The letter left me reeling. An intense pain radiating from my chest. As though my heart had knotted around itself. I sat on the porch and wondered what my life would be like without parents. I had my children, one good friend nearby and one overseas. I had a job and a secure home as long as I could pay the rent. But where would we turn if I was sick or ran out of money? I’d read about a family of four living in a car under the trees at Point Erin, a local park.
I’d always known confronting Mavis would activate her fight or flight. I had broken the rules of the adopted daughter game. I had pushed us right to that invisible line and then stepped over it. I had caused the earthquake. I could not expect them still to play at being my parents.
When psychologists talk about Adopted Child Syndrome, they miss the core of it. We exhibit those dysfunctional behaviours to find the line. The one you can’t cross over. The one where no matter how you behave, someone will hold you tight. It is an impossible task. Even when you are surrounded by unconditional love, abandonment folds itself into your helical heart.
In the 1950s the American Psychological Association published parenting pamphlets. ‘When you’re tempted to pet your child, remember that mother love is a dangerous instrument.’ They said anything more than minimal affection would produce a dependent child. Rocking an infant was a vicious practice. Over-kissing (more than once a year) created weepiness.
In response, renegade scientist Harry Harlow asked: What is an infant’s love for its mother? In 1960, the year of my birth, Harlow removed newborn rhesus monkeys from their mothers. He put them in cages with two robotic dolls. One was soft and cuddly, the other was ugly and made from wire. The wire mother had a milk nipple protruding from its chest.
The baby monkeys would suck from wire mummy for less than an hour a day. For eighteen hours, they would take solace and reassurance from the cuddly cloth mother. Harlow went further. Once he’d established the pattern, he rigged cloth mummy so that spikes would shoot out. Or it would grab the babies and shake them violently. But no matter how extreme the abuse or rejection, the babies came back. And each time they would do everything they could to make cloth mummy love them again. They cooed and stroked and flirted. They even abandoned their friends to fix their relationship with cloth mummy. The rhesus babies were attached to wire mummy for physical survival. But they had bonded with cloth mummy for emotional sustenance. Despite the abuse, that emotional connection mattered more than food.
Harlow showed that bonding and attachment are not synonymous. Attachment is socialisation into a broader family context. Bonding is the emotional glue that holds us together. As if our very existence depends on bonding.
At work that day, the contra deals piled up as I sat at my desk above Queen Street. I pondered what it meant to be a mother. Could I disassociate from one of my children? What would they have to do to cause such a split? I knew it was not possible. And I understood then that it was adoption that had made me an orphan.
Rachel’s birthday rolled around. Birthdays mattered to Mavis. She showed her love with pyjamas and skirts, T-shirts and chocolates. She added ribbons and bows to the wrapping. The children loved to receive their gifts. There was nothing for Rachel on her day. Or for me on mine. Or the other girls on their birthdays.
More than a year went by. I was struggling to hold the pieces of my life together. After-school childcare had pushed me into debt. Every Monday I flew down to Wellington for the taping of the game show. I hated being so far away from the children. One evening my return flight was cancelled. It took hours to find someone to care for them. We were all stressed and miserable, and I knew I would have to quit my job and go on a benefit. The women in my office seemed understanding. But it was the late 1980s, and motherhood was not yet compatible with a career. I also sensed their relief at having delayed their own childbearing.
The first few days at home, I lay on my bed in the sunny house on Clarence Street and cried. Our lives had never felt so precarious. I would write to Mavis and Max. I would apologise. I would ask them to take me back. I would be like the baby monkey. I would beg to be their daughter again. I remember the sour taste in my mouth as I wrote the words.
But then I saw Mavis and Max had given me a gift. They had done the one thing I had always feared. They had shown me where the line was, and there was a new freedom in that.
I walked the children to school. They were joyous that I would be at the gate to meet them every day. I walked on to the Post Office and, dizzy with sadness, sent the letter. I wondered if I would ever recover. On the way home, I stopped in a café. It would be my last cappuccino for a while. I picked up a magazine and read an article about a man in Paris who had written a novel while running his magazine shop. I’d always wanted to write a novel. I know, I thought, I’ll set up a magazine shop. The border between thinking and doing is very thin with me.
My neighbour, the graphic designer Phil O’Reilly, agreed to help. Between us we came up with a name. He drew up a logo and I wrote a business plan. Magazzino would be the only magazine shop in New Zealand.
Two months passed before Mavis called. ‘We’ve had a think,’
