I was delighted that she wanted to start writing. Her story needed to be shared. I only wished that a similar book had been available when I discovered she was deaf. I would have found such comfort and hope in reading something like that.
Sophie got started as soon as she woke up the next morning, sitting in Li’s home office typing bullet points. That evening, she came to me and asked a few questions about her early childhood. It developed into an interesting conversation. Once I began to talk about how things were back then and how I’d felt, I could see a change in her face. I realised that now she was a young woman, I could explain things – such as my feelings during that tumultuous time, and the choices Li and I had made – in a fuller way. Before long we also began touching on the recent years of her life, when she had started to become part of the deaf community. I recognised that not only was this going to keep Sophie busy, it could also be just what she and I needed.
Even though I’d dreamed of one day sitting down with her to talk about our shared experiences, I’d never expected it to happen this way. She was taking the lead and was the one pushing me to tell her about the hard decisions we had made about her life. What surprised me most was that she started to share some very vivid memories of her early childhood with me. I had always been aware of her ‘dark moods’, but I could never have imagined the real depths of her suffering and despair. She questioned me about some of the decisions we had made, such as her cochlear implant and changing schools. Writing the book was giving us the opportunity to open up to each other. She was coming to terms with the things that troubled her, and I was gaining a more profound understanding of and compassion for our daughter’s plight. I think she was also gaining insights into my perspective and the decisions I’d made. We were becoming even closer.
So far, she was just making notes in point form. Then Li fished out, from his dusty mountain of paperwork, some points I’d written when giving a talk about my life at All Hallows’ School in Brisbane when we had first arrived. Sophie became fascinated with my childhood in Rocky. We were sitting at the kitchen bench watching Li cook dinner when she began pestering me to write down something about it. I kept saying that I’d answer any questions, but there was something amiss. What was it that Sophie was really asking of me?
Suddenly, I looked at her in confusion and shock. All this time, I’d thought that she was writing about her life. I raised my eyebrows at her.
‘Sophie, what’s this sudden interest in me about?’
‘Mum, I actually think it should be you who is writing this book,’ she stated.
Ah. The cat was out of the bag.
‘Sophie. You know I am not a writer!’ I bluntly told her as I got up to refill my wineglass.
‘Don’t worry, Mum. I can help you. You just have to talk and I’ll write it down for you.’ she said. Then, giving me a dreamy look, she continued, ‘Or this can be a book that we write together.’ She suddenly whipped out her phone and pressed something. ‘Mum, talk a bit about something that has happened in your life. Just talk into the phone and it will record and I will transcribe it.’
I immediately responded, ‘Oh, Sophie! No, I can’t do it.’
‘Why not, Mum?’
‘Because I know what a huge project this is. I lived through the writing of your father’s book!’
I panicked, remembering the relief I’d felt when Li’s writing fever was finally over. ‘And Sophie, I can’t put pen to paper. Who would want me to write?’ I put my hand to my chest, earnestly.
‘But Mum, you just have to talk. You know you never shut up anyway,’ Sophie deadpanned. We both started laughing.
We moved on to dinner, with me hoping deep down she’d forget all this nonsense. But no, the next morning she popped her head in at the bedroom door and charmingly said, ‘Coffee, Mum?’
I looked at her and from that moment knew what I was in for, whether I liked it or not. I threw some clothes on and we walked to the cafe nearby. It was a sunny winter’s day and we could sit outside with Nala at our feet. As soon as we sat down, she took out an A4 notebook and pen, put them on the table and said sweetly, ‘I’ll get the coffee, you write.’
I looked at the pen and paper helplessly.
‘Just write anything, Mum.’ Sophie called from the counter. ‘What about a paragraph about your brothers in Rocky? What were they like growing up?’
I was silently fuming. I hastily scribbled some rubbish over a page and tossed back the notebook, saying I was done for the day. Sophie smiled but didn’t say anything more; she just put the notebook and pen away.
That night, she ran down from Li’s office and said, ‘Mum, this is brilliant! You need to write more.’ She had somehow typed up my scribbles from earlier that day.
‘How could you even read my scrawl?’ I responded with surprise.
‘Oh, it was difficult, Mum,’ she said, laughing out loud, ‘but can you please write more, a bit more, and write more clearly, please?’
I had to admit that it was fun to work on a project together. Sophie’s happiness and her sense of humour gave me such joy. Later that weekend, after more coffee and scribbling fiascos in the mornings, I would hear her laughing as she typed up my scrawl. She was laughing at my stories. How wonderful! How could I refuse her? That’s why I wrote – I could not refuse my daughter.
Over the next few weeks, Sophie was tenacious. She continued to wake me up with her charming coffee agenda and off we would go. Her visa still had not come through, and while she was concerned, she was excited about our project and also somehow managed to find a couple of casual jobs to keep her going. One was assisting teachers of deaf students at a local high school, and the other was teaching weekly Auslan community classes for Deaf Services Queensland. What a go-getter!
A few weeks later, Sophie said, ‘Mum, I’ve been in contact with Julie Watts. She’s interested in our story.’
‘She is?’ I asked, panic starting to rise. Julie was still waiting for me, even after all these years?
Julie was working for herself now but was keen to help us get started and, if possible, to remain involved.
‘Sophie, I told you before, I cannot write!’ I continued to protest. ‘I mean, I am already bored writing about myself!’ I dramatically put my hands up to my face in mock despair.
Sophie laughed. ‘Mum, don’t worry. I have a plan. We’ll just keep doing what we’ve been doing and not worry about the book. We don’t have to publish it if you don’t like it. It will just be nice for your grandchildren to read one day.’
Over the next few days, Julie contacted Penguin Random House, as they were now, and they were very quick to put in an offer for our story. I was very surprised and also worried. I had reservations, as we still had to write the bloody book! As it turned out, Julie’s own daughter, Ali Watts, was our publisher there. The lovely mother–daughter serendipity was not lost on me.
Sophie kept pushing me, every morning. She was turning our interviews into a collection of conversations. Conversations! Conversations with My Daughter is what she was calling the book. I marvelled that she had thought of a working title that echoed my impossible dream from all those years ago.
And then there we were a couple of months later, a few sample chapters done and a publisher’s contract on the table. I was in shock. Just from our daily coffee dates, we had somehow amassed 160 000 words! Along the way we had also come to the conclusion that the conversation format was probably not the best vehicle for our story, and perhaps it should just be my own memoir . . . Was I to be a published author? Really? Could I do it on my own?