Hope to Die

AF: And fourteen months later Noah flies to the UK, by which time he evidently knows exactly who he is and who he’s looking for. How did he find out?

RS: I don’t know.

* * *

3 June 2018, 10.15 p.m.

175 Toussaint Street, Brooklyn Heights, NY 11201

He sits back in his chair, staring at the screen. He hadn’t expected it to be so easy.

He kept his promise. He never did speak to Dad. He’d thought about it, once or twice, but just the sight of him, in that bed, his skin like yellow paper – he couldn’t do it. And then Dad died and it all went to hell for a while, and though he toyed with doing some digging about that baby in the picture, the more he thought about it the more likely it was that the truth – whatever it turned out to be – would end up bringing down a whole load of shit, and he just couldn’t do that to his mom. Not then, not in the state she was in. And that’s where his head stayed.

For a while.

Then other thoughts came creeping. How could they be so sure his real mother didn’t want him? Did she know where he was? What if they didn’t ‘rescue’ him at all – what if they took him? What if he’d been snatched?

And that’s why he started looking. Because if that really was what happened, there’d be something to find. If his mother had given him up willingly there’d probably be nothing, nothing he’d be able to track down, anyway. But if he’d been taken – if he’d been lost – there’d be a trace. A search, a story –

A crime.

And there was. He’s found it. Only it isn’t the one he expected.

Not a kidnap, not a snatching, not a looked-away-for-five-minutes-and-gone.

A murder.

His mother is in prison for murdering him.

Because the woman he’s staring at on the computer screen – cowed, harried, abused as a baby-killer – she’s his mother. She has to be.

There are just too many coincidences. A baby boy last seen on December 23rd 1997, who’s never subsequently been found. A baby boy born at the exact same hospital he was. That birthmark that disappeared so miraculously. It makes sense; it all makes sense. Even the fact that he doesn’t look like either of his parents and never did.

And now she’s in prison. His mother.

He reaches for the keyboard and does another search. Seems it’s quite easy to track down a prisoner in the UK. Pretty easy to write to them too.

The harder part is knowing what to say.

* * *

AF: You’re aware that we’ve identified Noah’s biological mother?

RS: This woman Camilla Rowan. Yes, I am aware.

AF: Do you know her?

RS: No.

AF: You don’t recall ever meeting her? At the hospital? You were there at around the same time.

RS: We were in the neonatal ICU. She must have been in the main ward. It’s a big place. And in any case, we weren’t there to make friends – we hardly spoke to anyone.

AF: Could your husband have met her? In the cafeteria, say, or at a coffee machine?

RS: [sighs]

I guess he could have. Though she wasn’t in there very long, as far as I can make out – there wouldn’t have been much time. David certainly never mentioned anyone. Like I said, we were just focused on Noah –

CG: But it is possible – that they could have met?

RS: I suppose so – though why –

AF: The day your son died – the 21st – was that the last time you were at the hospital?

RS: Yes. I never wanted to go there again.

AF: And your husband?

RS: [hesitates]

Yes. He did go back. A couple of days later, I think. There were some papers he had to sign? I don’t really remember – I wasn’t in a good place.

CG: So he could have met Camilla Rowan then – perhaps even found out that she was thinking of having her baby adopted?

RS: [looking bewildered}

But why not tell me?

CG: You said you were in a bad place – perhaps he wanted to wait until you were feeling better?

RS: I still don’t understand – none of this makes any sense.

* * *

JUNE 5 2018

NOAH SEIDLER

PO BOX 5653, NY 11201

I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO CALL YOU. CAMILLA, I GUESS.

I’M NOAH. AT LEAST, MY PARENTS HAD A KID THEY CALLED NOAH IN 1997.

BUT THAT KID ISN’T ME.

THAT MUCH I KNOW, BUT IT’S AS FAR AS I’VE GOT. MY MOM CLAIMS SHE DOESN’T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED – SHE WENT OUT AND CAME BACK AND MY DAD WAS THERE WITH A BABY. HE SAID HE’D ‘RESCUED’ IT. RESCUED ME.

BUT THAT’S IT. SHE NEVER ASKED, HE NEVER TOLD. AND NOW HE’S DEAD AND I’VE NO WAY TO FIND OUT.

SO IS IT YOU? ARE YOU MY MOTHER? DID YOU GIVE ME AWAY?

AND IF YOU DID, WHY ARE YOU IN JAIL? WHY DID YOU LET THEM THINK I WAS DEAD? WAS IT LIKE THAT NETFLIX THING SAID? WAS THAT MAN WARD MY FATHER? IS THAT WHY YOU LIED – BECAUSE OF WHAT HE DID TO YOU?

SORRY – TOO MANY QUESTIONS. I KNOW THIS HAS PROBABLY COME AS A SHOCK. IT DID TO ME – I REMEMBER WHAT IT FELT LIKE, FINDING OUT. AND IT’S PRETTY SHITTY HAVING TO DO STUFF LIKE THIS BY LETTER. MUCH BETTER TO TALK TO PEOPLE, BUT RIGHT NOW I DON’T HAVE MUCH CHOICE.

AND I COULD BE WAY OFF ABOUT ALL THIS AND IT’S NOTHING TO DO WITH YOU. IN WHICH CASE, I’M SORRY.