Family Reunion

Three weeks after my mother's death, I finally took the courage to go to her house and organize her things, which didn’t amount to much. All I could find in her room was a jewelry box and a leather-bound diary, the contents of which I did not read. It wasn't out of respect for her privacy; I would probably never be able to stand learning about her thoughts and secrets. In other words, I didn’t want to discover something unpleasantly new about my mother. I simply wanted to remember her as she was: the perfect, kind mother any son could ever have wished for.

After going through her room, I made my way up the stairs to the attic, where, upon opening the door with a grunting push, I was greeted with a spectacular spray of dust that drizzled down from above. I turned on the switch, to discover the light bulb no longer worked. I found my way using the narrow ray of light which clambered inside through an arched window at the far end of the room. Luckily, there wasn’t much to see inside the attic. Actually, the only object within the attic was a ragged box placed at the corner, beneath a deserted spiderweb.

I gently lifted the box, which turned out to be light, and carried it outside. After exiting the attic, I went down the stairs and placed the box next to the other pile of boxes. I opened the box to see what lay inside. To my confusion, all I could see was a single photograph, and nothing else.

What the…

I reached inside the box and extracted the photograph from within its depths. After dusting off the surface, I could see a man and a woman, both with bright smiles on their faces.

Who are they?

Then,

“No way.”

As I whispered the words out loud, I peered closer at the woman’s face. It was my mother.

Then the man standing next to her…

It had to be my father because he was the spitting image of me. It was like looking at myself in a different time period. All save the clothes and the background, the man’s height and countenance perfectly matched my own.

“No way,” I said again.

The father whose face I had never seen in my life. The father who had been entirely nonexistent throughout the course of my life. He was here, in this photograph, his hand wrapped around my mother’s waist.

I felt a myriad of emotions, each strand of emotion intricately intertwining with the others. There was confusion, a bit of joy perhaps upon finally seeing my father’s face, and a mix of rage, rage at the thought of a father who had abandoned his wife and son all those years ago, just to show up in the form of a lifeless photograph, without a single word of apology.

Unwittingly, I clenched my fist, crumpling the photograph.

I held the photograph within my balled up fist for some time before releasing it into the box where it had come from. Feeling a slight headache, I sat down next to the pile of boxes and leaned the back of my head against the wall, feeling the smooth wood caress me. I closed my eyes, unable to think of what to do next. It had taken three whole weeks for me to find a bit of peace of mind and come here; now, everything was reset. I was once again lost, wandering through the labyrinth of my thoughts and emotions, without ever a hope of finding my way out again.

But… wait.

I opened my eyes.

Maybe there was a way.

A way out of all this.

A way to find clarity once more.

A sudden burst of inspiration, a stunningly simple answer to my situation, found me.

I knew what I had to do.

“I have to find him.”

Yes. If there was one thing that could save me from this wretched hell, then it would be finding my father, and whatever emotion I felt now, I could unleash it all upon him.

Yes. That was what I had to do.

I had to find my father.

Just as I regained a sense of hope, I was suddenly met with yet another depressing problem.

How do I find him?

Or, Is he even alive? would be the better question.

I closed my eyes again, and from the distance, I could hear the footsteps of my headache coming to revisit, this time with a more excited gallop. Bringing its friends, perhaps? Already, it was at the gates leading to my head, and as was the inclination with most headaches, it seemed not about to knock politely.

But just as my headache was about to ram down the gate, inspiration came to my aid. It kicked aside the headache and gloriously entered through the gate of my head, proudly claiming that it had a brilliant idea.

“The diary,” my inspiration said.

“The diary,” I parroted.

I put the words into immediate action. Without a moment’s hesitation, I grabbed my mother’s diary stored within a box and took it out.

Of course, the thought of learning about my mother’s deepest thoughts was still appalling, but curiosity about my father bested such a thought.

I opened the diary to the first page.

Feb. 12, 1992.

1992?

It was around three decades ago, just two years before my birth…

The page was filled from top to bottom in neat cursive handwriting, so neat that the length and width of one letter perfectly matched the length and width of the other letters.

As we parted, I grabbed him by the neck and kissed him.

Okay, who in the world begins their diary like this? Slightly regretting this, I read on.

He seemed a bit surprised, but pleasantly so. I didn’t let his lips part for several minutes. All the while, his exhale of breath became my inhale, and my exhale of breath became his. His tongue…

Okay, enough of that.

I flipped through the pages, skimming through the words to find a reasonable clue as to who my father could be. To my utmost astonishment, my father was contained in every single page of the diary. It was as though the diary was a record of all the days my parents had spent together.

I found something strange about the dates, though. There was an interval of a week between each entry. Meaning, my parents met once a week, and my mother kept this diary just to record the days she spent with him.

Midway through the diary, a folded piece of paper fell onto the ground. I snatched it up and unfolded it to discover an address written in bold letters. Instinctively, I knew it was where my father was.

For a moment, I wondered if it was the right thing to do, going to find him. We had spent three decades apart, after all. Blood may be blood, but did that truly make him my father?

What does it matter? Just go and find that bastard who left you and your mother.

Listening to my inner voice was like tossing a coin: one out of two decisions turned out to be wrong. Then again, one out of two decisions turned out to be right.

“Fifty-fifty? Good enough,” I muttered.

Leaving the boxes behind and only taking the photograph and the diary with me, I got into my rusty sedan and headed for the address. It was on the other side of the city, an hour’s ride at the least, but what did an hour matter out of thirty long years?

In the car, I wondered what to say to him.

Hi, dad? Nope, too plain.

What’s up? Nope.

Why did you leave us? A little later, perhaps.

Maybe I should start by punching him in the face.

I pictured the scene in my mind.

That might just work.

Thinking and imagining things fueled the flow of time. Before I knew it, the sun rested on the evening horizon, and I had arrived at the address.

From across the street, I could see a black gate and a brick wall covered with vines. Taking three deep breaths, I got out of the car and approached the gate. Through the gaps in the gate, I could see a wide lawn and a grand two-story house beyond. There was even a fountain.

So he’s rich, I thought. This infuriated me a little since I had grown up in a poor environment.

I took another deep breath and placed my finger on the doorbell. I hesitated, for I knew it would be the last chance to turn back. My father, if he did live beyond this gate, probably had another family of his own. I would be intruding upon their lives as an uninvited, unwelcome, yet unignorable guest.

But, no.

I needed this. I had to do it. I was the victim here, the one who needed explanations.

Before my mind could offer another skeptical thought, I rang the doorbell.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Click.

A female voice said, “Yes? Who is it?”

For some reason, the voice reminded me of my mother.

“Uhm…”

What do I say?

“I’m here to meet your husband,” I said.

Yeah. Not a good choice of words.

“Sorry?” the woman said, sounding stunned. Then, just as I was wondering how to better rephrase my words, she requested, “Can you put your face closer to the camera? It’s right by the – yes that’s it.”

There was a moment of silence. I kept my face still in front of the camera, and on the other side, I was sure this woman was studying my face.

Bzzz.

I jumped back in surprise as the gate became unlocked.

“Come inside,” the woman said.

I crossed the lawn in quick steps and approached the house, my heartbeat stepping up a beat with each pace that I took.

With a gulp, I knocked on the front door, but there was no answer.

I knocked again, but there was no reply.

I frowned and grabbed the doorknob. Strangely, it was unlocked, and I pulled open the door to a dimly lit hallway.

“Hello?” I called out.

Still, no reply.

Who was that woman who let me in here? Where did she go?

“Hello?” I said.

I stepped into the house.

Just as I took two steps inside, I felt a sudden zap of electricity surge throughout my body, and before I knew it, I was on the ground, the world revolving around me.

 ***

When I came to my senses, I could not move. I was in a room, tied to a chair with duct tape. From behind, I could hear the sound of someone turning the pages of a book. I tried to turn around, but the tapes were wrapped too tightly around me.

“You’re awake.”

It was the woman’s voice.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked, trying to sound calm.

“I read the diary you brought with you. It contained some… interesting bits.”

“That’s not for you to read,” I said.

“No? How come?”

“Because it doesn’t have anything to do with you. Do I have to explain to you about privacy?”

“No, my dear. I know that privacy is important. But why do you think that this diary doesn’t regard me?”

I knew where she was getting at. “Yes, I know it involves my mother and your husband. Because your husband’s in it, you think it involves you as well. But that diary has nothing to do with you.”

“No?”

I heard the sound of a drawer opening. Judging from the sound, the woman took something out of the drawer.

“That’s where you’re mistaken,” she said. Her voice drew closer as she slowly approached me. “It has everything to do with me.”

She finally showed herself to me, and what stunned me wasn’t the pistol she was holding in her hand. What made my eyes widen was her face.

I knew that face.

But it couldn’t be.

Yet it was.

“Did your mother ever tell you she had a twin sister?”

I opened my mouth, but I had no idea what to say.

The woman smiled, yet her eyes were cold. Terrifyingly cold.

“Thirty years ago, I dated a man. Well, he is my husband now, and your father, apparently. I didn’t tell him I had a twin sister. I planned on telling him later when our relationship got deeper. But before that, my sister approached my boyfriend, pretending to be me. I had a part-time job back then, working once a week. While I was busy at work, my sister, still pretending to be me, kissed my boyfriend even before I had kissed him, and they even slept together. I was curious at first, because my boyfriend seemed to believe that we had made out when I hadn’t. Then I realized the truth. I went to my sister, who confessed everything, without looking the slightest bit apologetic. I was furious. I was upset. I took a knife from the kitchen and chased after her. She ran with all her might, and that was that. She managed to flee, and I never saw her again. I forgave my boyfriend, because he had been tricked by my sister – your mother – and I married him. My children are all married now, and my husband is out for a drink with his friends. Life was perfectly normal… until you showed up tonight.”

Slowly, she began to load the pistol as I helplessly watched.

“I knew who you were the moment I saw you. You look exactly like my son, do you know that? I couldn’t believe it at first, though. But I had to know for sure. So I brought you into the house and knocked you out to ask you some questions. But I didn’t need to hear the answers from you, because all the answers are here.”

She waved the diary in front of my face.

“When your mother, my sister, had sex with your father, my husband, she became pregnant. And then I chased her away, and we never saw each other again. Never had I suspected that she was with a child. And that child sits before me, the child of my sister’s sins.”

She brought the pistol to my forehead.

“Please,” I said, my voice cracking. “I didn’t know. I’m your nephew. You can’t… please.”

“It’s too late,” my aunt whispered. Her voice was trembling as well, and her hand shook, but her eyes – they were clear, set, and determined.

“It was that damned photograph,” I said. “I didn’t mean to find it – it was just there, in the attic. I didn’t know. Please. I’ll pretend none of this happened. I’ll get out of your life for good.”

“What photograph?”

“I put it in the last page of the diary. I found it when I was organizing my mother’s things.”

My aunt lowered the pistol and took out the photograph.

And then she began to laugh. Not a happy laugh, no. It was a diabolical laugh, a sinister one.

She flung the photograph aside, which fell helplessly onto the floor.

“My dear nephew, it’s me in that photograph, not your mother. She must have stolen it before she ran away.”

Before I could say anything, my aunt pointed the pistol at my forehead, and before I could utter a sound, the last thing I ever saw was vivid flash that exploded before my eyes.