The Meeting

I walk into one of the most popular Jewish delicatessens in Toronto, snatch a napkin from a nearby trolley cart, then raise the napkin to wipe the sweat from my forehead and neck, just as my handbag escapes from my shoulder and falls to the ground. Embarrassed and fearful I have attracted unwanted attention, I retrieve it quickly and scan the room for a glimpse of my half-sister.

        I’ve never met her, but two cousins I recently met have cautioned me about her. I am warned about her volatility, her need to be in control, her snap judgments and intransigence when she believes she’s been wronged. They also underscore her intelligence and creativity.

        “Maybe you have more in common than your first names,” quips one. ‘You’re both smart and resourceful,” he continues, despite only learning of my existence a couple of months ago.

        My eyes are adjusting to the dimness of this famous deli and I squint as I scrutinize the room for the woman whose photos I’ve seen online.  Back then, she was a beautiful woman in her late 40”s, seen with federal and provincial cabinet ministers, mayors and even royalty. Captured at political fundraisers and special events, the photos show her wearing ball gowns and expensive jewellery.

        My husband and I have travelled about 2,700 miles from British Columbia to Toronto for this meeting. I’ve been adamant about going alone. I want to meet her solo.

        But in our hotel room, I lose my nerve. ‘I’ve changed my mind.” I say to my husband as he finishes shaving in the bathroom.

        About what?” he asks, opening the door just a crack, while wiping off what looks like whipping cream from his face with one of those paper-thin, threadbare hotel towels.

        “About coming with me today to Lawrence Park Plaza,” I say. “I really don’t want to go alone.”

        “Sure,” he mumbles from beneath the towel. He knows I’m ambivalent about the outcome of this meeting.

        “She agreed to meet after I said I believed we had a family connection,” I explain. “Unless someone else has told her more. And I don’t know how either of us will react when I give her the details of the actual connection.”

        In the taxi to the delicatessen, I think back to 1979 when I began my search for my birth parents. I wanted a photo of my mother, I believing it would satisfy my curiosity. Then, I began fantasizing about meeting her. Did I look like her? Did we share mannerisms? Were our interests similar? And I wanted to ask why she had relinquished her parental rights.

I never dreamed of having a sibling

My fantasies about my birth mother always included lots of love, lots of fun and a closeness I’d yet to experience. One month after her death in 1984, I learn her name. I am devastated. My dreams vanish when I read her obituary. No mention of me and now no opportunity to meet her and find the love I am certain she would impart.

        I debate continuing my search. Just discovering her name involved a series of highs and lows with unreturned phone calls, hang ups, unanswered and dismissive email messages, letters filled with untruths and outright denial. “Why bother?” I ask myself. “Why risk more rejection and disappointment?” Yet, I cling to my conviction that maybe-just maybe there were others open to my joining their family.

        I plug on and learn my mother married in 1941 and had two children. My fantasy shifts to the possibility of having a half-sister and half-brother. I recall staring into the darkness though the front window of our small 1940’s bungalow in East York, a Toronto suburb, feeling sad and lonely, wishing for a sibling. Now, I hope for a close relationship with those whose mother I share.

        Later, having left home and on my own, I scour telephone directories, voters’ lists and follow any lead that might steer me toward resolution. Frustrated, I shift my search to my father who, born in 1910, is the third eldest of eight. Four other brothers and two sisters emigrate from Poland to  Canada before and after WW ll.  The youngest brother is born in Canada in 1926. Each marry and have children.

        And now, after more research about my father and discovering he had children—my siblings—I am about to meet one. I am nervous and excited. My heart beats rapidly. I swear my dress is moving in rhythm with each beat. I begin to sweat.

        We pull into Lawrence Park Plaza and park. I jump out and quickly scan the parking lot. A Jaguar beside a shiny black Cadillac. Pick-up trucks alongside Mercedes Benz’s and BMW’s. Drivers waiting for their passengers. This is the Jewish neighbourhood I didn’t grow up in, but some of my biological kin did. I run my fingers through my hair, straighten my new wrinkled, blue linen dress, I take a couple of deep breaths and ask again about my hair. “Your hair is lovely,” my husband says, checking if he’s locked the car.

        I’m still using the napkin I swiped from the trolley to catch the sweat  dripping from my face as we enter this popular Jewish eatery.

         “Will I recognize her?” I ask. But I don’t hear his response. The din from diners’ conversations and the clatter of cutlery and china as the servers stack them nearby obliterates his voice. I’m assaulted by the comingling smells emanating from Polish cooking: carp, onions, cabbage, sauerkraut, heavy seasoning. Mixed in is the sweet smell of cinnamon buns, each large enough for four to share. A server with menus in her hand steers me forward; my husband chooses a table on the other side of the room. We’ve agreed I need to be alone for this first meeting.

        I believe I will easily spot my half-sister from photos I’ve seen online. They show her at her peak, pictured with federal and provincial cabinet ministers, mayors and even royalty. She appears at political fundraisers, hosts dinners and obtains grants for the National Council of Jewish Women’s housing project. I already know we share the same first name and attended the same university, but nothing in the photos would have me believe we are sisters. The woman I now see is heavier, with a full face, a slight double chin, yet the same dark hair as the photos show. But there is something about her dark eyes that seems familiar. Maybe from the photos. She appears slightly disheveled and, approaching her table, I notice stains on a dull-red, baggy sweatshirt. What happened, I wonder, to the sophisticated and glamourous woman in the photographs?

 “I’m pleased to meet you,” I say cheerfully.

        She remains seated and tells me to sit down across from her in a well-worn leather booth. She’s finishing a bagel. Some of the cream cheese lingers on the edge of her bottom lip. I order coffee. I’m not certain who is more nervous or more apprehensive.  In my email arranging this meeting, I told her I was eager to discuss our family link. I have researched our family and learned about our orthodox grandparents and their eight offspring, one of whom is our father.  I offer to share all my research but she wants none of it. I soon learn she has her own conclusions and is uninterested in facts that would contradict her belief about our relationship.

        After five minutes of small talk and no mention of our family, she launches into an account of the scandal in which she was implicated a quarter of a century ago. Her conviction of fraud and breach of trust resulted in a six-month jail sentence, of which she served two. It also contributed to the defeat of a provincial government.

        “I was stupid,” she explains. “I agreed to a ridiculous plea deal, expecting those I supported to come to my defence.” She’s now talking loudly and her anger is reflected in her raspy voice.

        I remain silent.

        “Did you know that?” she asks accusingly, the cream cheese now falling from her lip. I nod and begin to respond but she interrupts and continues.

      “I was a fool to think those men would help me,” she adds, her voice filled with justified annoyance. “I’m going to write about this again. I want people to know the real story,” She has already published two books with her side of the story. And, as she’s recounting this period in her life, I wonder who really cares now, who will remember, 25 years after the event.

        As she natters on, I drift away, but a claim I hear her making is sufficient to bring me to the edge of my seat.

“…has to be Jack.” She insists Jack, born three years after our father, must be my father. Her only claim for such a conclusion rests on her belief that Jack is a “scoundrel.” I later learn that all six brothers could lay equal l claim to that title .And I’ve had my DNA tested twice and know she is wrong.

        Exuding confidence, she leans back in her chair and grins, similar to Lewis Carroll’s Cheshire cat in Alice in Wonderland.

        I pounce, calm and deliberate. “I’d like you to thank your son for joining Ancestry,” I explain. I can hear my voice and notice, despite some quavering, it doesn’t reveal the anxiety I’m experiencing, so I breathe in, exhale slowly and continue.

        “I was raised an only child. I was lonely and longed for a sister to share my secrets. My DNA results show a strong link to your son, identified as a nephew with an extremely high confidence level,” I continue. “So, if he hadn’t taken a DNA test I wouldn’t be here and I wouldn’t know I had found the sister I always wanted.” I opt not to go into detail about centimorgans and other measurements determining relationships among those with a DNA match.

        Silence.

        I look around for my husband, in case I need to call him over. He’s reading the paper and sipping his now cold coffee.

                                                                                                                              “I don’t why he did that,” she replies with annoyance.

        Then she rises, pauses beside the table and says, “It was nice meeting you.”

I watch in disbelief as she walks away.

Exiting the deli, I ask my husband, between sobs, ”Why am I crying?”