The Other Name
My parents married when I was at the ripe young age of four. I vividly remember the baby pink frilly dress, complete with hoop skirt that allowed me to spin and twirl for hours, as if I’d take off into the air. A headband complete with fabric flowers crowned the masterpiece, held tight in my hair by tiny combs which scratched my scalp.
My mother’s maid of honor wore fuchsia lace — such was the fashion in 1986. My mother could have been a 1980s cover girl — complete with sheer netting neckline, sweetheart bodice and long-sleeved lace arms. She was all of 24.
My father’s blue eyes sparkled, Chiclet teeth dazzled, and full mustache brought out the greatest inner Tom Selleck. His hair though. Always so high. Such thick, towering hair. Mom nabbed one of the good ones who would never be follicly-challenged. He was all of 29.
You could have called me a latchkey child. My mother went back to school part time when I was seven-years-old. First for photography, then art history and finally settling on art education. By her third year I was spending summers alone in the house, or riding bikes with friends, heading off to the town pool.
I was mostly curious. I spent hours hiding from the heat in our finished-off basement, staging Barbie dramas or practicing dance routines. However, I also had a penchant for exploring. And exploring usually meant going through boxes that did not belong to me in my parents’ basement. My favorite guilty pastime included reading the messages inscribed in my parents’ high school yearbooks. From what I knew, they were upstanding people. The yearbooks showcased another life. Doodles of bottles labeled XXX and pot cigs, inside jokes and mysteriously placed hearts were better than another rerun of “Saved by the Bell.”
We all come to that age when we wonder who our parents were — what their stories were. How did they become the people they are today? What was school like for them? Were they smart? Popular? Wild? Nerdy? I found all of this on my afternoons in the basement.
And more.
Around the age of 10, I found a birth certificate for myself with my mother’s name, but also another name of a man I didn’t recognize written in. It shocked my system. I remember shaking. I didn’t know what to do. I quickly and carefully put the certificate away in the box, never setting eyes on it again. I didn’t have to. Though my memory blurs the name, the artifact is burned in my mind forever.
My teenage years were rough. I was a good kid, but my mom was extremely protective, and from what I could gauge she was worried about me making the same mistakes she had in becoming a young mom. I wanted my freedom, she worried about me going out and making poor decisions, and so World War III ensued on a weekly basis.
Several times in our screaming matches — those times where words fly out of your mouth at unsightly speeds — I hinted at the fact that I knew about the certificate. That dad was not my real dad, and that she has never told me. She always looked at me dumbfounded and asked what I was talking about.
In all of my years, I have never discussed this with my mother. I love my dad, and he is my dad as far as I am concerned. We have the same smile. We are not only father/daughter, but buddies as well. He cried when I went to college. He cried when I moved to New York. He taught me everything about bargaining, basketball and car buying. I have no idea what I will ever do when he is gone. I can’t even think about it. It will be the worst day of my life.
I think part of me is scared to know. What if he wasn’t my father? It doesn’t matter, but a small part of me believes it does. What about the other man — does he know who I am? As an only child — could I have siblings? Would it kill my father for me to pursue this? It’s too much to chance. We are too good together.
Maybe someday down the road I will pursue this mystery on my own, but for now I am my father’s daughter. However, I’ve never revealed the curiosity to this day, 23 years later, which still lives inside of me.
