I followed him in and Randall picked up a newspaper. He went to pay for it while 1 stood there gazing out the window. Moments later the man who could be my real father came into sight. He wore a tweed sports jacket and jeans. He was at least six feet tall and very good looking with a strong mouth. He was trim, too, his shoulders wide. He glanced at the store and I looked directly into his face, but he didn't look at me. Even so, I held my breath as he gazed at a newspaper headline, read it quickly and then continued on.
The little boy at his side clung tightly to his hand. I thought the child was cute, especially because of the proud way he held his shoulders back and his head straight. Every once in a while, he looked up at his father as if he wanted to be sure he was imitating him well. They crossed the street and continued toward the river. That little boy could very well be my half brother, I thought, and that young girl back at the house could be my half sister. I had come all these miles, all this distance, to look upon them and the man who could be my father. How strange I felt. It was as if I was caught up in a dream, floating through a sea of wishes and promises.
"Well?" Randall asked coming up beside me, "what do you think? I think there's some definite resemblance," he told me, nodding before I could reply.
"Oh, you can't tell that from a short glimpse, Randall," I said.
"Let's see where they go," he suggested. "Maybe we can get a better look at him."
"I don't want to, Randall."
"We'll just stay far enough behind to. ."
"No," I said more emphatically. "I don't want to. I don't feel good about this. He's out for a walk with his little boy. It's just not right to spy on him."
"Not right? Why isn't it right considering who you are and who he might very well be?"
"I don't know," I said and left the store. I walked quickly in the opposite direction.
"Wait a minute. Where are you going?" Randall asked, running to catch up.
"I don't know. Back, I guess."
"Rain ..."
"Leave me alone," I cried and walked faster. He lingered behind, following slowly, knowing enough to keep away. My heart was filled with so many raging emotions; so many contradictory feelings were battling inside me. Yes, I wanted-to know him, to find out if he really was my father and then to talk to him, to learn about him and to make sure that he knew about me, but I was also still terrified that the moment I approached him and he discovered who I was, he would turn away from me and forbid me from coming near him or his family. What right did I have to walk in on him like this? How could I expect him to care about me, someone he has never known, he has never seen!
It almost made me feel dirty, like a voyeur, to have come here to spy on him and catch glimpses of him and his family. And yet, the image of his face, those bright black pearl eyes, that look of intelligence and that soft smile when he gazed at his little boy all flashed across my eyes again. What was his voice like? What if he looked at me with as much love and pride as he looked at his little boy?
I was still searching for that love and I was not at all sure that I would find it in this strange man's face, especially if I forced him to look at me, if I threw myself in his way and cried, "I'm here! I'm your daughter! You have to love me, too!"
Love, after all, wasn't something to be commanded or demanded. It came from that special place inside our hearts, blossoming like a flower properly nurtured. Real love took time.
"That's Chiswick Bridge ahead there," I heard Randall say. He had caught up to me slowly. "We're actually on one of the recommended London walks along the Thames. We could go to Kew Gardens."
I turned to him and shook my head.
"Always the tour guide, aren't you?"
"I just didn't want you to think you were wasting your time," he protested. Then he stepped in front of me and held out his arms. "This 'ere's all part of the package, ma'am. We aim to please all our customers, especially you Yanks with all the bob."
I had to laugh.
"That's better," he said. "You had me worried back there."
"I'm sorry I left you like that:' I said, "but it was all too much too soon."
"Sure. You can come back anytime. I found out something else that might interest you:' he said, digging into his pocket. He handed me a slip of paper.
"What's this?"
"The name of the school where he teaches and the address. I didn't want to give it to you unless there was a real possibility we were onto the right man. And I know he's the one."
"How did you find this out, Randall?"
He shrugged and smiled.
"I went over to the school. Mr. MacWaine's got these books on the schools in London and I looked up the faculty list, found Larry Ward and copied it down."