Page 87 of Days You Were Mine

And the thing is, I do. Her words, her pitch, her bid for myboy: just this, it makes so much sense. I’m not sure I will manage to bring him up on my own. Where would I live? How would I finish my degree? How would I ever support us? I might be able to draw a single-parent allowance, but would it be enough to cover rent, food, clothing, heating, all those things I’ve never had to think about? I am twenty years old and I don’t know where to start.

Penny comes in now and wheels Charlie away for his bath.

‘Cup of tea for you, my darling? And one for your visitor?’

And perhaps it is simply because my son is out of sight that when Mrs Taylor Murphy brings out the ‘preliminary’ adoption papers for me to look at – so much emphasis on that word today – I say, ‘Just tell me where I have to sign.’

I don’t see my parents again, although I am sure Mrs Taylor Murphy will have imparted the good news, the impending handing-over of my son.

Just before she leaves, she asks why I put Rick’s name down on the hospital certificate instead of Jacob’s.

‘The nurses only allowed him to stay with me because he said he was the father.’

‘You know what, Alice? Maybe it’s a good thing. Maybe in the future, when your child wants to contact you, he’ll find two parents ready to meet him instead of one.’

And she gives me that little fantasy to hold onto, the prospect of meeting my child again once he’s an adult.

In our last days together, the nurses, aware that I’m having Charlie adopted, ration the time I spend with him.

‘Don’t let her get too attached,’ I hear one of them telling Penny, who smuggles him in outside of feeding time. ‘It will only make it harder when she has to say goodbye.’

Goodbye. How is that even possible? I have an acute painin my heart, physical, like the gouging of a javelin, every time I contemplate it. During the night-time feed, three o’clock on the dot, I am left alone with him in the darkness. And I whisper my secrets to him, filling his tiny ears with hopes and dreams as the stars stud the sky outside our hospital window.

‘You’ll be like your father. You’ll be tall and handsome and funny and brave. You’ll be musical. Artistic. I will love you all the way through your childhood. And when you’re eighteen, we will find each other again.’

On our last day – Mrs Taylor Murphy is due to arrive at ten the next morning, to take Charlie off to his foster parents – Rick comes to visit.

‘Tea and biscuits, Richard?’ asks Penny, who loves Rick and always gives him extra custard creams.

‘You’re a wonder woman,’ Rick says. ‘And do you think we could have a few minutes undisturbed? Just want to make sure Alice is all right about tomorrow.’

‘Leave it to me,’ says Penny, pulling the curtains around the bed.

For a moment we just look at each other, no need for words.

‘Don’t bully me, Rick.’

‘He looks like Jake even now at a few days old. Imagine how much he will look like him when he’s older: twelve, eighteen, twenty. And you won’t be there to see that happen. How can you bear it?’

‘I don’t have a choice. Not if I want what is best for him. And I do want that, more than you could ever imagine. Where would I live? In your squat?’

Rick shakes his head. He grins, then grabs hold of my hand and kisses it.

‘The thing is,’ he says, ‘I’ve just had the most genius idea.’

Now

Luke

Adoption is one of the last great taboos. No one talks about the fact that the adopted child might carry their relinquishment wound into adult life. It’s like a conspiracy, everyone contriving to present a united view. Adoption is a good thing, a fantastic thing. How could you possibly think anything else?

Who Am I? The Adoptee’s Hidden Traumaby Joel Harris

If you’re going to go nuts, you may as well do it in the company of Kate Moss and Robbie Williams. I’m to be treated as an outpatient at the Priory, infamous rehabilitation centre to burnt-out celebrities but also home to some of the best psychotherapists in town.

I am in my mother’s car, with all its checkpoints of familiarity: the flower dangling from the mirror, once a tasteful air freshener now a defunct piece of cardboard; the folded rug on the back seat; the tin of sweets on the shelf beneath the glove compartment. Samuel is in the back, asleep in his car seat, one fist closed around his squinting old bear, a needle of pain each time I see it.

A moment of misgiving when my mother drops me off infront of this palatial white building (turrets, arches and Doric columns for the celebrity breakdown). She offered to come in with me, but that meant bringing Samuel too, and somehow I couldn’t bear the thought of it.

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