George and Kate expressed little interest in them. And now she found her days longer, her patience with her husband more sorely tested; she felt confined, tied to the house and to George, even though she knew he would never have wanted her to feel that.

One morning, a little over a month after giving up her job, she was awoken early by George calling across to her from his bed. Raised on large, solid chocks of wood, the single bed was high enough to facilitate her washing and handling him on and off the mattress, but its height meant he seemed to tower over her when she was lying in the bed next to him.

‘Rose. I say, Rose.’

She struggled to wake up. ‘Yes, dear, what is it?’

‘I’m afraid I’ve had a bit of an accident.’

She knew exactly what that meant. Before she could stop herself, she said ‘Oh no, not again.’

Then the smell hit her. Her nursing training, followed by her time changing nappies when Katharine was a baby, had taught her not to gag. No matter how bad the smell, she would always cope.

It wasn’t the smell that got to her. It was the knowledge that for the fifth morning in a row, George had messed himself and she would have to start her day not with a hot shower and breakfast over the morning paper but cleaning up faeces, washing him down, changing then scrubbing down the sheets and his pyjamas, and doing two loads of laundry all over again.

And this morning she was supposed to be tramping with her friends from the Over Forties Tramping Club. If she was to meet them at the foot of the hills at ten, she would have to get George cleaned up, make his breakfast and get him into his day-chair before half past nine.

‘I won’t be a minute.’ She eased herself out of bed, hurried to the bathroom and relieved herself then stood in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at her reflection in despair.

The face staring back at her looked years older than she remembered seeing before. Her fly-away hair was sticking out in a frizzy halo; her usually rosy cheeks were wan. What had happened to the radiant young woman from Te Kuiti? 

She wanted to run. She couldn’t stand it any longer.

Suddenly, as if propelled by an unknown force, she was striding down the hall to the kitchen. She grabbed the car keys off the rack, opened the garage door, backed the car out, turned down the drive and sped away up the road. Where to go? The only person she could think of was Joan. Joan had nursed her husband through cancer until his death at a comparatively early age. Joan would know what to do.

Turning out of their street onto the main road was always difficult; at this hour of the day, to turn right to reach Joan’s, crossing over the busy early morning flow of traffic into town required precision timing. Rose was finding it hard to concentrate and missed several opportunities. A car behind her honked impatiently.

She couldn’t do it.