A Surprise Visitor

A Surprise Visitor

It was four days before Christmas.  There was a knock at our front door. I knew that because our Amazon parrot started to say “Hello”, repeating her message several times.  She only did this when there was someone knocking at the door or when the phone was ringing, which it was not. We don’t usually get drop-in visitors around Christmas, so I figured that it must be someone selling something: air duct cleaning, a tankless water heater or meat for a freezer that we don’t have.

But it wasn’t that. It was a young woman who appeared to be in her thirties and looked sort of familiar in a vague sort of way. But she wasn’t anyone from the neighbourhood, which was populated mostly by people in their sixties to eighties. She asked me a strange question, “Are you David Young? I said “yes” with a questioning lift of tone in my voice, waiting for her to tell me something about how I could save on my electricity or gas bill. No, that couldn’t be it, as she wasn’t wearing an outfit with a company name on it.

“My name is Dorothy. I am your daughter.”

I had no ready answer to that. I thought for a few seconds and asked the only question that I could think of at the time. “Who is your mother then?”

“Landry Ross” she replied.

That wasn’t a name I had heard in decades, not since our quick but ‘amicable divorce’ in the late 1980s. “I haven’t heard from her in ages. How is she doing these days?”

“She remarried and had two more children after me.”

“Glad to hear it. She did want children when we were still together, but my career hadn’t developed enough to support them decently. I didn’t want to have to raise kids in poverty. We lived in a grubby little apartment over a pizza place. At least it smelled good.” That last bit was a standard joke from those times. Every time I walk into a pizza place now it brings back memories of the old apartment, and the guessing game we used to play on the subject of “What kind of pizza is cooking now?”

It took a few years after our separation for my career to actually go somewhere. I now teach biology at a local university. Being hired there ended long years of being poor but highly educated.

There was then the type of awkward silence you get when you haven’t a clue what to say, and you don’t want to say anything stupid (“So are you a Toronto Blue Jays fan?) or nasty (“So are you looking to hit your dad up for some money?”).

“I have something I need to ask of you.” My mind was quick to think “Okay, here it comes.” Fortunately, my mouth said, “Come in for a coffee, and we can talk about it.”

“Mom said you were a big coffee drinker.” Landry had used the word ‘addict’ when we were married.

I made up an instant coffee, as I was anxious to hear what she had to say. And, if I were to be honest, I wanted to know more about her. After all, despite my long absence from her life, she was my daughter. I had no children, actually I should be thinking no ‘other’ children now, as I had married again when both my wife and I were our late 40s. 

I made the coffee. She took it black, as did I. I don’t think that that kind of taste thing is genetic. Then we sat down in the kitchen, on chairs across from each other, with our coffee and our chocolate chip cookies. I could see that she enjoyed them every bit as much as I do – another similarity shared between us. 

Then she took a deep breath and spoke, “I have an extremely rare blood disorder.” I reached across the kitchen table and took my daughter’s hand in mine. It was our first physical contact.

“It is eventually fatal. I was diagnosed just a week ago.” My heart jumped into the growing whirlpool of my emotions, leading to a sudden sadness. I had only known the young woman for about ten minutes, but I was still greatly moved by what she said, and by the tears in her eyes.”

I couldn’t find words to say to her. I just squeezed her hand harder.

“There is hope, though. If I could receive blood from someone who has the same disorder but has someone developed or was born with immunities, those immunities could be transferred to me. My mother, your ex-wife, doesn’t have that, but the doctor I talked to said that my father might. This is why I came to you.”

I asked for the number of her blood doctor, and she handed it to me on a piece of paper already written. Then I gave the doctor a call. I made an appointment for the next day.

We both then stood up and she gave me a big hug. She gave me directions to her doctor’s office. I sat down and wrote them so I wouldn’t forget them. One of the downsides to being in your sixties is not being able to remember all of the many things you have to balance in your mind in these days. I have copies of my passwords in several paces, virtual and physical.

We spent the rest of our time together talking about her years growing up, a lot of the firsts in her life that I had missed. Then she told me of her interest in and aptitude for science, and how that led to her career as a chemist.

My wife arrived from shopping during that time. She gave me a great look of surprise, but I hoped not of suspicion when she saw the two of us drinking our second cup of black coffee with chocolate chip cookies. I said “this is my long-lost and never known about daughter. Her name is Dorothy.”

She knew that I didn’t have the imagination to make something like that up on the spur of the moment, so she rushed over to Dorothy and gave her a hug.

The next day I took the blood test and would soon find out that I had both the disorder and the immunities. You could say that this was a precious Christmas present given to at least four or five people.