Page 72 of Return to the Waratah Inn

“I wonder if you recall back in December of 1953, when you had a baby...?”

Mima’s world stopped. The sounds of the crowd fell away, and she heard only the noise of her heart thundering against her ribcage. Then the crowd was back. Jimmy leaned towards her, his brow furrowed in mock concern. He pressed one hand to his knee. “Mima? Are you all right? Did you hear what I said?”

“Huh? I’m sorry. What?”

There were whispers throughout the audience. What was going on? Why was Jimmy talking about the baby she’d lost decades earlier? How did he know? Where was this going? She should get up and leave. Although part of her had known the show might be connected to her baby, she’d told herself it wasn’t possible. No one had access to those records. She’d searched for years, trying to find the baby’s birth certificate so she had something to remember him by. She’d wanted to change it so it had the name on it that she’d hoped to give him, had he lived. Little Oliver Everest would be immortalised. But it’d been impossible. She hadn’t found any record that remotely resembled her boy’s birth certificate. It’d been lost, or destroyed—she had no way of knowing which. But there was no chance a TV show could’ve found what she’d spent so much time searching for, was there?

Jimmy offered the audience a conspiratorial grin, somehow still laced with patronising concern. “The baby you had in 1953. Do you remember him?”

“That’s not exactly something you forget, Jimmy,” she replied with cold disdain. She poised herself, ready to get up and leave.

“Of course it’s not.” He shook his head sadly. “What happened to that baby?”

She glared at him, her heart aching. “He died.”

There was a further gasp from the audience, followed by the hum of conversation. Someone by the front of the stage held up a sign towards the audience. Silent! Quiet on set! The noise died down instantly.

Jimmy looked at her, gathering his face into a mask of compassion. “I’m here to tell you that he’s alive.”

Mima gaped. Her eyes widened, and she searched Jimmy’s face for the truth. Was he lying? Why would he do that? And on TV? It didn’t make sense. “He’s alive? How is that possible?”

“Not only is he alive, but he’s here in the studio with us today.”

Mima’s head spun. The studio seemed to tilt on its axis. She pressed a hand to the couch to steady herself. Her lungs filled with air, but she couldn’t seem to get enough of it. “I don’t understand. They told me he died. You must have the wrong person.”

“Your son, Allen Younger, has searched for you for decades. When he finally realised he needed help, he contacted the show, and we located you within weeks.”

“I… don’t know what to say.” Mima’s heart thudded loud in her ears. She turned to the left and right, scanning the crowd and the people on the sides of the stage. Was he there? Which one was he? Would she know him to look at him? And how had this happened?

“Allen was raised by a loving family near Bundaberg after his parents were unable to conceive in the post-war years. They adopted him in Sydney then returned to Queensland with him, where he grew up on a sugar cane farm. His parents told him about the adoption when he was eight years old, and as an adult he chose to search for you. Every avenue he followed led to a dead end. There was simply no record of his birth, or his mother, until he called us. We were able to locate his handwritten birth certificate, which had been edited to provide him with the wrong birthdate and surname. The only consistency was the location of his birth and your first name, Jemima. The certificate listed you as Jemima Earhart. That’s why he hadn’t been able to find you previously. But once we discovered that anomaly, it wasn’t long before we were able to track you down. What name did you give him, Jemima?”

Mima blinked. “I wanted to call him Oliver Everest. But after he was born, I lost consciousness due to a haemorrhage. When I recovered, they told me he was stillborn. I never got to name him or hold him.”

The audience exclaimed with oohs and aahs, then held its collective breath.

“Did you intend for him to be adopted?” Jimmy asked, looking genuinely curious for the first time.

“No, of course not. I wanted to keep him so badly. My plan was to take him to Bathurst to stay with my parents. It wasn’t a very good plan, since in the end they wanted nothing to do with me. But whatever we did, we’d do it together. He has to know that he was very loved and very wanted.”

“Are you saying they took your child away from you forcibly?”

Mima inhaled a slow breath. “So it seems. And it happened to my friend Fran too. I didn’t realise they’d done it to me until this very moment.”

“What happened to Fran?” Jimmy asked.

“They took her baby, broke her heart and then she left.” Mima’s voice faltered. Her throat felt as though it was on fire.

“You were robbed of the chance to know your own baby. Now, this is your opportunity to finally meet the son you thought was dead. Are you ready to meet him, Jemima?”

She pressed her eyes shut, pushing out the noise. This was it. Her whole life was about to change. She opened her eyes and gave him a quick nod.

“Jemima Everest, meet your son, Allen Younger,” Jimmy shouted in a tremulous voice.

Mima stood to her feet and faced the direction Jimmy had pointed. Her legs felt as though they might collapse. Her heart skittered in her chest. She didn’t dare to blink again in chase she missed the moment he stepped onto the stage. And then she saw him.

He was dressed in a shirt and jeans. His caramel curls looked so much like her own, like her mother’s. His dimples were hers as well. He was tall and muscular as he jogged across the stage with a broad smile. Nothing like his father. He was all hers.

She held out her arms to him, unable to move. Tears wet her cheeks before she realised she was crying. He bent to hug her, and she clung to him, sobbing against his shirt. She tried to pull herself together and sat on the couch beside Allen, their hands still linked. She sniffled and wiped her nose with a tissue, swallowing back the emotion that’d built in her throat.