Page 14 of The Pieces of Us

For the next two weeks I spend any free time I have searching and scrolling and reading other people’s adoption stories.

Some are heartbreaking, others are hopeful, many are both.

The adoption forums have hundreds of threads, where strangers try to help each other overcome every possible stumbling block, or at least take comfort from the fact that others have stumbled too.

It’s reassuring to learn that my hesitation in taking the next step – any step – is normal.

Common, even. Some of the adoptees sharing their experiences online took months or even years to start the search for their birth parents.

Many who are early in the process, like me, are still trying to come to terms with the knowledge that the people who raised them aren’t their birth parents.

No two stories follow the same trajectory or timescale.

I finally call social services during my lunch break at work – a few minutes of precious alone time in the storage room at the back of the shop.

Perched on the stool we use to reach the highest shelf, I nervously introduce myself to a man called Alex.

‘I need some help,’ I say. ‘I found some paperwork in my mother’s things.

An adoption assessment carried out by a social worker.

But there’s no information about my birth parents. I’m hoping you have what I need.’

‘Let me get some details from you and we’ll take it from there,’ says Alex. He rattles off a few questions, then puts me on hold.

I stare into a bucket of tulips, my heart drumming a rapid beat against my chest until he’s back on the line.

‘I’m going to search our database,’ Alex tells me. ‘And I need to speak to my manager about this. She’s not in the office right now. Do you have access to a fax machine?’

‘I do.’ I almost shout the words – finally a question with a definitive YES, thanks to Pete and his ancient office equipment.

‘OK. Fax the document to me and we’ll see what we can find out for you. The problem is that it was a long time ago. We’ve moved offices a few times since then. And I’m not even sure if any paperwork from the late seventies has ever been computerized –’

‘Give me the fax number and I’ll do it now.

’ I cut him off before he can carry on trying to prepare me for disappointment; I can’t bear the hint of pity in his voice.

I write the number down on the notepad on Pete’s desk.

‘One more thing … my birth certificate? I’m really confused about that.

I have a short-form certificate. But from what I’ve read online I should have an adoption certificate instead of a regular birth certificate?

Also, my short-form certificate has my adoptive surname on it. ’

‘Gosh. That’s a new one to me. Sorry … I’m not an expert. Have you applied to National Records of Scotland?’

‘Not yet,’ I admit.

‘That’s where to go for a copy of a birth certificate or an adoption certificate.

They also have an adoption database you can join, so that any birth relatives who are searching for you can find your details.

Of course, you’ll need some of the information about your adoption before you can do that. ’

I know all this, but I don’t tell Alex that. ‘Thanks.’

‘Someone will get back to you as soon as possible,’ he says. ‘But it might take a few weeks. I recommend applying to National Records of Scotland in the meantime. I’d cover all bases if I was you.’

And so I do, going online on my phone to apply for my full birth certificate and request any adoption paperwork connected to my name and date of birth, because I’m still not entirely sure which one I need.

I join Pete at the shop counter to tell him what I’ve done and he takes both my shaking hands in his, holds them until they settle.

After dinner I do everything I can to stop myself thinking about the steps I’ve taken, which has the opposite effect. There’s no going back now , I tell myself as I clear the table.

I brush Minnie’s toastie crusts into the bin and glance over at her. ‘You’re having a visitor tomorrow. Ada’s coming to see you.’

‘Oh, that’s nice,’ she says.

‘It will be,’ I agree. ‘Right. Are you ready for your pills?’

‘I’m not taking my pills tonight,’ she says, folding her arms across her chest.

This doesn’t surprise me. She wouldn’t let Lena or me brush her hair this morning either – one side still explodes outwards like candyfloss.

‘You need to take them, Min.’ I turn the radio on, grab the weekly pill organizer from the top shelf and sit beside her.

She buttons her lip.

I wait. After a few minutes of Classic FM, Barber’s Adagio for Strings distracts her from her mutiny.

‘This is my favourite,’ she says.

‘I know.’ We listen to the melancholy strains.

‘It’s the saddest song in the world,’ she says. ‘I want this played at my funeral. Will you write it down? I don’t want you to forget.’

‘I won’t forget,’ I tell her. ‘But you’re probably right, I should write it down. As soon as you’ve taken your bedtime pills.’

She narrows her eyes at me. ‘Do you think my head buttons up the back, Catriona McAllister?’

I smile and open today’s PM compartment of the pill box and transfer the contents on to my palm. Her dry fingertips graze my skin as she lifts the pills one by one, and lines them up on the table in front of her.

‘What are these for?’ she asks. ‘I can’t remember.’

And, just like that, I understand. She’s not refusing to take her pills to be difficult. She’s terrified because she doesn’t remember why .

I go through it all with her, the importance of keeping her brain healthy, her mood stable, her body strong. I do it slowly and without too much detail; there’s a fine line between clarity and overwhelm for Minnie.

Finally she lifts the first pill to her mouth. ‘I’m not doing this for me,’ she says. ‘I’m doing it for you. I’d do anything for you.’

I give her shoulder a gentle squeeze. ‘I know you would, Min.’ I wait until she’s swallowed her final pill. ‘Do you want a cup of tea before bed?’

‘Let me do it,’ she says, standing up. ‘You must be exhausted. Looking after everyone. Especially me, like another child. That’s all you need.’

Her comprehension takes me by surprise, reminding me that there are no certainties when it comes to daily life with Alzheimer’s.

I want to be nothing other than her daughter – not a mother or a carer – for the next few minutes or however long her lucidity lasts.

But the question at the back of my mind, tucked away like the adoption assessment hidden at the bottom of my underwear drawer, jumps to the fore.

I hear Alex’s voice, telling me to cover all bases .

‘Minnie,’ I say, and she turns to me, the box of sweeteners in her hand, her eyes receptive.

‘Yes, love?’

I take a deep breath. ‘I need to ask you something important. But first … I want to tell you I love you. You know I love you, right? I always will, no matter what.’

‘Well, I love you too,’ she says. ‘Do we have milk?’

I point to the fridge, where a few more neon squares have gathered over the last few weeks as Ruby and I have learned what Minnie needs help remembering. MILK , says the pink Post-it note.

Carton in hand, she goes back to her task. ‘What were you saying?’

I stand beside her, wondering if this could be the moment of truth.

‘I was sorting out your things and I found something – a social services document from when I was a baby. It’s an adoption assessment –’ Suddenly there’s milk all over the countertop, running over the edge and spilling down the cupboard door. I feel it splash on to my bare feet.

Minnie sits back down. I lean over the table. I look at her until her eyes meet mine, and see the cloud of confusion and know I’ve lost her again. ‘It’s OK, Min. It’s just milk.’

I clean up in silence, and when I turn round she’s not in the kitchen.

I’m not sure if it’s because she’s gradually taking up less space, imposing less weight on the world, but she can slip noiselessly from room to room, an ethereal being that’s impossible to catch hold of. I stand alone and let myself cry.

The following morning, the kitchen floor is clean again, the only world that’s making sense to Minnie is Candy Crush and I’ve shelved any plans to ask her about my adoption.

Ada King has hardly changed since she was in her forties, save for a few more wrinkles and slightly more conservative outfit choices – although the chunky turquoise drops hanging from her ears today remind me of the shiny workout gear she wore when she was an aerobics instructor at the local community centre.

Minnie went to her Wednesday-night class every week without fail, her Reebok Step on the seat next to her on the bus.

Afterwards, she and Ada would drink peach schnapps and lemonade at the social club.

More than once, Minnie forgot to bring her Step home, but somehow it always found its way back to her.

She was always a disciplined drinker with a routine she rarely veered from.

Wednesday-night peach schnapps with Ada.

A nice bottle of red wine on a Sunday, shared with Nana over a roast dinner.

If she was going to Ladies Day at the races she’d have a couple of sherries; champagne was a special treat on Hogmanay.

Apart from that, she drank tea with milk and two sugars like it was going out of fashion.

Ada visited Minnie at her house twice a week without fail after she was unable to go out unaccompanied. And Minnie made a fuss of Ada, to the best of her ability, with the china cups and saucers and fancy biscuits.

‘Your earrings look like the blue gems from Candy Crush .’ Minnie beams when Ada walks into the living room, and my shoulders relax a little.

‘You’re a daft eejit, Minnie McAllister,’ says Ada.