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The Wall of Secrets
Memoir of the Almost Daughter
By Claire Hitchon Balboa Press
Copyright © 2014 Claire Hitchon
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4525-2393-4
CHAPTER 1
On the Outside, Looking In
1977
The last time I saw my mother, she told me I was dead. "Dead to us," was how she put it as she leaned over my hospital bed, as I lay there with my wrists bandaged and bloody and my head hurting so bad it felt like someone had hammered nails into my brain. That was from all the pills.
"I'm so embarrassed," my mother wailed and then followed with a barrage of insults before she told me I could never come home.
Why would I ever want to go home? I wondered. I hadn't been home in years, not since I ran away when I was fifteen and ended up living on the streets of Toronto. Those were the wild years, the years of playing guitar, smoking pot, and running with Satan's Choice. They were a pretty rough motorcycle gang, but they were good to me. That's when I got addicted to heroin and things really got weird. After I got out of prison, I started turning my life around. I couldn't have done it without my friend Daryl. She was an amazing woman and an amazing musician. We made such wonderful music together.
But then she got sick and died.
Shit happens.
I just couldn't handle any more shit in my life, so when she got really sick, I got the pills. I don't remember swallowing the whole bottle, and I sure don't remember cutting my wrists.
But I sure do remember waking up in the hospital to find my mother leaning over me, her red lipstick smeared across her mouth as thick as frosting, making her lips look like a gashing, blood-drenched wound, like the severed flesh of my arms.
"As far as we're concerned, you're dead to us," she hissed, then turned around, grabbed my dad by the arm, and walked out.
I first began to understand the terrible secret of my birth when I was eight years old. I didn't clearly understand it, but the truth started tickling my brain, like truth does sometimes.
I had this cousin who always let my cousins know they were adopted. They were two girls on my mom's side, and they'd been adopted and my cousin liked to point that out.
"You're not even real family!" she'd taunt them. "Your parents gave you away!"
I always bit my tongue when she said that. I didn't quite understand it completely, but I knew that they were real family and that my cousin was just being mean.
Then she started saying it to me.
That's when I knew just how mean she was, and that her words were just lies. She just said that about any cousin she didn't like, I decided. My other cousins, the adopted ones, said she was right, that I was adopted, too, just like they were. But I knew they were only saying that so they wouldn't feel so alone. Obviously, I wasn't adopted. I had baby pictures to prove it.
But that's when it started to tickle my brain.
What if I was?
So I asked my mom, a few times, but she just ignored the question or simply changed the subject.
She probably thought it was a ridiculous question.
Which it was.
When my mom said that I was dead to her, I thought about that cousin from my childhood. Maybe meanness runs in the family, I considered. But by that time, I was pretty used to it, so even though it hurt, I wasn't that surprised.
A couple of weeks later, I got discharged from the hospital and found a job.
It hadn't been easy finding work. I'd served two years in a minimum-security prison for possession of heroin, and while I was there, I finished my high school diploma and worked in various areas. That's where I learned many skills, but once I got out and tried to find work, the door always slammed shut the minute they asked me where I'd gotten my experience. It didn't matter that I'd been an honors student, an award-winning pianist by junior high, and was the only daughter of the Hitchons, one of Belleville's most-distinguished families. They just saw me as an ex-con, not worth $2.95 an hour. But this time, it was different. The man interviewing me didn't care about my past; in fact, he was intrigued.
He understood that creative people are imperfect and prone to rebellion.
He was quite a bit older than I was, by about twenty years. But he didn't seem old; he was one of those silver-haired, distinguished-looking guys who stay fit and are always well-mannered and beautifully dressed, a real "silver fox" if ever there was one.
I was so happy to just have work, especially since we were treated with respect. They never made me feel bad or out of place for having been in prison, and no one made a move on me. I kept waiting for it, at first, but pretty soon I concluded that all the guys, especially Mike, were just nice guys, real gentlemen. And he seemed to recognize that I didn't want to spend my life working in a minimum-wage job, but until I found something better, I was going to work hard and impress him, which he liked.
One day, after I'd just finished locking up and was getting my things together, I heard Mike call my name.
I turned around and he was standing there with a playful smile.
"How would you like to go get a drink and listen to some great jazz?" he asked, startling me with the question.
I sort of stammered in reply, and he just laughed and took the broken syllables that fell out of my mouth as a yes. So we went out and had a couple of glasses of wine and some dinner and then heard some jazz, and he took me home and didn't make a pass or anything; he was just the perfect gentleman. After all the motorcycle guys and the dealers and druggies I'd hung out with in the past, going out with a gentleman for a respectable drink and conversation made me feel really good, like I was a normal person.
We started talking a lot after that, about politics and religion, art and music. He seemed eager to talk, and I was eager to listen, since I hadn't had such interesting talks since Daryl had died. He took me to expensive restaurants and shows, and he was proud to be seen with me. I figured I was probably eye candy for him, but I felt so comfortable with him as I got to know him, and he clearly cared about me. So the age difference didn't mean much, and if he liked being seen with a pretty young girl every now and then, I felt lucky to be that girl.
For the longest time, there was nothing sexual about our relationship, but after some time, that changed. I hadn't felt that comfortable with a man in a long time, and for once, I felt genuinely cared for.
"I don't like you living here," he told me. "It's not safe living downtown, especially for you. There are too many temptations and bad influences, and you don't need that. You should move closer to the lake, someplace where there's nature, where you can meditate and heal."
I knew he was right; I have always felt most at home when I'm closest to nature, and it was true that I was tempted by the downtown crowd. I'd drop into my favorite places, The Continental and Norm's, every now and then, and I knew it was only a matter of time before I would end up right back in that life if I didn't do something to get away from it.
So Mike helped me to find a nice little apartment close to the water. It was a large studio with a big kitchen; it was clean and filled with light. I didn't have much to furnish it with, as I had been living with whatever junk I happened to find, but Mike built me some bookcases that divided the living area from the sleeping area, and I started to accumulate furnishings bit by bit. Before long, I went from having nothing to having an apartment filled with beautiful things. Mike would drop by with a bottle of wine and read me poetry or take me out to dinner, and life was very good.
But I was still pulled to the past, and I was unable to completely break free from it all. On days that I wasn't working, I'd scramble over the concrete to my favorite table at The Continental. The girls seemed to accept me in my new, respectable role, but every now and then, I'd catch them whispering back and forth, only to glance back at me with a phony smile. I knew what they were saying: that I thought I was better than they were, that I wouldn't make it in my new job and would be back to the street life in no time. That it was only a matter of time before I'd be back on heroin. They could say what they wanted behind my back, but it wouldn't change my determination. I wanted a better life, and I was going to do what I had to do to get it.
My life was slowly falling into place. Still, there was a persistent, haunting theme that enveloped me, smothered me in sadness and pain. And I didn't know how to break free. All I knew was that wherever I went, I didn't feel like I belonged. I wanted to find the place and people that were mine—my tribe. It wasn't at The Continental or Norm's, and it wasn't at work, but Mike seemed to understand that.
"Let me help you," he said. "Just trust me. All you have to do is trust me."
And little by little, I eventually did.
CHAPTER 2
Broken Eggs
"Shit. What's wrong with me?" It was the third time I'd fallen asleep on the Queen Streetcar after work. Each time, I would end up at the last stop of the line and have to turn around and go back. It seemed that the hotter and muggier it got, the more tired I became, until by the end of my shift I'd come home from work so tired I couldn't even stay awake long enough to reach my bus stop.
"Maybe you should see a doctor?" the driver said as he turned to make the long drive back.
"Right," I replied, "maybe I should. I've been feeling pretty sick, too. I'll make an appointment." I closed my eyes and struggled to stay awake while I squeezed in as much rest as I could until we reached my stop.
When I finally got home, I didn't even bother with dinner; I just climbed straight into bed. I made a doctor's appointment the next morning.
"We can see you today," the receptionist told me. "Can you make it in this afternoon?" The thought of spending my day off riding the bus route yet again just to sit in a doctor's waiting room was not exactly fun, but I agreed to come in.
The next day, while I was working, the telephone rang. "Claire? It's for you!" the guy at the front hollered to me. I grabbed the extension and waited for the familiar click, to be sure he wasn't listening in. It was someone from the doctor's office calling with my test results.
I was pregnant.
I hadn't thought that I could get pregnant. I had been in the hospital several times for ovarian cysts and endometriosis. They told me I would never get pregnant. But for years, I'd very much wanted to have a baby, and in the back of my mind, I hoped and prayed that it would happen. Now that it had, I was in shock. Pregnancy was something that happened to other people, not to me. Having and raising a child was something that other people did, not me. Being unmarried and broke with a job that paid nothing was something that happened to other people, not to me.
This was happening to me.
I got through the rest of my shift in a daze as reality began to sink in. A million and one thoughts overtook my mind, but none seemed to settle long enough for me to focus on anything. It was all so surreal.
But it kept me awake long enough to reach my stop.
"No more sleeping?" the driver called as he pulled to the curb.
"Nope; not today," I said, as cheerfully as I could muster, before I stepped onto the curb and waved good-bye. As I walked home, I instinctively moved my hand to my still flat belly, as if to protect the rice-sized being from exposure the cruelty of the world.
I'll be okay. I'll be okay. We'll be okay.
As I walked and repeated my mantra, I realized that I had become a we. I had never really known what it was to be a we; it seemed that my entire life, I'd been alone.
I didn't really understand what we could mean, until it was taken away from me. I'd always assumed my family was a we. We liked to do certain things. We liked music. We were refined and important people.
But when I was ten or eleven, I overheard my grandmother and aunt having a conversation about me, and it shattered my sense of we forever.
They were talking in hushed tones, like a loud whisper, just soft enough for me to know they were talking about something important, but loud enough for me to hear them say it.
"She's doing so well," my aunt said to my grandma, "for an adopted child."
"Yes," my grandma agreed, "she fits in so well with the family, and it's so nice that she's musical like her parents."
I couldn't believe my grandma said that. Had she been talking to my cousin and listening to her mean lies? Why would my grandma say something like that?
I didn't quite understand it, but I did understand one part of it.
If I fit in so well, it must mean I was some kind of substitute. I wasn't a real part of we. They were a we, and I was a she. She fits in so well.
Now, grown and pregnant, I truly was a part of a we. When I opened the door to my apartment, everything looked different. The sudden realization that everything about my life was about to change gave me a new set of eyes to see my world. Where would I put a crib? Where would a child play? My little apartment, just right for me, had suddenly become too small.
I opened the fridge to grab a beer and then realized I shouldn't do that. I grabbed a carton of milk and laughed. It wasn't that long ago that I wouldn't have thought twice before reaching for heroin to shoot into my veins, and now with the realization I was having a baby, I wouldn't even reach for a beer! Why hadn't I protected myself in the same way I was already protecting my baby?
I plopped into the big, gray chair in my living room and set the glass of milk on the coffee table and thought.
Who should I call?
It seemed like I should call someone, tell someone the big news, but who? Who would really care if I was pregnant?
Mike, obviously, but I was too nervous to tell him. I had to live with my news a bit longer before it became "our news."
As I thought and thought about all the people in my life that would care, and how many of them had died or disappeared in the last few years, I realized how alone I really was. The silence of my apartment grew louder until the tears falling down my face were all I heard.
I wasn't crying because I was pregnant. I was crying because I couldn't think of anyone who would care.
The next day, I called in sick. No one asked what was wrong, so I called in sick the day after that, and the day after that. By the time I went back and realized no one had really even missed me, I felt even more alone. How had that happened? Everything had been going so well: my life was turning around, I was working, and I was seeing a wonderful man who treated me well. What happened?
What happened was that I'd suddenly realized how false all that joy had been. It was false because now I was suddenly in need of love and support, and now that I realized how much I needed it, I was terribly frightened of being alone. And the more frightened I was, the greater the walls were that I built around me, until I was all but certain no one cared, not even Mike.
It was easy enough to avoid him at first. He had so much going on and so many businesses to attend to that for the first week, I didn't even see him. And I was pleased about that, since I couldn't keep any food in my belly and was throwing up all the time. Then I found some blood in my pajamas and panicked. I called the doctor but he said to rest and not worry so much. That was easy for him to say. He didn't need to worry.
I did.
I had to learn real fast how to have and raise a child. How could I possibly do that when I still felt like a child myself?
So I decided to call my parents.
I hadn't spoken to them since my mother told me I was dead to them, and that had been a few years ago. My hands shook as I dialed the familiar number; I watched the rotary dial spin back into place and felt grateful that it slowed the whole process down. But as soon as I heard the phone start ringing, I felt all those years of anger and fear start boiling inside me. I wanted to scream at her for everything she'd done to me, scream at her for her cruel and heartless words when I was so sick and in the hospital, scream at her for going to my apartment and getting rid of everything I'd owned while I was hooked up to tubes. She'd just gone over to my apartment and cleared it out, as if she had the right to do so.
But I couldn't scream.
I needed her. I needed my mother, needed her to know that I was having a child of my own. I needed her to stop punishing me and just be my mother for once.
"Hello?"
I froze. Felt around in my throat for some words.
"Who is this?" Her voice hadn't changed at all. It was still the brittle, angry noise that I'd always heard come out of her mouth.
"Claire." My voice was barely audible. I cleared my throat and said it again. "It's Claire."
There was silence.
"I want to tell you something," I said, feeling a little bit stronger. After all, there was no reason to be scared. This time, I wasn't calling with bad news. This time, I was calling with great news; surely she'd be happy to hear she was going to be a grandma.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Wall of Secrets by Claire Hitchon. Copyright © 2014 Claire Hitchon. Excerpted by permission of Balboa Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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