Authors: Sophie McKenzie
I sat back on my heels, feeling overwhelmed. Didn’t Annie ever throw anything away? I rummaged right to the back. There were several cardboard boxes here, plus a couple of small suitcases.
I pulled them out and opened them one by one. Piles of clothes met my eye. One box was full of old jumpers and skirts. Another was crammed with little girl dresses. I didn’t remember wearing
any of them. I guess they must have been Shelby’s or Lauren’s. I was trying to be systematic, but once all the clothes were on the carpet, it was hard to keep track.
‘Madison, sweetie?’ Annie’s voice quavered from the doorway.
I spun round. I’d been so caught up in my search for a diary I hadn’t even heard her come in.
‘What are you doing?’ she said, looking round at all the clothes on the carpet, her voice breaking into a sob.
I stood up. ‘I want to know everything,’ I said. ‘I want to know why you used a sperm donor. I want to know who he is. And I want to know why everyone else except me knew about
him for seven years.’ I folded my arms and glared at her.
A tear trickled down her cheek. Her hands were shaking as she twisted them over each other. How I hated that gesture of hers. Sometimes, though it felt horrible to admit it, I hated Annie
herself. She was always so weak and miserable. For as long as I could remember, I’d felt it was my job to look after her. But why should I have to do that? It wasn’t fair.
‘Madison, I realise what you heard was a shock,’ Annie said. ‘But I’ve kept certain things from you to protect you. Because I didn’t want you to be hurt . .
.’
My guts tightened into an angry knot.
‘I get you’ve been trying to protect me,’ I said, clenching my fists. ‘But you need to get this: I’m not a little girl anymore, and what I overheard was something
important about my dad. You owe me an explanation, because I don’t understand and that’s worse than anything.’
We stared at each other. Annie blinked rapidly. She wasn’t going to tell me. I could see the resistance in her eyes. I clenched my fists, ready to storm out. Maybe I’d go back to
Lauren. Try and get the truth from her. And then Annie wiped her hand across her face, brushing away her tears. She looked up at me, clear-eyed and with a smile of resignation.
‘You’re right, Madison,’ she said with a sigh. ‘It’s time you and Lauren knew the truth about your birth father. Please come downstairs. Lauren’s here too.
I’ll tell you both everything I know.’
I followed Annie downstairs, into the living room, where Lauren was perched on the edge of the couch. She looked up as I walked in, her face scrunched up with misery.
‘Mo?’ she said.
‘It’s fine,’ I said, without meeting her gaze. It wasn’t fine, of course. Lauren had failed to tell me what she knew about my dad
and
that she was pregnant. But I
didn’t want a big fight with her.
I sat down across the room and waited, as Annie produced a small wooden box from the depths of the large scroll-top desk that stood in the far corner. With trembling fingers, Annie unlocked the
box and drew out a sheet of paper. She turned to me.
‘Lauren already knows this part: your dad and I tried to have a baby for over a year. We had some tests, and found that we couldn’t have children together. I was fine, but there were
problems with . . . with your dad. We talked about it for a while, then decided we should use a sperm donor.’
‘Did you do IVF?’ I asked.
Annie nodded. ‘The donor was anonymous. All we were officially told were the things we’d been able to choose – like him having dark hair and eyes, the same as your dad, and
being six foot . . . so the same height . . . and that he was twenty years old.’ She hesitated.
‘But you found out more?’ I said. I glanced over at Lauren. She was sitting forward, listening intently, her hands folded over her swollen belly.
Annie nodded slowly. ‘Like I say, that’s all we were officially told, but when I was in the clinic in Evanport, having the treatment, I got friendly with one of the nurses. I told
her how anxious I was about genetic problems . . . you know, things being inherited like diseases and conditions . . .’
I frowned. ‘Don’t they check out the sperm before they give it to you?’
‘For some things,’ Annie said, ‘but not everything. It would be too expensive.’ She hesitated again. ‘Anyway, this nurse happened to be sympathetic. She thought the
clinic was skipping even the basic tests and trying to do things on the cheap. So . . . well, she didn’t want to make a fuss. She was scared of losing her job. But she gave me some extra
information about our donor. Not much, just a name and an address, but it was enough to make it possible for me to hire someone to investigate. I had to know everything would be all
right.’
Well, that made sense. Annie was such a worrier – though I could hardly imagine her having the drive actually to organise an investigation.
‘Did Dad – Sam – know what you were doing?’ Lauren asked.
‘No.’ Annie sighed. ‘Your father was struggling enough as it was with the idea he couldn’t have his own children. It was different after you were born but, back then, he
couldn’t have handled knowing the other man’s name, let alone any other details.’
‘So . . . what did the investigator find out?’ I held my breath.
Annie handed me the piece of paper from the wooden box. ‘This is everything I know,’ she said.
I looked at the sheet. It was a report, typed in three paragraphs, on a man named Allan Faraday. I read the lines, but I couldn’t take in any of the information. This whole thing felt
surreal. I mean, how was it possible that this stranger was my biological father? I tried to read the three paragraphs again. This time I picked up the crucial bits of data: at the time of
Lauren’s conception, Faraday was twenty, and a student at New York State University. He had grown up travelling around various capital cities in Europe thanks to his dad’s banking job
and suffered ‘the normal childhood illnesses’ the report said. He was basically fit, healthy and a keen basketball player. He only drank in moderation, didn’t smoke, didn’t
take drugs and had achieved good grades in his most recent set of exams. The only negative given in the report was that he tended to spend extravagantly – hence his attempt to increase his
income by donating sperm.
I skim-read the next paragraph which gave details of Faraday’s wealthy parents – his dad was American but his mother was from Britain – and their medical history, then the
next, with data on the two sets of grandparents. All four individuals were still alive in their eighties. No indications of cancer, heart problems, dementia or degenerative diseases. I looked
up.
‘This is our real dad?’ I said. ‘This . . . Allan Faraday?’
‘
Sam
was our real dad,’ Lauren said firmly. ‘This man just provided a . . . a genetic base for us.’
I shook my head. It was all right for Lauren. She had known Sam when she was my age. Plus, she had her adoptive dad as well. But I had no-one. I didn’t even properly remember Sam.
Annie wrung her hands. ‘Lauren’s right,’ she said, her voice all trembly. ‘Sam took care of you and loved you and played with you. You
know
that,
Madison.’
‘Earlier, you said something to Lauren about finding out more about the sperm donor’s medical history . . .’ I said. ‘Does that mean you think we should get in touch with
him?’
‘No.’ Annie’s eyes widened. ‘Definitely not. I was . . . I was just surprised about Lauren being pregnant. But she was right, if there had been something wrong with him,
it would have shown up in you or her by now.’
‘Anyway, I’m going to have the baby in a few weeks,’ Lauren said. ‘That’s going to happen whatever, and afterwards we can do any tests we want.’
‘Don’t you want to find this man?’ I persisted. ‘I mean, he’s your blood father.’
‘No.’ Lauren shook her head. ‘He doesn’t mean anything to me.’
‘But . . .’ I frowned. ‘But you wanted to know about
us.
About your original family. Why not your birth dad?’
‘That’s completely different, Mo,’ Lauren said. ‘I was stolen away from Annie and Sam – from my original family. This man just donated a bit of himself. It’s
. . . it’s meaningless by comparison.’
I couldn’t believe it. Of all the people in the world, Lauren was the one I’d have expected to understand. She’d grown up away from us because she’d been kidnapped as a
toddler and later adopted by another family. She had gone in search of her birth parents, just like I wanted to. Yet here she was, not getting it at all.
‘I want to know him,’ I said, my anger rising. ‘I want to know my birth dad, if I can.’
Annie was on her feet, tears welling in her eyes. ‘No, Madison, that’s a terrible idea.’
‘Why?’ I protested. ‘I’ve got a right to know him.’
‘Mo, listen.’ Lauren’s eyes pleaded with me. ‘I understand you want to find out about your roots. But Sam
was there
from the beginning. He
wanted
you. This
man – Allan Faraday – he doesn’t even know we exist. Remember, the sperm donation was supposed to be anonymous. He . . . he might not want to know you. And I’d hate to see
you hurt.’
‘Oh, so would I, sweetie,’ Annie added.
I couldn’t be more hurt by him than I have been by you two and your lies.
I thought the words, but I didn’t say them. Instead, I looked down at the living room carpet. A tuft of wool stuck up by the leg of the couch where Lauren was sitting. I chewed on my lip.
OK, so Annie and Lauren didn’t understand why I needed to find Allan Faraday. Well, I wouldn’t bother to talk to them about it anymore. I held out the piece of paper to Lauren.
‘D’you want to look at this?’
‘No thanks,’ she said.
I folded it up and put it in my pocket.
‘Madison, please promise me you’re not going to do anything stupid like . . . like try and find this man.’ Annie sounded on the verge of tears.
I turned to her. ‘Course not,’ I lied. ‘Like you say, what would be the point? He might not even want to know me.’
Lauren left soon after this and I went up to my room. I did a Google search on Allan Faraday straight away, but it didn’t come up with anything. I’d worked out the man must now be
forty-three but the rest of the information I had – all the medical stuff – wasn’t really much help. I slept badly that night, my dreams filled with dark shapes that loomed out of
the shadows, then disappeared again, leaving me awake and trembling.
I finally dropped into a deeper sleep at about 5 am. I woke from this with a start just after 10 am and began my search again. This time, instead of just inputting Allan Faraday’s name, I
trawled all the social networking sites I’d ever heard of as well as several that I hadn’t.
I came across scores of Faradays, but none of them fitted in terms of colouring, age or nationality. And then, after an hour or so, I stumbled across an entry on a media networking site called
Bizznet. From the picture beside his job description – media consultant – this Faraday looked about the right age and he definitely had dark hair and eyes. I quickly clicked through to
his full profile. My heartbeat quickened as I read on.
Allan Faraday, media consultant and freelance journalist. Dual US/UK nationality. Graduate of New York State University.
After this top line entry, there followed a list of the clients Faraday had worked for – loads of famous brand names among them – and then, at the end, a short biog.
Faraday, 43, lists among his interests soccer, film and basketball. You can follow him on Twitter @faradayall
It had to be him. All the details fitted, right down to the unusual two ‘l’s in ‘Allan’. My fingers were shaking as I logged onto Twitter and searched for his username.
There.
The most recent entry was for this morning. It said:
Leaving London tomorrow but looking forward to Brisbane Media drinks first. See ya there!
I gasped. He was in London. Right now. It was fate. I
had
to find him. All I needed to know was where this drinks party he referred to was being held. I flicked quickly through to the
person he’d sent his tweet to, then opened their conversation to see if I could find out.
It took another few minutes but I soon had the info I needed. My biological father, Allan Faraday, was going to be at the Houses of Parliament tonight for a drinks reception starting at 7
pm.
And so was I.
Getting away from home and Annie was the easy bit, despite Annie’s overprotective habit of demanding to know where I was going and who I’d be with. I told her I was
meeting my friend Rosa from school. I’m not exactly popular at school – I’m too shy and too serious for most of the airheads in my class – but Rosa and I genuinely get on.
She comes from a majorly dysfunctional family too, with no dad and three older brothers, one of whom is in constant trouble with the police. Anyway, Rosa was quite happy to cover for me that
evening.
I took the tube to Westminster then followed the map on my phone to the building with the designated entrance for the Brisbane Media drinks reception. The Houses of Parliament are huge and
sprawling and it took longer than I’d expected. I didn’t reach the building I was looking for until almost 7.30 pm.
I’d taken a lot of trouble over how I looked. I normally wear jeans and jumpers or T-shirts and never any make-up, but today I put on a proper skirt and one of Annie’s silk shirts
tied over a vest top. I was even wearing mascara and lipstick. As I walked towards the iron gate at the side of the big brick building, I could feel a million butterflies zooming around inside my
stomach.
What was I going to say to Allan Faraday? I could hardly just march up to him and announce that I was his long-lost daughter. For all I knew, he might not even remember donating sperm over
twenty years ago. Lauren’s warning rang in my ears:
He . . . he might not want to know you. And I’d hate to see you hurt.
She was right, of course. But I was prepared for rejection. The most important thing was that I met him . . . that I knew who he was . . . It was, surely, like a total sign that he should be in
London the very day I went looking for him. And I knew from his tweets that he was leaving tomorrow. So this was my only chance to find him and introduce myself. I’d deal with whatever
happened next, once it actually happened.