It’s been two years since my journey has started. The girls are with Kevin and I’m back in London on my own, performing my one-woman show, Beneath My Father’s Sky. I’ve now been performing the show for three years. I’ve been all over the States with it and I’ve been so happy with the response.
So many people are coming tonight, old friends I haven’t seen in years. Once again I’m staying with my cousins from my adoptive mother’s side. We have become closer since our mothers died. It helps me stay connected to that side of our family. I don’t invite my adoptive father, nor do I tell him I’m performing the show – at his age, I don’t think he should have to deal with this. We have never discussed that I have a biological father out there somewhere. I know he sees me as his daughter, and he is the only father I’ve ever known.
A Soho-based website publishes an article on my search for Antonio, my birth father. Someone who knew him might read it and contact me, I think, although at the moment, I’m more focused on my show than finding him.
I’m nervous as I wait backstage. All my friends and some adoptive family are coming. I wish my cousin hadn’t invited them. I know she means well, but she has already told me off for having photographs of my parents as part of the set. She feels the play is too revealing, that I’m not letting my father defend himself. But I’m not sure what he needs defending from. I’m irritated that she would bring this up when I’m about to go onstage.
‘You knew what this play was about, you read the script ages ago. I don’t understand why you would say this to me now.’
‘I just didn’t realise how intimate it would be. I’m not comfortable with this, I think you should take down his photograph.’
‘No, it’s part of the play. And many people here know what he looks like. I need to get ready to go on.’
She needs to go. I want to push her away from me, but I have to focus.
I can hear that the room is full. I know my birth mother and sister are here too. As I sit backstage, my nerves are increasing more and more. Anger rises in my stomach, as it always does when I’m made to justify myself to someone. I need to give this all I’ve got. It’s time to tell my story, I walk out onto the dark stage…
* * *
They seem to have enjoyed the play. I spot an ex-boyfriend from when I was fifteen seated way in the back. My friends beam at me. I see the line of adoptive cousins a few rows back.
It’s time for the question and answer panel. My cousin comes to facilitate. One of my aunts asks the first question.
‘Are you ever going to get over this? Will there ever be closure?’ Her voice is pompous. I pause for a moment, considering how to answer.
‘No,’ I tell her directly, ‘I won’t ever get over losing my biological family and not knowing who my father is, but I still live a productive life.’
‘Are you?’ she says loudly.
I’m furious. The crowd is silent.
‘I’m an artist.’ Why do I even try and explain this, I think to myself. ‘This is the work I do. I write about it, perform it to others, and try to educate people.’
I’m rescued by an adoptee, crying in the audience, who says that the play touched her. Thank goodness, this is a tough crowd.
I look over at another aunt, who I can see wants to tell me the same thing: that I’m overreacting.
‘This is my story, why are you trying to make it yours?’ I say quietly and calmly.
At the end of the show the room is full of old friends coming to say hello. I feel depleted but content – I know I did the best I could. As I arrive back at my cousin’s house later that evening, I’m greeted by all of them seated silently around the kitchen table.
‘Vicky is furious. She feels you ignored her completely. None of them are happy,’ my cousin says, without so much as a hello.
‘Ignored? I had eighty people to say hello to! I invited them to the green room and they didn’t come. I’m tired of this.’ I want to cry – I feel unsupported, the way I always did around my adoptive family.
‘Well, we all feel that the reason you feel the way you do,’ my cousin continues, ‘is because you had a very difficult time with your dad and brother. If you had been raised differently, you wouldn’t feel this way.’
‘You all feel that?’ I’m almost laughing at the nerve of them, imagining their discussion and analysis of my personality. ‘I’ve been around hundreds of adopted people who all feel the same way I do, I’m not alone. Why is it so hard for you to understand?’
They don’t get it and they don’t want to. I feel like my work has failed to explain what it’s like for adopted people. I’m sinking as I stand in front of them.
‘By the way, when are you leaving? Not that I’m throwing you out or anything.’ My cousin has become cold.
I can’t sleep that night. They have always shown kindness to me – I can’t understand why it’s been withdrawn so quickly. The next morning, I get up early and pack my bags. I go to stay with a friend. My friend comforts me as I cry. A day later, I drive to the airport. None of my adoptive cousins have tried to contact me since I walked out.
* * *
I’m back in New Jersey. It’s February and the ground is covered in snow. I’ve sunk into a deep depression. I miss my friends back home and feel little connection to anyone here. My adoptive cousins have cast me off and I can’t shake the feeling of abandonment. Once again, I feel like I don’t fit in anywhere. Will I ever be fully a part of anything? I know it’s all so self-pitying, but the thought has taken a hold of me.
I had given my cousin a suitcase of family photographs, which contained pictures of both our mothers. One afternoon, we sat going through them, and I told her to take the ones that she liked.
‘Look at the resemblance,’ she had said, gazing at yellowed photos of grandparents and aunts. ‘Look, you can see my children in every face.’ It was true; the family resemblance was uncanny.
‘I should keep all these photographs. Let’s face it, your children don’t look like any of these people – how could they?’
‘How can you say that? They’re my family too.’
I would never truly be a full part of that family; I wasn’t sure why I still cared.
* * *
Winter turns to spring, and my mood is lifting. These days I spend a lot of time writing. I’ve been asked to write a book based on my play for a new agent that I had been introduced to who had seen my play, but I write more than that: I write about a woman going through a divorce, I write the story of the reunion that she has with her birth father. I’m enjoying imagining what that would feel like.
‘This is my way of healing,’ I tell my adoption group. ‘The chances of me ever finding my birth father are so slim, it seems the best thing to do is to try and make peace with it all.’
I’m tired of being sad. Another layer is being peeled back; life is asking more from me again.
‘How many more layers? We must be close to the core,’ I laugh with James on the phone.
‘Zara, it’s a lifetime of work. Now get off the cross, we need the wood! Start having some fun,’ he tells me.