Finding my father

 

"The admin is looking for you. Your father is here.” My buddy Paul Harvey had found me in the alcove behind the musical cubicles where I loved to study and listen to the students playing between classes at Lowell U. It had been almost six years since I’d seen him. Our only contact had been through his weekly support check to my mother.

My parents’ marriage had been a nightmare not in the sense of physical abuse or addiction problems but genuine dislike and undermining of each other. Neither party was innocent.

Two separation attempts hadn’t worked when I was 5 and 8. Fortunately the one when I was 13 did.

It had been clear throughout my childhood I could not like my father and have my mother’s love too. Everything came with conditions. Yes, I could go with him to see Santa Claus arrive in the center of our town but that’s all. I had to say no to the Roy Rogers movie, and I loved Roy, which was part of the celebration without explaining to him why. The condition? I could go see Santa but that had to be the only thing we did. Even where we were to stand was dictated. My father had agreed to my suggestion of the library wall. I doubt if he knew why I was so insistent.

After the divorce, my father visited us 2-4 times a month. Sometimes, he was allowed to take us out. Other times we stayed on the porch.

My mother claims truthfully she never talked against him to me, but she did talk against him to her friends in my hearing.

For a period I hated him as required. My English teacher once asked the class if any of us truly hated someone. “I do.” He started to follow up but knew that wasn’t the time and place.

My father stood by the admissions window that day. He looked the same in his suit, overcoat, twirling his fedora. He invited me to lunch. We began to heal old wounds and went on to forge a wonderful relationship.

My stepmom (the stupid slut, according to my mother) had encouraged him to make contact even though he admitted he was terrified I would reject him. Putting his fears aside, he waited well over an hour for me at admissions. I became “our” daughter. She became a woman I grew to adore and respect.

I didn’t just find my father. I found his entire family who were not ignorant foreigners having emigrated as francophones from Nova Scotia, but a close loving bunch of aunts, uncles and cousins all who accepted me. I just arrived a little late.

My father adored me. After his heart attack, I heard from the nurses how he bragged about that as part of my job I rode in the company helicopter, how smart and clever I was, what a great mother to his equally talented and beautiful granddaughter.

I was in my 40s was when I really lost my father. A call from my uncle sent me scurrying to Florida where the family gathered to say goodbye to him. I wish he had lived to see the publication of my books, but just as happy I didn’t have to explain why I gave up my American nationality and had taken the Swiss one.

Yet I find him times hiding out in my heart and memories.

Photos: My father had teased his brothers and sisters about being grandparents. To announce my pregnancy we had a surprise baby shower for him and the family. 

My brother, who had not seen our father since age five, at 27 asked if I could introduce them. We flew to Florida and had a wonderful long weekend. Sadly, they did not continue the relationship.