Strange Sally Diamond

I took a deep breath and cancelled my schedule for the rest of the day. My daughter, Amanda Heron, was out there, looking for answers. I googled her and found a glut of information. Young people have no idea how available their data is. Within minutes, I had her address, her phone number, her school records, her Master of Arts in Music qualification from the University of Auckland, photographs of her with her adopted family going back to when she was a baby. Photos of her singing with a choir. Photos of her with two different boyfriends, Amanda on a motorcycle crossing the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco, Amanda in a camper van in Montana. And very recent photos: Amanda in an evening gown just last week at a New Zealand Symphony Orchestra performance.

Amanda was twenty-three and stunningly beautiful like her mother. I was startled by the sight of her lovely grinning face, with its intact teeth. Our daughter, Wanda. I stared at the photos, wondering how I would begin to have a conversation with her, before realizing that it would not be possible. I had to get away.

I sent a very polite reply to Kate Ngata, wishing the company well with their series, but ‘as head of Cyber Security with New Zealand’s premier bank, it would be entirely inappropriate for me to comment on any personal matter. I’m sure you understand.’

I knew this would merely add to her frustration, but I was grateful that the New Zealand police was not sharing information with amateurs.

I did not exist on the internet, except as an employee of the bank. There were no photographs or entries except for the ones from the Rotorua Daily Post in 1985, detailing my survival of the horror crash that killed my father and the subsequent fundraising on my behalf. Hoani Mata Productions must have sent the same email to every Steve Armstrong in the country.

I sent a note to the COO of the bank, saying that I had to take leave as a matter of urgency on a private medical matter. It would require three months, I said, but I would be contactable by email. I briefed my second-in-command on issues relating to the bank’s relationship to bitcoin and cryptocurrency, which was becoming a problem for us. I then left.

I went home and used my laptop to book flights to Ireland. I needed to go back. I needed to find my sister. She was the key to the connection I needed.

50 Sally

The results, when they came within twelve days, were unequivocal. Peter/Steve was my brother. Mark was our uncle, but there was something else that showed up in the results on the ancestry website. I had a niece called Amanda Heron and she was Peter’s daughter. He hadn’t mentioned a daughter or a wife or girlfriend. His letter had led me to believe that he was a loner, possibly like me. But he wasn’t asexual like me.

It was time to call him. I wanted to have this conversation on my own. The ancestry results had come to my home and Mark didn’t yet know.

Peter’s phone rang once before he picked up.

‘Mary?’ he said.

‘It’s Sally, it’s been Sally since I was adopted so I’d prefer if you called me Sally.’

‘Okay.’ There was a tremor in his voice.

‘Are you still in Dublin?’

‘Yeah, I’m in a park now beside a church in the city centre.’

‘Right. So, I got the DNA results.’

‘Yeah?’

‘You are my brother.’

‘I knew that. I’ve known about you all my life.’

‘So why did you never get in touch before?’

‘I explained it in the letter. I didn’t know where you were. You didn’t show up on any internet searches until Thomas Diamond’s death.’

‘Sorry, yes, you did explain. But if you knew about me and my mother and you knew what our birth father had done, why didn’t you ever go to the police?’

‘It’s hard to explain. He had me brainwashed for a long time. He told me I had an illness. I hardly knew right from wrong – I can’t say it all over the phone. Will you come and meet me?’

I had discussed what would happen with Mark if the results proved that we were siblings.

‘Peter, we have an uncle, Denise’s brother.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, he’d like to meet you too. He will collect you in Dublin and bring you to my home.’

‘When?’

‘Tomorrow?’ The next day was Saturday. I would cancel my weekend piano playing. Lucas would have to find a replacement.

‘That would be good. Thank you. Mary – I mean, Sally, do you remember me?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Did my mother, Denise, did she talk about me?’

‘We have so much to talk about, Peter, let’s wait until we’re face to face.’

There was a pause. ‘I’m not very good at talking.’

‘Oh well, we’re definitely siblings. It’s taken me nearly two years of therapy to get over that.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yes. Do you have friends? A wife? Girlfriend?’

His voice trembled. ‘No.’

It wasn’t time to ask him about his daughter. ‘I can’t believe I’m talking to my own brother.’

‘You haven’t told the media, or the police?’

‘Absolutely not.’