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Tuesday, Nov 10, 2009
My son, Sam, never knew his dad. One day he decided he wanted to meet him. Here's what happened.
Dec 20, 2002 | We have just gotten back from another holiday with Sam's dad. It feels like a miracle to be able to say that, and it feels that way every time his father and I spend time together with Sam, watching him ski or draw or sleep. Because for me to be able to write that first sentence seemed, for the first seven years of Sam's life, like an impossibility, and I want to tell you the story now, of how Sam and his father met, because in these dark and scary times, it always makes me feel hope again. I've said this before, but when God is going to do something wonderful, He or She always starts with a hardship; when God is going to do something amazing, He or She starts with an impossibility.
I have written often about being a single mother, but rarely mentioned Sam's father except in "Operating Instructions," a journal of Sam's first year, where perhaps I said things that sounded a little -- what is the word -- victimized by and merciless towards Sam's father. I was a little angry. In early December of 1988, I had gotten pregnant by a man named John, whom I was dating, in the Biblical sense. We did not sit around all day making moo goo gai pan eyes at each another, but we hung out and loved to talk and go to movies and libraries. It was very nice. Then I got pregnant, and John already had two grown children, and was ready for independence and travel, while I was ready to have a baby. I was 34 and could not face more abortions, and my eggs were getting old, like eggs you'd get at 7-Eleven, where you don't know how long they'd been there. I decided to have the baby, and everything between us turned to shit and John went his way and I went mine.
Then I had this kid, and oy -- such a child. It was very hard in the beginning, and I hated that Sam didn't get to have a dad, but I provided him with the world's kindest men. I didn't even think of trying to find John, this man with whom I had such a bad history, who'd given me the greatest gift of my life.
When Sam asked about his father over the years, which was not often, I'd tell him the truth. Sort of. I did not mention how badly things had ended, that his dad and I had said things to each other that perhaps Jesus would not have said. I told him what a smart, sweet man his father was, which is true, that he was tall and good-looking. I told him I had two pictures of John he could see if he ever wanted to, that I'd help him if he ever wanted to try and find him. And I really, really hoped he'd never want to.
Then, out of the blue, when Sam was in first grade, there was a fine crack in the wall of silence. A letter arrived from John, in response to a story I'd published about Sam and his first library card. It was one sentence of sheer grief and pride and outreach -- but there was no phone number at which to call John. It just made me more confused, and in my swirl of blame and fear, I put it away.
Finally, six years ago, when Sam was 7, he started wondering more frequently where his dad was, and what kind of man he was. The man I was with at the time told me point blank that I had to help Sam begin his search. That it was time. I wept. I was so afraid -- sore afraid -- and hopeless with fear that Sam would never get to find his father or that, even worse, he would.
When Sam would ask about his father, I'd say, "Do you want to see his pictures?" He always said no, thank you. (He has good manners, which I believe can cover a multitude of sins.) But one day when he was still 7, we were sitting in the car after church. He looked solemn. It was clear he had something on his mind. He said, "I think I'd like to see those pictures now."
I felt like I had swallowed a bunch of rubber bands. But I got the photos out of the file, and handed them to Sam. He studied John for a moment, the big round eyes, small nose, dark hair, like his own.
"How could we find him?" he asked.
I didn't know, except that with writing, you start where you are, and you do it poorly. You just do it -- you do it afraid. And something happens.
