Searching for Daddy Dearest

“Eighteen lesions in her brain? How is that even possible?” 

Dr. Rosa Scarlett’s cream-colored office walls were covered with black-framed medical accolades, and a small vase of fresh, crimson flowers brightened one corner of her tidy desk. Our mother, Vera Cartell, sat in a comfortable chair between my sister and me, as we riveted our gaze at the accomplished surgeon whose jet black hair, alabaster skin, and apple-red lipstick, reminded us of Snow White, or a glamorous runway model. 

Conversely, Mom looked so tiny, so vulnerable. Her once lustrous, ebony hair was now only a few silvery clumps, covered with a short gray wig. My sister, Reenie, clutched her navy suit jacket around her chest, shaking her head in disbelief. My usually calm brother, Glen, paced his six-foot frame around the doctor’s tiny office, his head down, Kleenex in hand. 

Our mouths hung open as we stared at the 14-by-17-inch, transparent, black-and-white Xray that Dr. Scarlett held in front of a light box. After being seven years clean from breast cancer, the buggers had not only returned, but they had also spread like wildfire. That string of eighteen Christmas lights on the cranial Xray told the tale. 

***

Some people just sit back and watch the sand-timer clock running out on the days of their lives, but others prefer to actively fashion their legacy. In 2000, Mom and I jumped into the genealogy craze. We spent every spare moment on our home computers, using dial-up modems to review the 1880 Census. Building our family tree, collecting vital records documents, and figuring out our lineage became a fun, weekly exercise that kept our minds in a hopeful space.

Our family history mania strengthened as Mom’s health worsened. She desperately wanted to find out what had happened to her wayward father, Art Cartell. She said, “Daddy Dearest hung around long enough to make seven babies in eight years. Then, he’d split for months at a time, forcing us to squeeze into one tiny bedroom in my Grandpa Williams’ house. In fact, the only memory I have of my father was the nickel he gave me on my fifth birthday.” That was the saddest thing I had ever heard. I vowed right then and there to find her Daddy Dearest.

One day, Mom called me over to her house. She sounded very excited. “Look at this,” she said, with a delightful lilt in her voice. “It seems Daddy Dearest remarried.” Mom started laughing so hard, she began to cough. Concerned, I rushed over to see if she needed help, but she waved me away, still chuckling. “You won’t believe this. I found a document indicating Daddy Dearest’s second wife divorced him on the grounds of ... get this ... neglect! Evidently, he was a disappearing magician with her, too!” Mom’s giggles were contagious, and I gladly joined in. Her beautiful, carefree smile of old brightened her face, making me happy. 

***

An unwanted phone message from Dr. Scarlett greeted me at the end of July, 2006.  “I’d like to meet with your mom and the family in my office tomorrow at two o’clock.” It’s never a good thing when a doctor invites you to visit. It had been exactly ten years since the initial breast cancer prognosis. Dr. Scarlett explained Mom was now terminal. She needed no more steroids, chemo treatments, or other medications. She was now eligible for Hospice, which includes home-care nursing, walkers, wheelchairs, a special bed, morphine for pain, etc. 

Mom had always been a thoughtful, independent person. She refused to let us kids take care of her, and she didn’t want to continue living in her house, after she fell one night and nearly froze on the floor. As the executor of her estate, I complied with her request. My siblings and I found a lovely place that would accept a Hospice resident. Unfortunately, Mom HATED the tastefully decorated home for six people, plus caretaker. Every time I visited her bright room that looked onto a pretty garden, she glared at me, ripping my heart to shreds.

I am embarrassed to admit that I started spending my Mondays off work puttering around Mom’s lonely house, instead of visiting with her. While cleaning out her 1,100-square-foot home––preparing for the inevitable––I relived sacks full of wonderful family memories: eating weekend dinners at Mom’s, playing board games, relaxing in her neighborhood spa, and discussing current events and family history. I craved to believe that Mom’s spirit could somehow hear me speaking aloud in her house, as I peered into the crevasses of her bountiful life as an elementary school principal, brilliant watercolorist, competitive bridge player, and tennis champion. 

One blustery day in January, 2007, five months after her final diagnosis, I started cleaning out Mom’s guestroom closet, which was filled, floor to ceiling, with papers and suitcases. Why were her best paintings stuffed between newspapers? Sitting on the rug and searching through every item in that closet, lo and behold, I spied a lidded, purple shoe box. Hmm, what’s this?

Removing the lid, a cornucopia of black-and-white snapshots taunted me. Were they family members? If so, why didn’t Mom show them to me when we were searching for our ancestors? Was one of those unnamed men her father? Did the cancerous lesions in Mom’s brain block her memories of the box, and the man who deserted her family? I had to find answers. Soon.

How could I repair my relationship with Mom before she passed away? Calling her favorite cousin, Luvana, who was our official family historian, I told her about the treasure trove of unnamed photographs, as well as Mom’s strong desire to learn what happened to her dad. That was before most people had internet access, so I couldn’t just email the photos to Luvana. Snail mail would take too long. 

“May I bring the photos to you? I need to make this right, for Mom.”

Luvana said, “Well, of course. Let me know your flight information and I’ll pick you up at the airport. In the meantime, I’ll put on my research hat to find her Daddy Dearest.”

 “Great!” I hung up, then called the airport to find the quickest plane reservations from California to Columbus, Ohio, and back again. 

“Yes, arriving on January 22 and returning on the 26th would be perfect,” I said.

My boss approved the emergency time off. I called Luvana with my flight dates, packed one carryon bag, the mystery box of photos, and other family history documents we had collected over the years. 

Right before my departure, though, my mother fell into a dreamlike coma. I whispered into her ear, “Mom, I’m going on a long journey to find your father. You’ve got to hold on until I get back. Promise me.” I kissed her goodbye, then left.

The next few days would be a race against the clock. Would Cousin Luvana help me find answers? Would my mother still be alive when I returned? I felt like Agatha Christie on an important detective case, following the clues before the wrongly accused person was put to the electric chair. I had to succeed before the sand ran out of Mom’s hourglass.

***

January is the worst month for airplane travel. The morning of my departure, the airport was fogged in, and it was snowing heavily in Columbus. But this mantra became my staff: I will be successful at finding Grandpa Art. Huzzah! The weather lifted long enough to get me into the air and stayed clear enough to land me safely in Ohio. 

I showed Cousin Luvana the exciting container of black-and-whites. She identified many of the people and scribbled their names on the back of each photo. Then she shared her research finds with me.

Calling my sister every day to check on Mom’s progress, Reenie warned, “She’s slipping away, day by day. You’ve got to hurry!”

I flew home and rushed to Mom’s bedside. My siblings and our three children gathered around Mom’s bed, each of us believing/hoping/praying that she could hear and see us, maybe astral projecting from the ceiling. Who knows? 

Someone had to lighten the tense mood. Sitting next to Mom’s motionless body covered in a soft, beige blanket, I cheerfully said, “Mom, I found that shoe box of photos in your guestroom closet. I took it to Cousin Luvana, and she was able to identify a bunch of your family members. And guess who was in the middle of that stack of pictures? Yes, your Daddy Dearest!” 

I hovered Grandpa’s photo over Mom’s blank face. “Grandpa Art certainly was a foxy fellow, like all the handsome men in your family. No wonder Grandma had so many children with him!” My teenaged sons snickered. “Grandpa looked to be a little shorter than your brother, Dale, in this picture, but his hair was just as thin on top, just silverier.

“Mom, can you hear me?” It looked like her eyes were fluttering behind her closed lids. My heart skipped a beat. 

“There’s more good news. Luvana found Daddy Dearest’s Death Certificate. Guess where he was living in August, 1994, when he passed away? In Pittsburg, Pennsylvania, where your Grandpa Sherman Williams was living in 1900, after he left his family at the age of fifteen to make his mark on the world. 

“Daddy Dearest died of an acute myocardial infarction. Sounds pretty fancy, right? It’s kind of sad, though, that nobody seemed to know who his family was, his educational attainment, or what he did for a living, according to his Death Certificate. But at least we finally found him! 

“Mom, your ancestors are waiting for you to join them in Heaven. Don’t be afraid. Be joyous. All of us will miss you terribly, but now you can rest, my love.” We all said our goodbyes and kissed her before we left for our respective homes.

We found Mom the next morning, an angelic smile on her face, her hands clasped peacefully over Daddy Dearest’s photo on her chest.