Just mom and me. As far back as I remember, that has been the entirety of my family. We complete each other. We are opposites in most ways, which means we manage to keep each other out of trouble somehow. So when she presented me with a framed photo of us for my birthday, I proudly placed it on my mantle for all to see. My little baby face greets me with a smile every time I open the door.
As I close the door on the world and let baby me welcome me home, the picture tumbles from its home. I breath a sigh of relief as I pick it up and find the glass intact. However, the fall knocked the back loose. As I push the clips back into place, I notice a corner of paper sticking out the back. I undo the clasps. Tucked in behind the photo, I find a sheet of notepaper, folded in half.
‘Hey, me,
‘Just me, you know. You need to find your father. Find him now. Don’t ask mom anything. Don’t tell mom anything. She can’t know until you find him. Then you will know.
‘Hugs and kisses,
‘Me, yes me.’
I laugh and put the picture back on the mantle. I wonder how long ago I planted that piece of paper and how far gone to sleep deprivation I was at the time.
“But wouldn’t I remember putting it there?” I ask as I pick up the paper again. “I’ve never been that far out of it… Have I?”
As I peer at the paper, I notice a tiny line of text written down one side, ‘Came back in time. Can only do so once. Just do IT!’
The paper flutters to the floor as I pick up the picture of my mother and I again. Is she hiding something behind that smile?
Whenever I asked about my father, she would hide her face in her hands and sob. One time she explained that things just didn’t work out. No other revelations ever crossed her lips. Should I have asked more questions as I got older? I guess I got complacent and decided not to break what was obviously working.
Soon a pile of papers covered every surface of my living room as I looked through a box of papers I borrowed from my mother for a family history project in college and forgot to return. She never asked for them back, so maybe she knew nothing useful lay nestled inside this collection of detritus from my life. I just hoped that she missed something that will point me toward whatever my future self wants me to discover.
I finally locate my birth certificate. As I scan the contents, I realize I never bothered to read it. My mother told me when and where I was born and how much I weighed and how long I was so often that I never thought to see if it held any other information. Maybe the fact that the person I loved and trusted more than any other being on the entire planet burst into tears every time I asked about my father had trained me not to truly want to know. I gasp as I find the line for father’s name and find a name neatly typed there.
And not just any name. A name I recognize. A name whose owner I had met and spoken to on many occasions.
“Coach Jameson is my father?” I clap my hand over my mouth as if the walls will reveal my secrets.
I try to picture him with my mother, but I can’t. The stern, loud-mouthed, energetic coach and my soft-spoken, intelligent mother who would rather eat a diet of only vegetables and lean meat than exert more energy than is absolutely necessary epitomize an impossible match. She barely even acknowledged his existence as my cross country coach. Surely, she would have had some reaction to me spending time with my father, but I don’t remember anything amiss. She carried on as if her first meeting with him was the day I signed up for cross country. And he behaved much the same way. Of course, Coach Jameson’s emotions seemed non-existent until the end of a race, soaring for a win and sinking down into the depths for a loss. The former was followed by a fist pump and offer to take everyone out for ice cream. The latter was punished with more sprints and a lecture on taking care of our entire being in order to get out there and “Win! Win! Win!”
Would I have seen something I wasn’t looking for? I ponder this and how I am supposed to find him if he is my father. A couple of years ago, after many years of coaching the high school cross country team through winning seasons, he accepted a new job at the Generic State University, which has had winning seasons every year since. My high school, oddly, hasn’t even placed in the past couple of years.
I inhale for three seconds and exhale for three more. I repeat this a couple more times until my brain feels calm and then I reach into my pocket for my car keys. I turn the radio off, so I can think of what to say to the coach, my father, on the half hour journey to the university.
By the time I pull into the parking lot outside of the sports complex, I still have no idea how to address the questions I want to ask. Thus I find myself at his door with no course of action and no idea what excuse would even seem plausible after five years of not talking to him. Even when I saw him almost every day for practices, we barely spoke to each other. To be honest, he only spoke to any of us when he was encouraging us to run faster and better than we thought was possible.
I double check his office number before exiting my car and heading inside. I pass a couple of college girls, who give me a skeptical look. I glance down and realize I have various stains on my shirt. Too late to think of that now, so I shrug it off and keep walking down the hall. Soon I find the correct door, which stands ajar. I rap lightly.
“Come in.” A familiar voice calls.
I hesitate for a moment.
“Hello?” The voice calls again.
Wheels squeak as a chair rolls back from a desk and then firm footsteps approach the door. I glance over my shoulder, still tempted to run, but my desire to know the truth holds me firm in my place. As the door swings inward, Coach Jameson sees my face and the questioning look on his face gives way to defeat. His shoulders slump and he steps back, gesturing into the room. I step inside without speaking. He closes the door behind us. I hear the lock clicking into place.
“She finally told you?” He comes around to face me while he speaks, slumping down to meet my eyes.
“No. She didn’t.” I say simply.
His brow furrows as he processes this. “Maybe, I should try again. It’s lovely to see you, Trinidad, what brings you out to the university? Hoping to join our cross country team perhaps?”
“No.” I offer him a timid smile. “I think your original thinking was closer to why I am here.”
He gestures to a stiff, blue plastic chair as he sits in the leather monstrosity behind the desk. He crosses his arms and leans back.
“In that case, you better lead the discussion.”
“Someone told me you might be my father,” I begin, not sure how to address my acquisition of this knowledge.
“Not your mother?” He queries.
“No. Not my mother.” I give him the hardest look I can muster against a figure of authority who might have answers to my lifelong questions. “Are you my father?”
“I wish you would talk to your mother about this.” He sinks further into his chair,
“But you understand why I chose to talk to you instead?” I ask as pieces connect in my mind.
“Let’s just say she made it clear that I wasn’t supposed to even so much as hint at anything.” He mumbles.
“Well, you did a good job of that.” I respond, realizing more pain crept into my words than I intended or anticipated.
“She made me sign away any parental rights…” He mused, addressing the wall of trophies behind my head.
“That sounds like her, but how on earth did…” I can’t finish the question.
He looks at me as if he expects me to continue. After a few moments, he realizes why I paused. His face reddens all the way to his crew cut.
“Young lady, that is not an appropriate question,” he blusters.
“Oh no!” I feel the blood rush from my own face only to return almost immediately. “I just mean…”
“We don’t seem like an ideal couple? Yeah, tell me about it. Your mom has a certain spark to her, and when we were both drunk…”
“That might be enough,” I stand to go.
He holds up his hand. “All you need to know is we didn’t mean for it to happen. And honestly I don’t think your mom meant for me to know about you, but..” He tears up as he pauses to compose himself, “You have my mother’s eyes. No matter what she said, once I saw those eyes, I knew you were mine.”
I nod, but my brain wanders. I wanted myself to know he was my father. Surely, it wasn’t solely to know about my grandmother’s eyes. I tune back in as he regains composure enough to continue.
“The first day you came in for track practice, I knew. So I called your mom. That’s when she pointed out how happy you were and how finding out about me would just ruin your perfect life. You really were so happy. I didn’t want to take that from you. And then when my mother was dying of cancer, I thought to myself that it really was best that you didn’t have to lose your grandmother right after you found her.”
“Oh. I’m sorry about your mother.”
“She would have loved be your grandmother. She always nagged me to get married. I just…” He clears his throat. “You don’t need to know about that. So what made you want to come see me now?”
“Something told me I needed to know about my father.”
He doesn’t seem satisfied with my answer. Instead, he surveys me carefully. I blush. Even when he coached the cross country team, he never looked at me so intently.
“Has that always been there?” He gestures toward my ear.
Unable to see what he is talking about, I pull out my cell phone and use it as a mirror. “I don’t know. I have never noticed it before.” I reach up to gently prod a reddish brown mole just below my left ear.
“It’s probably nothing, but could you do me a favor?” He is typing on his computer as he talks.
“Depends on what it is. I mean. You have been my dad for…” I look at the time on my phone, “about ten minutes.”
He smiles weakly at my tepid joke and jots something down on a post-it note. “This is the number of my mother’s oncologist. Could you make an appointment to have him look at that mole?”
“Um. Sure.” I take the post-it reluctantly.
“It’s just that my mother had a mole like that and…”
I nod my head in understanding. “Of course. Of course.” I rise to go.
“Trin,” he reaches out a hand to me. “Please don’t be afraid to call me. I know it is too late to really be your dad, but…”
My heart swells within my chest and I fight back tears. “I’d like that. I’ll let you know what the doctor says, okay?”
He nods. “Thank you.”
“Goodbye.” I reach out a hand.
He shakes my hand slowly. “Goodbye… for now.”
~~
True to my word, I called my newly discovered father from the parking lot after my second meeting with the oncologist. Dr. Medford broke it to me gently that the mole was indeed a malignant type of skin cancer, but we had caught it so early that the rounds of radiation were more a precaution than a necessity with my family history. I allowed myself a long cry, half terror that I just learned I have cancer and the other half that I caught it so early it will barely impact my life aside from making me pay more attention to my body and eat healthier to discourage it from coming back. When the last tear dried on my cheek and I had swallowed a few gulps of water to wash the lump down my throat.
“So I’m going to be okay,” I announce to my empty car, testing my voice. A little hoarse yet strong and steady.
I take a bracing breath and call my father.
“Coach Jameson, Generic State University,” he greets me.
“This is Trin”
His voice changes instantly, suddenly infused with warmth and worry that I have never heard before. “How nice to hear your voice. How are you?”
“I’m good, but…” I don’t know how to tell him or why I want to share this with a relative stranger.
He takes in a deep breath, but he doesn’t speak.
“I talked to the oncologist. The mole was cancer, but we caught it early.”
He exhales. “So you’re going to be okay?”
“As far as the doctor knows.”
“I’m so glad…” he pauses but a question hangs in the air between us.
“Thanks for giving me his name,” I fill the empty air.
“I’m glad I was able to…” He pauses again. “Do you think we could…”
I can picture him rubbing his crew cut nervously, so I cut to the chase. “We should have dinner sometime…”
Before I can say more, my phone buzzes. I pull it away from my ear and see a string of texts from my mother leading up to a call currently trying to connect. I hadn’t told my mother anything that was going on, but she knew. Mothers always know. And they always call to let you know that they know.
“Mom!” I mutter.
“If your mother wants to have dinner with us, that would be fine, I guess.” The trepidation in his voice speaks of not wanting to open up whatever door such an event would create.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean with mom…” I stutter. “I mean, I can ask her, but I haven’t told her…”
“How about we just have a father daughter dinner before we try to pretend we are a regular family? Call me back when you get a chance.” He says in a rush.
“Okay. Talk soon.” As I switch over to my mother, I realize I have fallen into the same easy, casual way of talking I use with her.
“Hi, mom,” I greet my mother.
“You should have told me?”
I consider denying it or feigning innocence, but my entire life has proven to me that I should just let her have her say before I explain. Otherwise, I give away far more than she could have possibly known.
“You still aren’t going to tell me.”
“Mother, we’ve done this dance before. You tell me what you want me to tell you, and I will tell you.”
“Kathy saw you outside the oncology ward when she was visiting her sister…” So much accusation and hurt comes through with her words that my eyes prickle.
“I was just about to call you, mom. I didn’t know anything definite until today.”
“You didn’t want to give me a heads up? You just wanted me to find out when the worst happened?”
“Calm down, mom. We caught it early. I just need some precautionary treatments.”
I hear her breathing, but she doesn’t say anything.
“Mom?”
“Is there anything else you need to tell me?” Something about her accusing tone rubs me the wrong way.
“I don’t know, mom. Is there anything you should tell me?”
“Wh-wh-what?” She stammers.
“I only know one side of my medical history. What if there is something else I should know?”
“Oh my gosh. He told you? I will sue him…”
“No. I told him. He already knew, apparently. And so did you. Why would you sue him? For wanting to take responsibility for a child he helped make?” I shudder even as the words leave my mouth, realizing that I was crossed a line.
My mother doesn’t speak.
“Mom?”
Nothing.
“Mother?”
I pull the phone away from my ear and see that she has indeed hung up on me.
~~Clearly, I decided a parental theme was needed for the merry month of May this year. Both daddy issues and mommy issues? Therapist please. All monetary tokens of appreciation received this week will go into a fund to get me the couch time I need—with a psychiatrist not my television, though I am a very talented couch spud when I want to be.~~
