The Road Home - Chapter 14

On August 31, 2014 I bought my last cup of dark roast at my favourite coffee shop and drove myself, with all the belongings I would take with me for the next 6 months, to my dad's farm. I would spend my last week in the prairies there, prior to my flight from Regina to Comox - a week that flew by at breakneck speed.  A good part of the time was spent taking care of Lisa’s boys.  Wyatt had been diagnosed with hand, foot and mouth disease so neither of the boys were welcome at daycare. I wondered if the first week of my move back home would see me in quarantine. This little malady was contagious and over the course of the week, I had become Wyatt’s new favourite person. One night, after bath time, my dad sitting in his recliner and me sitting on the couch, Wyatt came running into the living room, clean and fresh. His arms outstretched, he ran towards us. My dad put his hands out to receive Wyatt and put him on his lap as he had done dozens of times except that Wyatt launched himself at me instead, wrapping his arms around my neck and hugging me before settling down with a handful of books for me to read to him.  

“I think I’m going to have to sue you.” my dad said to me.  

I looked at him, amused.  

“Alienation of affection from my grandson” he teased.  

A few days later, my dad and I sat next to each other over the kitchen table one afternoon. We had a blessed day of quiet and took advantage of it and had a heart to heart.  I had told him a long time ago that I had some questions about the beginning of my life. He had previously said that I could ask him anything but Norma had indicated that the time surrounding my conception and birth had been a very painful time in my dad’s life. I didn’t want any of my questions to hurt him so I had avoided asking them. But as we sat there we both knew that the window to ask those questions was getting narrow. So, as gently as I could, I asked him about the relationship he had with Carolyn. And how he felt and what he thought when he learned she was pregnant. He had been attracted to Carolyn’s vibrant personality, he being shy and all.  She had been the first girl he had kissed. When he learned she was pregnant, he was happy. Initially his decision was to forgo his University plans. It seemed much more practical to earn his teaching degree, at the time, a one year degree. They would be married.  Although that plan might have seemed acceptable to Granny and Grandad, his mother and father were not as thrilled. Then lawyers got involved. Carolyn was underage. I listened to his recollection of the events and imagined my soft-hearted dad being subjected to the anger and accusations and all the intense emotions that had surrounded this period in time.  

At this point, he pulled out a yellow file folder. On the top corner was my name, handwritten. “Annette”. He opened it and there were several pieces of paper in it. One was my initial letter that I had sent him 20 years ago - the one he had answered. I read it over. To tell the truth, I was slightly embarrassed by the honest but raw emotion I had shared on that page. I suppose it’s inevitable that when you re-visit a younger you, you cringe at the lack of maturity or wisdom. He did not remember that I had sent him a second letter, but there, in the file folder he found it and we re-read it together.

“I don’t know why I didn’t respond” he said.  

What he uncovered after that was astounding to me.  It was a letter Carolyn had written to him. There, in her distinctive cursive handwriting, she wrote (in part):  

“(Annette) is doing exceptionally well in everything. A credit due to the brains and good sense she inherited from you. The problem is this. Being so bright, she is very perceptive. She knows and accepts the circumstances of her birth. And as I see it, Annette is having no problems in this respect. But she does ask questions about her father. With only a picture and a few memories, mom and dad can’t begin to satisfy her questions.  If you should find yourself on Vancouver Island...and feel this won’t hinder you in anyway. Mentally or otherwise. Could you possibly go to see her? She needs to know that her father is a fine man and she should be proud to have had been a part of him. If you feel that even in a small way you would like to help Annette. I’m sure this is best.”  

I was in shock at this letter. I had no idea she had ever advocated on my behalf. Included in this letter was a picture of me on, what I believe was, my 7th birthday. Carolyn had never been a part in my life other than an occasional visitor and I must admit, this letter changed the trajectory of my thoughts toward her a little bit. I re-read that letter again then my dad revealed to me that sometime after that letter arrived he found himself in Calgary, the city in which my mother lived. He had driven to the home identified in the return address on the envelope. He sat outside, in the car, wanting to go up and knock on the door but he was afraid. He didn’t know who or what he would find behind the door. He wrestled with his doubts and fears and finally, after about an hour, drove away.  

That was a small bombshell that I never expected to learn and did not know how to process.  

He then pulled out another envelope - it was Granny’s handwriting this time. Another  surprise. I had no idea that any of them had been in touch. My dad pulled out a Christmas card from the envelope  and as he opened it, a picture of me on my 8th birthday fell out. Granny’s compact script had written my age on the bottom of the photo.  The card read:

“Dear Don Merry Xmas. We often think of you. We are fine and hope you are well. If  you would like to come out to see Annette at any time you are welcome. Annette is in grade 3 in school and taking her Gr II exams in piano. Hope to  hear from you. The best for another year. Love, Mom Moore
(PS) Annette is getting a big girl. Loves school & music.”

I was completely stunned at those letters sitting in front of me. Over the past couple of years I had started to become accustomed to being rendered speechless. This was another one of those moments.  I had no idea what to think or feel. Tucked behind the letters there was also a newspaper clipping - a wedding announcement that my mother had put in the local Gull Lake newspaper. I was actually a grad picture of me and John since we had never had wedding pictures taken of any kind. I never knew that announcement had been placed. It got most of the details correct.  

My father shook his head as he held the letters in his hand. He said he had three separate invitations to meet me and he did not respond. He didn’t know why. I asked him about that time in Calgary - what had stopped him from knocking on that door? Fear.  That he might upset me. That maybe I had a wonderful life he would be disrupting. That I might be angry or confused. Any number of scenarios. I knew those thoughts well, having wrestled with them myself. It was hard for him at that moment not to regret his decisions to never answer those letters or contact me.  

To be clear:  I don’t blame  him for that.  I really do think that life did unfold as it should have - as it was meant to. But it’s still hard not to entertain that thought about “what might have been”. And although I refuse to let those thoughts dominate - let alone camp out on them - it’s impossible not to think about them. He has done the same. And we’ve had a conversation about some of those “what-ifs”.  

What if...my father would have taken those invitations to be a part of my life?

What if..my father had brought me to live with him?

What if...I had my father’s influence on some part of my life?

I have wondered a little bit (just a wee bit) what would have happened if my dad had showed up on my doorstep when I was a kid.  But I have to tell you - I get why he didn’t make those calls or those trips.  You worry. You worry that for some reason, you won’t be welcome. That you will upset the order of things.  That you will face rejection. Judgement. Anger. You don’t want to intrude. I faced all those emotions and thoughts when I made the decision to meet my dad.  It’s a big decision. You are walking into the unknown - likely an unknown laden with many landmines - and it’s utterly terrifying.

On Monday September 8, 2014 my dad and I got in Norma’s new SUV and drove to Regina.  We left early in order to avoid the curse of “Connick Time”. The phrase had been coined because my dad is notoriously late. I am not. I'm also a fast driver so we arrived in plenty of time for my flight. I checked in all my bags and boxes and the lady at the WestJet counter joked: “Whoa - what are you doing - moving?”  As a matter of fact, yes!  

We then went to the cafeteria to have a bite to eat before I left. I had no appetite. It was over lunch that we both cried. He held my hand. I felt particularly bereft at leaving him. I almost capitulated and called it all off. Yet I knew this was the right choice for me.  After a good long cry we got up and made our way to security. We tried and failed to take a nice selfie to commemorate the moment.

We asked a stranger to take a picture instead. It was a good one. We embraced for one final time and said “I love you” before I walked into the security area. I couldn’t bring myself to turn around and look at him.  

I arrived that evening in Comox, the sun starting to set as we began the descent heading west over the Strait of Georgia. Hornby and Denman Island to my left. Goose Spit before me, then Point Holmes. I was so excited that I could barely contain myself. The minute the wheels touched down I wanted to run out of the plane and kiss the ground! I was home!  

I had rented a small cabin on Kye Bay for the winter months while I decided where I would settle on the Island. As I unpacked and added my personal things to my new little “in-between” home that first week, I woke up every morning, made my coffee and picked out a small colourful gift from my shelf.  My dad and Norma had packed and wrapped a gift for each member of the family to send with me.  Each one had a clue attached to it.  I would open the gift and try to guess who it was supposed to remind me of. The ballet figurine “Dance like no one is watching” was Taylor. The wine accessories “Settle for a long chat” was Karen. The mother and child figurine “Thanks for the cuddle” was Wyatt. The chocolate confections with “Yummy chocolate makes me wild” was Jason. The shopping bag with a picture of a horse “ My passion - Little boys and horses” was Lisa. The photo album (complete with pictures entitled ”Good Times 2014) and a journal with a bird motif “Cameras. My family. My hobby” was my dad. And the little flowered gift bag (with no tag) held a stain removal stick and some flower earrings. That was Norma.  She is the reigning stain removal Queen and we both love our flowers. Each morning I would unwrap another gift, then take a picture of it and email it to my dad and Norma with my guess of who’s it was.  Their thoughtfulness knew no bounds. I come across these items every day and think of the people they were meant to remind me of. My family.  

In my first weeks back on the Island, I ran across the passage in Isaiah 43 that God had given to me back in December 2012. It took on a whole new significance after seeing my father’s face, how his eyes brimmed with tears  and would look across the table at me with such love. 

“...now says the Lord who created you...he formed you...I have called you by name, you are mine...you are precious in my eyes, and honored, and I love you...Remember not the former things, nor consider the things of old.  Behold, I am doing a new thing...”  

I had begun to believe it all - that I was loved, named, belonged and honoured. And I knew that I had started the long process of forgetting the former things - the old things I believed about myself. I was being transformed by the new.  

The first week of my arrival on the Island, the emails flew back and forth with abandon. In addition to the pictures I sent them with each new gift, I excitedly sent pictures of my new place, the beach, the forest trails I wandered, and the hippies at the Farmers Market - everything! My dad and Norma would faithfully  answer them and fill their emails with news of what they had done that day.  I’m not even sure who started it first, but suddenly there it was on the page. “Love Don” had changed to “Love Dad”.