London, 1998
“What about my father?”
What? What could she possibly tell me about my dear, departed father that I don’t already know? That he was a controlling, narcissistic bastard? That everything was all about him? That she hated him? My mind races. Maybe she’s going to tell me he had affairs. Not that it would particularly surprise me, just give me a reason to hate him more. Now it’s my time to frown. Oh God. Perhaps he beat her up? Perhaps his bullying crossed the line into physical abuse.
“What is it, Mum?” She still hasn’t spoken, and now I’m worrying.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know how to tell you this. Your father…” she stops. “He wasn’t your father.”
And everything falls into place.
* * *
Of course he wasn’t my father. Didn’t I always know I was different? Didn’t I always dream that he would turn out not to be my father? Because I never felt close to him, never felt a connection, never understood how I, with my dark skin and wild (at times) personality, could have come from his loins.
Still, I am stunned. I sit and look at my mother as she starts to talk, to tell me about an artist called Brooks Mayhew, about one perfect summer in Nantucket, about how she knew, when I was born a month early, weighing eight pounds three ounces, much to my eternal shame, for what kind of a monster baby is born a month early weighing more than most babies at full term, how she took one look at my olive skin, my screwed-up features, and knew exactly who my father was, and that it wasn’t her husband.
“I don’t understand,” I keep saying, trying to process everything, trying to figure out how on earth you process, after twenty-nine years, that nothing you thought about yourself was true, that in finding out your father is not your father, it makes everything else a lie.
Even when that’s not a bad thing, even when you are grateful and relieved that your father wasn’t your father, you feel, immediately, that you are standing on shifting sands. That nothing in your life is real, and nothing in your life will ever be the same again.
“Which bit don’t you understand?” My mother is flush with reminiscing about a man I can see she loved. Which makes me know, instantly, how little she loved my father.
“Why didn’t you stay with him? Why didn’t you go back to Nantucket?”
Sadness crosses her face. “Things were different in those days. The shame of having an affair was something I couldn’t face, not to mention the shame of divorce. Back then it would have been a tremendous thing, and to walk out of a new marriage was just something I couldn’t face. You have to remember, my darling, I didn’t have supportive parents. I didn’t really have anyone, other than your father.”
“You had Aunt Judith.”
“True. And I thought so much about what would happen if I left and went back to Nantucket. I dreamed about it, often. I just couldn’t muster up the courage to leave. I was also”—she looks down, ashamed—“terrified of your father. Whenever I thought about leaving, about saying the actual words, I would see his face screwed up with rage. I imagined him taking everything, taking you, making sure I was left with nothing.”
“Which he would have done,” I agree. “Although he wouldn’t have wanted me if he knew I wasn’t his. He didn’t really want me anyway.”
“I’m sorry.” She reaches out a hand, and I see her eyes are filled with tears. “I am so sorry. I thought I was doing the right thing, giving you a stable home, a family, with a father who was able to support us, to give you the life I wanted you to have. Brooks was from a wealthy family, but his trusts were tied up for years. He didn’t have anything, not then. And I didn’t even know if he wanted me, or the responsibility of a child. I doubt he would have done.”
I blink at her in horror. “You never told him?”
“I didn’t want to disrupt his life any more.”
“So when you left Nantucket you never spoke to him again? That was it?”
“He wrote to me, care of Aunt Judith, so your father never questioned the writing on the envelope. But I didn’t write back. I couldn’t. I had made my decision and I had to live with it. I thought I was doing the right thing for you.” She shakes her head. “God, I wish I’d left him years ago. The only thing that kept me there was fear.”
“You were doing the best you could,” I reassure her. “It wasn’t such a bad life. Who knows how it would have been had you made a different decision. We can’t look back.” Even as the words leave my mouth I am impressed with how wise they sound, how calm I sound, given the turmoil going on inside me.
I am alternately elated and devastated. It feels surreal to suddenly know that I have a father I have never met—quite possibly a whole other family. I may have brothers, sisters. I may suddenly get to have the life I have always wanted, one filled with siblings and noise and laughter.
But what if they don’t want me? What does this mean? What happens next? My mind is filled with thoughts, my body flooded with feelings that bounce back and forth, from excitement to fear, delight to trepidation. I am in another world, forcing myself back to reality only when I hear my mother say something.
“I’m sorry. What did you say?” I look at her.
“The drinking,” my mother says again, quietly.
I immediately jump on the defensive. “Really? Are we back to that? You’ve just given me the most important news of my life and now you’re going to start haranguing me about the drinking?”
“No. I meant his drinking. Brooks. It was another factor, another reason why I decided to leave, to come back to England. He drank so much. Every day. I worried about him, his future. Even when I fantasized about leaving and taking you to Nantucket, the memory of how much he drank always stopped me. I couldn’t rely on him, and it scared me.”
“Was he horrible when he drank?”
She smiles. “No. He was much the same. He used to say he had black Irish blood, which meant liquor was like mother’s milk to him. It didn’t matter how much he drank, he never got drunk.”
“Great,” I grumble. “I got his black Irish skin but not his ability to drink and stay sober. Thanks.” I raised my eyes in a sarcastic thanks to the gods who might be listening.
“Yes,” she says quietly. “You did get his liking to drink. I know you don’t want to talk about this, but I think there’s a genetic component to this. I believe what you said to me this morning on the phone, that you need help. And I believe that you do want to stop drinking, as you told me. I think you believe it too, just as you believe that today is the first day of your sobriety. But I also know you. And I think that at some time today, probably late afternoon, that resolve will be gone and you will tell yourself you will be able to have one small glass of wine, and then … then all bets will be off.” She leans forward and places a hand on top of mine, again, for I am doing what I always do when anyone points out one of my deficiencies—I have shut down, refusing to look at her, trying to spirit myself away to somewhere else entirely.
“Look at me, Cat,” she says. And I do.
“You can’t help it. This isn’t your fault. That’s what I’m trying to say. This is genetic, and it’s time for you to get help.”
“What about my father?” I change the subject, aware there is a flash of anger in my voice. “What am I supposed to do about him?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “I think maybe I should write to him and tell him about you. I know you’ll want to get in touch with him, but I need to let him know first.”
“Really?” I hate myself for the sarcasm dripping from my voice. “You think?” I catch myself, take a deep breath, apologize. I can’t believe what she has just told me, and yet, of course I can believe.
And for the first time, everything in my life now seems to make sense.