One contained a posed, formal picture of her and Scott taken at his brother’s wedding the year before.
The second was a shot of Paul and Ruth paused from work in their treasured garden, leaning on rake and shovel. Nicola had taken it for fun, only months before the disaster that claimed them – her entire family.
The third contained a faded polaroid of a bundled newborn baby with only a shock of blonde hair and wrinkled sleeping face visible. Nicola picked it up and stared at the photo given to her the day she learned that her whole life had been a lie.
That’s how she’d felt when they told her she’d been adopted. She remembered how her five-year-old world had melted like the chocolate chips in the biscuits they tried to placate her with.
They’d joined her where she was drawing on the lounge room floor of the house that had been her childhood home; the home of Paul and Ruth Harvey until the day they left to go on holidays but never came back.
They’d sat in a circle and all held hands. Nicola had got excited, thinking they were going to play a new game. And with Daddy who rarely sat on the floor with her; Mummy always said he was too busy for games. They held hands, the three of them.
They’d started telling her a story. Nicola remembered how, frowning, she’d stared at them. It was a very strange story, not a fairy story like in her books. It was a real story – about her, they said.
What were they saying? That she wasn’t theirs; that she hadn’t come out of her mummy’s tummy like the baby of the lady next door. No, she’d come out of another lady’s tummy.
‘Did someone drop me off then, like Father Christmas?’
They’d given a chuckle. She’d been pleased to make them laugh; maybe it meant everything was okay. But they were being so serious. They looked at each other and then told her she was a gift, even more special than those Father Christmas brought, because they’d gone and chosen her.
‘At a shop?’ she’d asked. ‘Well no, not a shop.’
She thought they’d looked a little angry. She didn’t want to make them angry; she wanted to make them laugh again.
‘Oh,’ she’d said, feeling totally confused. They’d told her how special she was, and how lucky they were to have her. They couldn’t have a little girl or boy of their own because there was something wrong inside Ruth. Nothing would change; they just wanted her to know the truth.
‘What if the mummy whose tummy I came out of wants me back?’ She didn’t want to go away from here. They were her parents; she didn’t want anyone else. Her bottom lip had started to wobble and then she burst into tears.
Ruth dragged her onto her lap and spent ages stroking her hair, saying that she was their little girl; she was staying right there with them.
But what about the other mummy and daddy; didn’t they want her? Why not? Everyone said she was so pretty, and she was a good girl, wasn’t she? She’d stared up at them and some more tears ran down her cheeks.
They’d shaken their heads and said that her other mummy had been sick and wasn’t able to take care of her.
‘But what if she gets better; will she want me then?’
‘No,’ they’d said, shaking their heads. The adoption papers proved it.
They showed her the papers, but to her five-year-old eyes they meant nothing.
‘Okay,’ she’d finally said with a shrug and taken a homemade chocolate chip biscuit from the plate on the floor nearby. She’d nibbled around the edges of the biscuit, separated out the chocolate chips and watched them melt in her hands, all the while pretending to forget the conversation.
After a while Paul and Ruth had unfolded their legs, got up, and gone off to do other things, leaving her there with her plate of chocolate biscuits. She put her half-eaten biscuit aside, went to her bedroom, threw herself on her bed and cried. She was careful to be quiet because she didn’t want to upset Mummy and Daddy; they’d been sad before and she didn’t like it when they were sad.
They said nothing had changed; that she was their little girl and would be theirs forever. But something was different. She didn’t really know what it was; it was just a weird feeling inside. Like when you felt a bit sick after eating too many chocolate chip biscuits, or maybe empty after you’d thrown up those too many chocolate chip biscuits.
The odd, slightly empty feeling never really went away, but she never discussed it with Paul and Ruth. They were wonderful, loving parents, who had always been supportive, caring and encouraging. The last thing she’d ever want to do was hurt them.
But as much as she’d told herself over the years that they were her real parents, there was always a question mark. Sometimes it was a deep pain; the rest of the time it just sat there as a feeling of being somehow incomplete, hollow.
To their credit, Paul and Ruth had always encouraged her to search for her biological roots if and when she felt the time was right.
But she’d always thought starting the search while they were alive would be disrespectful. What had also stopped her was knowing she wouldn’t be able to let go, would be totally consumed. It was the same wilful streak she’d channelled into a successful career in journalism. She could never stop at just knowing names of people and places.
The deaths of her parents had caused the itch of curiosity to become a strong ache of needing to know. The investigation had kept her distracted for over three years, and had given her a certain sense of closure. But three months after its completion, the questions that had been burning inside her could no longer be ignored.
Returning from her week off after the plane crash story had gone to air, Nicola had been mortified to find herself back covering the crappy stories of old; shock mobile phone bills, used cars that turned out to be lemons, pensioners struggling to make ends meet.
It wasn’t that they weren’t worthy of coverage, it’s just that she needed something she could really get her teeth into, do some serious research and groundwork on; something really gritty.
When Bill had tersely reminded her that these stories were the bread and butter of Life and Times –’It’s what the audience wants’ – Nicola had wondered if it was time for a career change.
Three months ago, she’d decided that she’d put off her own story long enough; she really had to start the search that might lead nowhere, might lead somewhere – somewhere she might or might not like.
One lunchtime she’d gone into the South Australian government adoptions website where she found a link: ‘Searching for birth relatives’. She’d quickly scanned the screen, pausing at a line that said to consider other parties involved.
What if her biological parents didn’t want to be found? What if she was setting herself and others up for heartbreak? Scott always said you should look ahead in life, not back. But life wasn’t that simple.
Anyway, she might not even get that far. She might not even have enough information.
Nicola had selected the form for an ‘Adopted Person’ from the list, pressed print, and raced to the printer to collect it before anyone else in the office did. Back at her desk, she hadn’t been able to quite believe how straightforward it was; ironic really that something so important could be put so simply. Just five questions were all it took.
She’d picked up the frame containing her birth photo, turned it over, and copied the details from those in blue biro on the back of the polaroid:
Baby Nicola Born 16th April 1977 Port Lincoln Hospital
Nicola had paused at the two options underneath ‘What