The Indian Giver

By S.M. Parker

It was 1945. The men were home from the war and Lara Baxter was born into the generation of baby boomers.

Lara grew up in the sixties in a middle-class suburb of Perth, Western Australia with a mother of Victorian values and a larrikin father who loved a beer with his mates. Lara loved her father and all she ever wanted was his love and approval, but it never came.

After spending 20 years abiding by the rules, her life would be changed forever. She was raped.

Unmarried and pregnant, she had disgraced the family and was kicked out of home to have the baby behind closed doors. Without anyone to support her, the baby was forcibly removed for adoption.

Silently she lived with the pain in her heart and grieved alone. Nothing could ever change her life now. She became a different person. She became stronger, her voice became louder. She was never forgiven by her parents and every day was a fight for survival.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Oct 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9781984507976

S.M. Parker

S.M. Parker lives on the coast of Maine with her husband and sons. She works as a literacy advocate and holds degrees from three New England universities. She can usually be found rescuing dogs, chickens, old houses, and wooden boats. She has a weakness for chocolate chip cookies and ridiculous laughter—ideally at the same time. The Girl Who Fell was her first novel. Find her at ShannonMParker.com.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The building was familiar, yet different. I had just walked through a modern complex of glass and brick with a tastefully designed interior. The architect had worked his magic, melding his new modern additions with a glass walkway that surrounded the oldest part of the building. It took me quite a while to understand where I was at first, as everything looked so different. Once shown the only accessible entry into this old part of the building, cleverly hidden with pot plants beside the reception desk, I knew this was the right place. The receptionist, while fumbling with a rattling set of old keys to open the door, proudly explained to me ‘Nuns had been housed here when they were sent from Ireland.’ Then came the history.

After thanking the Receptionist, I entered the doorway and looked around. The short passage before me was dark, no windows to the outside world.

Eyes closed, back leaning heavily on the inside of the old wooden door, I took a long, deep breath. Exhaling slowly yet forcefully, expelling all my fears, I opened my eyes, stood away from the door, relaxed the shoulders, straightened my forever sore back, and prepared myself to face the past.

It’s taken me fifty years to reach this point in my life. I’m determined to face the memories of long ago and hopefully find some forgiveness, not just for myself, but for the others also.

The guilt and heartache that I carried with me all these years will never cease. I understand that. It’s the anger that’s always there, which I can’t seem to put to rest. If I can’t forgive myself, how am I to forgive the others? This is something that needed to be addressed for my own peace of mind. I had learnt long ago, waiting for forgiveness and acceptance from my family would never come. Not now. It’s too late. I’m now prepared to travel that path in my memory, and try to put those days behind me for good. I don’t want to die with this anger inside me.

With a heavy heart, I walked slowly down the dark narrow passage to the end, looking at each door left and right, trying to make sense of where they fitted into my haunted memory. My memory says this is a long passage, with only a few doors leading off. Now I can see just how short this passage really is. All these doors, so close together confuse me and I wondered if this was the right place after all. I remembered four doors, now I can see at least six.

Standing perfectly still I thought back to the day I arrived here, fifty years ago. I started to walk down the dark passage to the end. ‘I can remember this door,’ I thought. ‘Yes, this is it,’ I said aloud, standing with my back to it. As I felt the hardness against my back, I knew this was the door I had entered through fifty years ago. From the other end of the passage it all looked more familiar.

I took myself back, back to the day when I arrived, or at least what I could remember of it. This door on the right is the door to the sitting room, I remembered it as I grasped the old, round, brass doorknob to open it. ‘Damn, it’s locked’.

Walking slowly down the passage a little further, I quietly told myself that the next door on the right was Anne’s door and the one after that has to be Rosie’s.

Standing facing Anne’s door, I turned until I faced the other side of the passage. There it is, just as I remember. Only needing to take one step forward in this narrow passage put me inches from the blue door. ‘It must have been painted many times over the years’, I thought. ‘The paint’s now thick and lumpy on the surface. It looks like it’s never been sanded down before being painted again.’

Touching the door tentatively with one hand, I moved it over the lumpy surface. My mind went back to another time in my life.

Standing still, with my hand on the blue door, I noticed a familiar yet strange smell: one of age, dust and stale air, all tinged with a sadness I could almost taste.

Lifting my head slightly and tilting it to one side, I tried to understand the change in the atmosphere. Suddenly the air felt very thin and my ears started to hum. I began to feel slightly nauseated and dizzy. The thought of fainting on the old dirty carpet, alone, my bladder loose, was a fearful thought. ‘Heaven forbid I could be left here for days’, I thought. Instinctively I put both hands on the surface of the blue door to steady myself until the dizziness passed.

Head down and eyes shut to quieten the mind and ward off the dizziness, I became confused and wondered why I was feeling this way. I was a strong person physically and fainting was not something I did. The soles of my feet started to tingle, just as they always did when I entered lifts. My head felt as if it was stuffed with cotton wool. Leaning forward I rested my head on the closed door and shut my eyes. I felt very tired all of a sudden. After a minute or so I looked up at the lumpy blue door.

Just at that moment the door dissolved in front of my eyes, as if in a vision. What faced me was a very small room, about three metres by two metres and inside was crammed a narrow single bed in the right hand back corner. A tiny, side cabinet sat beside it. A very small one-door wardrobe stood against the wall at the foot of the bed. No windows.

The vision continued. There was a young woman standing at the side of the bed, facing the little bedside cabinet with her back to me. As if sensing me, she turned, her full dress slowly swirling around her small frame in slow motion; as though she was under water. Her feet were bare, I noticed. She was young, with short dark hair and tanned slim legs. I gasped as we stared at one another. I was transported to another time. A time fifty years ago.

The young woman seemed to smile at me, as though in recognition. Her eyes blank, without their green lustre and only the dullness that usually comes with age, or heartache.

‘I’m so sorry.’ I said softly, tears slowly filling my eyes as I looked more closely. She looked so lonely, sad, and frightened, like a kangaroo caught in the headlights of a car. I thought about her dilemma. How could I help her? She was so alone. It was far too late for me to help her make the right decision.

I felt empty inside, as though I’d been gutted like a fish. An angry, belly wrench of a scream threatened. My stomach tightened, cramping, as I watched her in her innocence and stupidity. I wanted to scream with frustration with the knowledge of what had happened to her. I wanted to tell her I couldn’t help it and how sorry I was to put her through this heartache. It was all too late now.

Before I could blink, the lumpy blue door quickly reformed once more. I sobbed. I kept slapping the door with my hands trying to restore her presence.

‘Don’t go! Please’, I sobbed. I leaned on the now closed door, reaching out, hugging the door with both arms, wanting to hold that frightened girl close. I didn’t want to leave her there alone.

Time stood still for me as I sobbed uncontrollably. All those years ago, the fear, the heartache, the shame, all came out like an overflowing damn of tears. I wanted to reassure that young, vulnerable woman, she would get through this. She would get stronger. Life will get better.

This girl’s stupidity was her downfall. It’s strange, but now I really liked her innocence. I liked her belief that the world was a wonderful place and she was going to find happiness, love and success one day. That young woman never suspected for one minute that once she thought she could get free of her father, she would be hurt again. A hurt so deep it would never go away. This young innocent woman only wanted to love and be loved. She was popular and had everything going for her. Her belief was if she followed society’s traditional way of life, eventually falling in love, getting married, having children, then everything would end up perfectly.

I kept seeing that innocent silly young woman. Where did she go? Why did she leave me? She took with her all her youthful goodness, ignorance and trust.

Time ticked by until I could stop sobbing.

Still facing the blue door, I heard a faint noise, distant at first, then becoming stronger. I brought my buzzing brain back to where I was. I turned away from the door and looked toward the sound coming from the passage.

Again, a vision of a girl standing in front of the doorway opposite me. She was very lifelike. This girl was looking towards the neighbouring door on her right. I followed the girl’s gaze to see what she was looking at. Coming out of the next door was another ethereal girl. The scene seemed very real. She was giggling and talking to herself as she skipped past me and disappeared through the closed door at the end of the passage.

The other girl watched her too, then turned and looked directly at me, as if acknowledging that I had a right to be there, to share this moment in time, before she dissolved slowly into the closed door behind her.

I squeezed my eyes tightly shut before opening them again, only to find the passage empty and very quiet. No other sound could be heard. No noise from outside penetrated these thick, old walls.

I recognized those two girls. Anne, the quiet, refined older girl, who had short strawberry blonde, curly hair and a pretty freckled face that rarely smiled. The other noisy apparition was Rosie, who always managed to make me smile with her infantile antics. She was a plump, young, shortish girl who had the fresh face of a child, eyes that twinkled and blonde hair tied in a ponytail that swished and swayed as she bounced past like a toddler. Sadly, she had the brain of a child.

I wiped the tears from my cheeks and blew my nose as I regained a little of my composure. I looked around once more, up and down the passage. I felt the coldness and sad history of the place seep into my soul. The old history of Nuns and their unwanted deliverance into this new country, here to serve and obey. Without their families. Possibly even without their consent.

An urgency overcame me suddenly that I just wanted to get out of there. I walked briskly to the end of the passage, through the door I had entered earlier, past the receptionist and continued out through the long corridors of the large building. Not seeing, not hearing, oblivious to the world around me. I almost ran, nearly tripping down the stairs out front in the urgency to get away. Outside on the foot path I lifted my face to the sky, seeking the warmth of the welcoming sunshine. My green eyes glistening like diamonds, still moist from all the tears.

I stood there for a couple of minutes. There’s an anger building just below the surface. I silently said my goodbyes to the three girls in the passage and made them a promise. A promise that I would tell their story. A story of how society treated them all those years ago.

I turned and looked back at the building before I headed to my car. I sat in my car for a long time. Remembering. Remembering those many years ago like it was only yesterday.

My memory is still so raw. The memory comes into your mind quickly and goes just as quickly, like a mosquito hovering near you. The more you try to catch it, it disappears, then the sound buzzes again. Just like that, this particular memory comes to me too often and leaves a stone in my heart, with little room for forgiveness.

The memory is anchored in the brain, like a ship lost at the bottom of the ocean, covered in sand and barnacles. The years have worn the ship’s soul back to its skeleton, haunted by the images of its journey to this place of rest. The only way one can see the ship’s original grandeur is to salvage, then re-build. The ship’s demise becomes an aquarium for all living sea life to attach themselves to. They either destroy the host more, or make it more beautiful in its final resting place, but whatever happens, the lost ship will forever hold the ghosts of the past.

The sadness in my soul will never leave me. Even after all these years, yet it still feels like yesterday. Like the sunken ship, I have creatures still attached to me. I want them gone. I want to re-build my last years.

* * *

1

My parents were very different from one another. Mum was a quiet, refined English woman. Her parents came out from England just before the First World War. She was brought up with Victorian values and the morals of Old England. Pretty, with jet-black hair curling around her neck; she was slim and gracefully tall and held herself perfectly erect. In my eyes, she only ever conducted herself as one classy lady. The only fault was she tried too hard to keep the old Victorian values of respectability in her own life. In a house where drink and abuse shared the space, her values were too hard for her to enforce on our family, it would never be a quiet, orderly life, with respectability.

Now Dad, on the other hand, was a very different ‘kettle of fish’ from my mother. He was a self-taught man who left school and home at the age of twelve, after his mother died. He took off from Perth and headed north looking for work. Jumping trains and stealing food from un-suspecting farmers kept him in good stead along the way. His life didn’t start out very well, by all accounts. His beloved mother died very young and it broke his heart. He had found her dead in the chook pen when he came home from school one sad day. He held her in his arms and screamed until someone came to help. I know in my heart that Dad still grieved for that terrible loss.

He had been a streetwise kid from an early age. Later he’d been through many dangerous drunken escapades where other men may not have survived. He’d driven across flooded bridges, ending up in the river. He’d crashed into trees, where the evidence left was metres from the ground. He swam miles to shore from his sinking boat east of Garden Island. He had lots of mates to drink with and his personality got him through life, one way or another.

He was handsome, my Dad, when he was a young man. I was told he could turn a woman’s heart with as little as a smile and a ‘G’day.’ I could understand this, because if one of his smiles had ever come my way, it would have filled my heart with joy. That smile could melt your heart, but his anger could make the bravest of men run.

Dad stood at five feet ten, with bright blue eyes that glittered with laughter, or pierced your very soul. He was barrel chested and built like a Roman soldier, with muscular arms and legs. I doubt if his friends, certainly not his younger siblings, could have imagined that this charismatic, handsome, blue-eyed mechanical genius could become a monster behind his front door.

Maybe it was the loss of his mother, so young, that destroyed my Dad. I can only guess as to what the reason was for him to drink himself into oblivion. His social life revolved around the hotels and the ocean. Whatever was offered, he drank. Many a day after school my job would be to neatly stack all the bottles scattered around the back verandah and yard, ready for the bottle collector. To make the job more enjoyable I would check out all the different labels and put them in their groups. I never knew what turpentine bottles were doing amongst the beer ones, until many years later.

2

My young years were blessed with good friends and lots of fun. I was fifteen and loving the life I had outside of my home.

I threw myself into as many physical activities as I could. School allowed me to become more than competent in many sporting opportunities. I didn’t have a competitive bone in my body then, much to my regret now, as it could have served me well. I loved school and the many friends I had there. My best friends, Paula and Beth, went to school with me.

Summer was spent on the beach, surfing and having the life one dreamt of in the fifties and sixties. Music, dancing, beach parties, boys, surfboards, sport cars - all of this. Netball and surfing were my two favourites. Netball training was an outing for me during the weeks in winter. I always looked forward to these nights. Paula and I would run through scary dark bush to training at the local school then we would go back to her place after for hot drinks. Her home was warm and filled with love. She had loving parents and the abundance of happy teasing from Paula’s father made it special for me.

Paula and I would pre-arrange to stop and play squash at the Scarborough Squash Courts after work. Next door to the Squash Courts was a large trampoline centre. We would often go there after squash and work out. We had a ball.

Life was good away from home.

3

Many nights, the fear of Dad coming home late would have me praying under the sheets, hoping he would either not come home too drunk, or, better still, not come home at all. Many nights he didn’t. Not for weeks on end. I actually blessed those times.

When Dad didn’t come home for weeks, Mum struggled financially. Meg and I were school ages. We couldn’t catch the bus to school without money to pay for fare or food to take for lunch. Meg, Mum and I lived on stale bread, with fat and gravy bits scraped from the oven tray or grill pan. We’d dust this with pepper and salt. It tasted beautiful, so we never grumbled!

Mum came home one night, after one of Dad’s disappearances, and told us she had got herself a job. The job she got was as a seamstress in a reasonably sized business, not far from the house we were renting at that time. She had only been there a couple of weeks when the boss gave her a raise and asked her to be the supervisor of the other seamstresses. That night when Mum came home from work, she was so excited and I could see how much she loved this job. Something she was good at and she met different people. Her face was beaming and her eyes sparkling. Meg and I were very happy for her and we were all smiling as we ate our dinner that night.

Even the mentally handicapped girl next door didn’t bother Meg and me this night, when she dragged the stick along the corrugated tin fence next door. She would do this in the dark of the night when we were in bed. It used to scare the wits out of us.

We had no idea where Dad was, or whether he would ever come home again. Mum had been going to work happily for a few weeks, enjoying the company of other people and loving the job.

Out of the blue one day in walked Dad, as bold as brass, as though nothing had been any different.

Mum came home from work that night and he asked her where she had been? When she said she had got herself a job, he exploded.

‘Oh, no you don’t!’ he said. ‘No bloody wife of mine is going to work in a job and embarrass me. No bloody way, not over my dead body. So just get that into your bloody head, ya’ bitch. Otherwise, you won’t see me for dust again and ya’ can all go to bloody hell. You think I’m out there working my bloody guts off so you can go to work?’

Mum didn’t have the courage to disobey. She told him she would have to go the next day to tell her boss she was leaving. We never again saw her smile like she had done earlier when she told us about the job.

4

Years had gone by and life went along as usual. We had to move houses a few times as we only rented. Dad would get behind in rent and we would have to move on. Eventually we had our own home in Scarborough. Dad was allocated War Service home. A royal palace to the family. Two bedrooms, front porch, back verandah and on a quarter acre block. Mum was so happy to have her own home and never have to rent horrible houses again. She enjoyed having a garden to tend and making the home as lovely as she could with little money.

Dad behaved the same as always. Sometimes worse than others. This night was a bad one and we all had to suffer.

We had only just got to bed with lights out. It wasn’t long after that I heard a very loud noise. My heart jumped in my chest. I knew what that noise was. Subconsciously, I had acquired acute hearing for any noise which might indicate Dad’s arrival home. I knew immediately that it was his car sliding into the driveway. We had a gravel driveway