If I Don't Push The Button I Won't Ever Know

I didn’t know that my dad wasn’t my ‘real’ dad until I left home.

When my dad left mum and me, I also didn’t know it was the second time it had happened to her.

I was the saddest kid in the world and couldn’t stop crying. I couldn’t fathom why he left. “Why would dad go off like that when we were all so happy?” I asked my mum who seemed to have gotten over her loss a lot quicker than me!

“Men get bored and they’re not keen on responsibility either” she told me.

I was too young to know exactly what she meant and all I could reply was “But will he come back to us?’

“Who knows Charlotte”.

“But you don’t seem to care if he does or not” I persisted, wiping my tear filled eyes and sniffing at the thought that I would never see him again.

Dad left in the evening. They had been arguing again and a door slammed. I wasn’t sure who had gone out so I peered around the corner and could see Dad sitting in his favourite chair rubbing his brow.

“Come here Charlotte” he said to me quietly, “I need to tell you that I’m going away for a while. I don’t know if I’ll be back but I want you to know that I always have and always will love you. None of this is your fault”.

“Is it your fault or mums? I asked innocently and he answered as a man of his kind nature would “Probably both”.

I started to cry and put my arms around him “Please don’t go Dad. Is it me – am I too cheeky? I promise I’ll try to be good from now on”

“Never say that Char, you’re the best daughter anyone could ask for. No it’s just that sometimes adults need a bit of space from each other. Your mother wants a lot of space.”

“But why can’t you come back then after you’ve both had your space?”

“It’s not that simple and you are too young to fully understand. When I am settled into a new place I will write to you and you can come and stay with me in the school holidays. How does that sound?”

“Will you come back then, to live with us again after the school holidays?” I just wanted him to answer yes, but instead he told me that he couldn’t promise anything and that one day when I was an adult, I would understand.

Mum came back through the back door. She didn’t look sad, just angry. “You’re still here then?” she yelled at him.

“I couldn’t leave Charlotte on her own, could I?” and he smiled at me, but his blue eyes looked sad.

The last time I saw my dad was when he kissed me on the top of my head, squeezed me tight and whispered he would always love me.

Months went by, and then years and still no visit in the school holidays. I would ask my Mum where he was and why he hadn’t been in touch but all she said was “I knew once he left that would be it”.

Sometimes when I lay on my bed staring out of my window at the trees outside I thought of Dad and what he would be doing. When I’m a bit older I’ll find him. There must be a good reason why he didn’t come and see me”.

Charlotte, and her mother didn’t know it but they would never see him again, ever.

Two days after he left  he had a terrible motorbike accident. It was a wet night and the roads were slippery. Going around a bend he lost control of the Ducati he had just hired the day before and it slid into a light pole.

In the emergency ward doctors and nurses scurried to attach tubes and machines and try to save his life, but to no avail.

His last words were hardly audible but a young nurse bend down and put her hear to his mouth, whilst holding his hand, “please tell Charlotte I’ve booked train tickets”. And then he slipped away.

As I got older, I started to see a different side to my mother. Her personality wasn’t ‘even’. I wasn’t quite sure what was wrong but she could be happy one minute and then angry the next, even if there wasn’t too much to be annoyed at.

I knew she had always shouted a lot ‘Go and tidy your room” she would yell at the top of her voice and I always thought that if she just asked me nicely, I would do it just the same.

When she seemed extremely stressed and angry, I tried to keep out of her way as much as I could. It wasn’t every day she was like this but on the days that she was, I made sure none of my friends came to my house - I would make an excuse up “Mum’s got a migraine, let’s go to yours”. It was embarrassing when Mum was in one of her moods.

I tried to talk to her about it after a ‘blow up’ but all she said was, ‘you’re just like your father, always picking on me and what I’m like. And he left me and never came back’ and then she would start crying. I would put my arm around her and tell her it wasn’t her fault but inside of me I now thought  that maybe it was. Were all of those arguments really Dad’s fault like she said? I doubted it. I thought how difficult it would be to live with someone like Mum.

Nothing changed and life at home didn’t get any easier. Thankfully I had school, then college and a social life.

My mum seemed to drink a lot more than she used to and it wasn’t unusual for me to come home in the evening and find her asleep on the couch, an empty bottle on the floor. At least when she drank and then fell asleep it was peaceful.

We didn’t talk much either – I tried to ask about her life before Dad but all she ever told me was that she had a difficult childhood and things never got resolved. I did ask her if she had ever thought of going to counselling to talk to someone. (She had friends but I always classed them more as acquaintances) and her response to going counselling was “I DO NOT need a stranger to tell my life story to” …

When I was nineteen I moved out. Mum’s moods were getting more erratic and she was drinking a lot more.

It actually worked out much better for both of us and I would come and visit or meet her somewhere for coffee or lunch and enjoy her company. She seemed quieter somehow and the aggression seemed to have lessened.

One lunch time as we were walking back to my car, she stood still and looked over at me “What’s wrong?” I asked her and laughed. I noticed that her face was very thin from the side and I felt something inside of me, like a feeling of dread. “Mum, what is it” I asked but this time not laughing.

“When we’re in the car I’ll tell you Charlotte” she said quietly.

I opened the door and she slid her slight frame on to the passenger seat. I began to wonder if she was ill and as she began talking, she told me she was.

“It’s grade four so I don’t have that long I’ve been told” she said without looking at me.

“Mum”, I wailed and started to cry. She was difficult, and my childhood hadn’t been that much fun but she was my mother after all. I took a deep breath and stopped crying “How long Mum?”

“Oh a few months” they said last week “I won’t be here for Christmas”.

“I don’t care about Christmas. I don’t want you to die Mum” and I looked across at her thin frame and felt such a wave of sadness that I felt a bit sick in the stomach.

“Look let’s go home and we can sort things out” she said quietly.

 We drove in silence, both of us with our own thoughts swirling around in our minds. I was annoyed with myself for thinking how strange for a non-smoker to get lung cancer. ‘Who cares what kind of cancer it is you idiot’ I told myself.

We sat down and discussed if and when hospital was an option, the treatments mum had been offered and as difficult and emotional as it was, the funeral arrangements. We both felt drained and when I left Mum’s place, she was getting into bed for a rest and I knew I wouldn’t be doing anything much for the remainder of the day either.

As I lay on the couch at home I thought of my dad and how he should know about Mum. Whether he cared or not was another thing, after all he never got back in touch with us. The disappointment of that had never left me and after years of trying to find out where he went to, and getting nowhere, I just gave up.

The last five months of mum’s life went very quickly. At first her treatment seemed to give her the extra energy she needed to smile and relax, and we were able to have some lovely mother/daughter outings together, but it didn’t last long. For the final three weeks of her life, she was in the hands of carers with gentle hands and hearts full of love and kindness.

I took time off work and went in to see her each day staying with her, rubbing her hands and talking. When I walked out of her warm room each evening I wondered if I would receive a phone call in the night telling me to rush back because my mother was about to take her last breath.

On a Friday evening, an autumn evening when the cool nights are beginning to bring out the extra covers on the beds and the heaters to be put on, I sat stroking my mothers translucent brow when she told me in her soft whispery voice that she needed to tell me something important.

I had no idea what it could be and couldn’t imagine it being anything to worry about. What could be worse than sitting with your dying mother, just waiting.

I moved from my chair to the edge of her bed, my arm touching her skinny frame as I sat on the cover.

“What is it, Mum?” I asked her gently bending down so I could hear her properly.

“I never knew when the right time was to tell you”.

“It’s ok Mum, whatever it is, it’s alright”.

“James wasn’t your real father. He brought you up and loved you, but…” She stopped to cough and I patted her back softly and gave her a sip of water. I was in shock I think, and couldn’t believe what I had just heard. Mum continued “Your real dad left when you were just 6 months”.

She gripped my hand tighter and I looked into her eyes. They were dull and lifeless and I felt so sad.

“Mum, what is his name?” I asked slowly “Did you ever hear from him after he left?” I really wanted to know but didn’t want to bombard her with questions. I knew what my mum was like for most of my life, and I wondered if he left or he was told to leave.

I was having trouble concentrating on what mum was saying – the words ‘real dad’ were reverberating in my head and it hurt. It felt as if I had heard wrong and Mum had said something completely different.

But she said “Philip. He wrote to me but I never answered the letters and I never showed them to you” and she began to cry. Little tears ran down her soft cheeks and I wiped them with my hand.

“Mum don’t cry. It doesn’t matter now does it? I don’t care that you never told me. Honestly” I reached down and kissed her wet cheek. “Don’t waste your energy on thinking about it Mum”.

Her grip relaxed on my fingers and I was glad because they were starting to go numb, and before I knew it her eyes had shut and her breathing was quick and shallow.

I thought that perhaps it was such a relief to tell me something she had kept hidden for years, that she could sleep peacefully now.

“Mum” I whispered to her “I’m going now and I will be back in time for tea. I’ll help you to eat it. I love you Mum and thank you for telling me”.

At home I took tablets for my headache and made a cup of tea. ‘Oh my goodness” I thought “A biological dad out there somewhere. I wonder if he’s still alive?” It was too much to take in and I felt so tired that I dozed off.

The phone woke me out of a deep slumber. I scurried to lift the receiver and as soon as I heard who was calling I knew. “It’s June from Learmonth Nursing home” but before she could continue I interjected “Is it Mum, has she gone?”

I sat on the chair I had occupied for three weeks, day after day and through a torrent of tears, looked at my mum’s pale, lineless face. It wasn’t her any more, just her body.

It was about six weeks after we had buried her that I knew the time had come to sort out the things in her house. I dreaded the job but was buoyed by the idea I might find a clue to who my father was.

As I delved into the paperwork which was surprisingly orderly, I came across the letters that my mum had talked about. The ones my biological father had written after he left. I could only find three of them and they were many years apart – did he sent them regularly and Mum destroyed them in anger?

The contents both shocked and saddened me. He had been kicked out by my mum and told never to come back and if he ever tried to contact me she would make sure he regretted it. (He could write if he wanted to but that was up to him). I can’t imagine what she meant by him regretting it, but knowing the state of her mind when ‘James’ left, it was probably the same for ‘Philip’ – irrational and harsh.

I could hardly believe my eyes when I read the date of the last letter he had written…when I turned eighteen. Not that long ago really. Philip probably thought she let me read the letters, but she didn’t.

‘I wonder if he’s still at that address?’ I asked myself and dared to hope he was. It was only about twenty kilometres from where I lived so with a pounding heart, I thought about driving there one of these days and checking it out.

I took a photo with me that I had found in Mum’s papers and guessed it was my father. On the back there were the words ‘I will always love you, Philip’…. It was a black and white photo and very crinkled but it was all I had.

The house was small and neat. A limestone cottage complete with picket fence and a brick path. To the right of the house was an open garage, empty and tidy. “I wonder if he has a car or not?’

My question was answered just as I was pondering what I would say if I knocked on the door and he answered it!

A blue sedan turned into the driveway and headed for the garage. It was impossible to see who was driving it so I would have to wait. I couldn’t see a door leading from the garage to the house so whoever it was would have to get out of the car and walk facing me.

‘It’s him’ I almost yelled out loud. I could tell as soon as I saw him that it was the same tall dark haired (salt and pepper colour now) man from the photo. I kept looking at the old photo and then at him, back and forwards, just to make sure. He was slightly stooped and a little bit heavier than in the photo but it was definitely him.

He opened his front door and walked in but I was too scared and nervous to intercede him before he got there – I just watched.

The sun was dipping behind the trees and it was growing cool, and I was still sitting in my car!

I wanted to go up to the front door so badly but couldn’t bear the thought of him telling me he didn’t want to see me, or worse still, it wasn’t really Philip.

‘Right, I’m doing it’ I told myself, shaking like a leaf. Shutting the little gate behind me I walked up the brick path towards the wooden front door. By now my legs had turned to jelly and my palms were sweaty. I wanted to turn around and go home but knew I wouldn’t…I’d come this far.

There was no door knocker, just a buzzer. I noticed someone had drawn a pink star on it – ‘cute’ I thought as my finger hovered over it, ready to push. “Here goes then” I said aloud.