There were three dolls. My mother helped me name the first two: Ruthie for her best friend; Elizabeth for the Queen of England. When I turned eight I was given a third doll who had breasts, blue eyes and dark curly hair. I was determined to name her all by myself.

I took as much care as if I were christening a child, and everywhere I looked I found a name: on television, Juliette and Maggie; at my father's office, Pat, Sybil, Mireille; Zara playing the cello; Leila passing off margarine as butter. But in the end the name found me in a dream in which the doll stiff-walked towards me on her inflexible legs, and when I picked her up her moulded face became flesh and her bright mouth uttered the word Norah like a sigh.

The next day, the moment my father arrived home, I told him, "My doll's name is Norah."

"Where'd she get that?" he asked talking over my head to my mother, who cleared her throat.

"Oh, probably from my Women's Committee list," she said, trying for nonchalance.

Years later, after my parents died, I was sorting through their correspondence and found a thick envelope which contained my adoption papers. Glancing down the first page I read, "The said mother of the said child, Norah...." My birth mother's name was Norah. Attached to the document was a hand-written note in which the social worker described her:

Height: 5'6"
Weight: 135
Colouring: Blue eyes, brown wavy hair.