After all, it didn't look as if Polly's ear was anything other than a small natural aberration;
it was nothing hereditary and nothing really frightening like damaged eardrums and the consequent need for cochlea implants.
She'd even gone to meet Titus's girlfriend feeling quite blithe, feeling that she could airily brush aside all the familiar
questions, all the wearily patronizing assumptions that people who weren't adopted made so readily—eagerly almost, Nathalie
thought—about those who were. But it was when she was coming away from that meeting that something had hit her, not an anger
exactly, nor even the feeling of lostness she had tried to describe to Steve, but more a sensation of shame. She stood on
the pavement twenty yards from the coffee place where she and Sasha had met, and felt a great wave of shame surge over her,
the kind of burning shame associated with a public humiliation that is unquestionably deserved. How could she have done it,
she asked herself, how could she have passed herself off—eloquently, frequently, confidently—as being one kind of person all
these years when she was in fact quite another? How could she pretend—well, lie was the word she ought to be using here, wasn't it?—to all these people like Lynne and Ralph and Steve, who loved her and who had believed her? How
could she have insisted that not only did she not mind being adopted but that she actually preferred it, when all along she knew that she was treading a separate, fragile, unhappy path which Polly's longed-for arrival had only
somehow served to accentuate?
Or was that really how it had been? Had she in fact earnestly believed one thing and did she now, equally earnestly, believe
another? Were her feelings all part of her inability to be able to stick at things, to make a career instead of just fiddling
about with a string of little jobs that drove Steve mad because he said they were such a waste of her talents? And how, Nathalie
thought, staring at the innocent pine front of the drawer that concealed the blue leaflet, was this journey to find her mother
supposed to help with any of that? What if her mother was dead?
But—and this is what all her hot, circling thoughts always came back to—she had to do it. She knew she wouldn't settle until
she'd done it, she knew she'd be like someone who can't concentrate because they are always waiting for the crucial phone
call, the deciding knock at the door. She'd tried to explain this to Lynne, tried to make Lynne see that it wasn't any inadequacy
on Lynne's part, as a mother, that was making her want to find the woman who had actually given birth to her. Lynne had stood
there, in her garden, where she had taken Nathalie to look at the spring bulbs, and she'd said, over and over, "But I thought
you'd got everything you wanted!"
"So did I," Nathalie said.
Lynne bent down to set a leaning narcissus upright.
"You always said—"
"I know, Mum. I always did."
"It's hard not to take it personally," Lynne said, propping the bent flower against a straighter one.
"Mum—"
"I always had this feeling," Lynne said, kneeling now, on the damp grass, "that I'd somehow rescued you and David. Even when
I was battling with my own disappointments, I used to tell myself that I'd done some good in the world at least, that I'd
helped two children to have a chance they mightn't otherwise have had. I know you shouldn't think like that, but it's hard
not to when people keep telling you that you've done a good thing."
"You did do a good thing," Nathalie said.
"I used to say to myself, 'I want a baby, I want a baby.' Dad said I shouldn't say that. Dad said I should say instead that
I wanted to bring up a child." Lynne looked up at Nathalie. "If you find your mother, can't you see what that makes me?"
Nathalie shook her head.
Lynne said miserably, "I go from being the rescuer to the woman who took another woman's child."
Nathalie crouched down
it was nothing hereditary and nothing really frightening like damaged eardrums and the consequent need for cochlea implants.
She'd even gone to meet Titus's girlfriend feeling quite blithe, feeling that she could airily brush aside all the familiar
questions, all the wearily patronizing assumptions that people who weren't adopted made so readily—eagerly almost, Nathalie
thought—about those who were. But it was when she was coming away from that meeting that something had hit her, not an anger
exactly, nor even the feeling of lostness she had tried to describe to Steve, but more a sensation of shame. She stood on
the pavement twenty yards from the coffee place where she and Sasha had met, and felt a great wave of shame surge over her,
the kind of burning shame associated with a public humiliation that is unquestionably deserved. How could she have done it,
she asked herself, how could she have passed herself off—eloquently, frequently, confidently—as being one kind of person all
these years when she was in fact quite another? How could she pretend—well, lie was the word she ought to be using here, wasn't it?—to all these people like Lynne and Ralph and Steve, who loved her and who had believed her? How
could she have insisted that not only did she not mind being adopted but that she actually preferred it, when all along she knew that she was treading a separate, fragile, unhappy path which Polly's longed-for arrival had only
somehow served to accentuate?
Or was that really how it had been? Had she in fact earnestly believed one thing and did she now, equally earnestly, believe
another? Were her feelings all part of her inability to be able to stick at things, to make a career instead of just fiddling
about with a string of little jobs that drove Steve mad because he said they were such a waste of her talents? And how, Nathalie
thought, staring at the innocent pine front of the drawer that concealed the blue leaflet, was this journey to find her mother
supposed to help with any of that? What if her mother was dead?
But—and this is what all her hot, circling thoughts always came back to—she had to do it. She knew she wouldn't settle until
she'd done it, she knew she'd be like someone who can't concentrate because they are always waiting for the crucial phone
call, the deciding knock at the door. She'd tried to explain this to Lynne, tried to make Lynne see that it wasn't any inadequacy
on Lynne's part, as a mother, that was making her want to find the woman who had actually given birth to her. Lynne had stood
there, in her garden, where she had taken Nathalie to look at the spring bulbs, and she'd said, over and over, "But I thought
you'd got everything you wanted!"
"So did I," Nathalie said.
Lynne bent down to set a leaning narcissus upright.
"You always said—"
"I know, Mum. I always did."
"It's hard not to take it personally," Lynne said, propping the bent flower against a straighter one.
"Mum—"
"I always had this feeling," Lynne said, kneeling now, on the damp grass, "that I'd somehow rescued you and David. Even when
I was battling with my own disappointments, I used to tell myself that I'd done some good in the world at least, that I'd
helped two children to have a chance they mightn't otherwise have had. I know you shouldn't think like that, but it's hard
not to when people keep telling you that you've done a good thing."
"You did do a good thing," Nathalie said.
"I used to say to myself, 'I want a baby, I want a baby.' Dad said I shouldn't say that. Dad said I should say instead that
I wanted to bring up a child." Lynne looked up at Nathalie. "If you find your mother, can't you see what that makes me?"
Nathalie shook her head.
Lynne said miserably, "I go from being the rescuer to the woman who took another woman's child."
Nathalie crouched down
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