In the Unlikely Event

So I rebelled. From a young age.

I’d tried to get in touch with him on my own over the years.

I wrote him letters my mom wasn’t aware of—sent him pictures, emails, poems I’d ripped from books at the library. I begged Mom for crumbs of information about my mysterious sperm donor. I never heard from him, and I thought I knew why. He knew how much of a bossy bitch Mom was, and he was afraid if she found out we were talking behind her back, she’d cut off his communication with me completely.

Dad agreed to only talk to me through Mom, and never on the phone, out of respect for her. He once wrote to me that he was ashamed of his voice, of what had become of him. He’d said he slurred now even when he wasn’t drunk, and his voice shook all the time.

I didn’t care what he sounded like. I just needed his voice in my ears.

I wanted a dad.

Not even a particularly good one.

Seriously, any sort of dad would do.

My father died two months before I graduated high school. I was walking into the kitchen to get a glass of water when Mom got the phone call. I plastered my back to the hallway wall so she couldn’t see me.

She wasn’t sad. Or angry. Or broken. She just grabbed the vintage, corded phone, lit a cigarette, and sat down at the dining table, flipping her hair behind her shoulder.

“So he finally kicked the bucket, huh?” She coughed. “Only sad thing about it is I’ll have to tell Rory. She doesn’t deserve this heartache.”

I didn’t know who she was talking to, but I wanted to throw up. He was my father, and he was a part of me—presumably a part of me she wasn’t too crazy about.

If Glen had waited just a little longer, I could have met him face to face. Now, I’m meeting him grave to face, hearing about his legacy of out-of-wedlock offspring from a priest.

Class act, Dad.

“Father…?” I eye the giant cross on his chest.

“Doherty,” he provides.

“Father Doherty, did he ever say anything about me?”

In that space of time, between my question and his answer, I feel the entire weight of the world pressing against my shoulders, ready to bury me.

“Yes. Of course. He spoke of you all the time. You were the apple of his eye. He bragged about your photography. Whenever he got out of the house, he made a point of shoving pictures of you in people’s faces and saying, ‘This, right here, is my daughter.’”

Whenever he got out of the house.

His situation was so awful. Mom never once tried to help him. Why?

“How come he never wanted to see me?”

I don’t know why I decide to unload all these questions on this stranger. He couldn’t have known my dad too well. It’s not like Glen used to attend church regularly…at least I don’t think.

“He sent you money every month and loved you from afar, knowing you were better off not knowing him.” Father Doherty evades the painful question. “Some people are weak, but not necessarily bad. He’d been battling depression and alcoholism, and wasn’t in a state to take care of a child.”

Maybe Dad did save me from himself. The important thing is that he talked about me, right? That he took care of me in his own, roundabout way? Yeah, I can work with that. But I can’t shake the nagging feeling that Mom had a hand in the fact that we never met.

A trickle of warmth sneaks into my chest. “Can I meet my sister? Do you know where she lives?”

I’m grasping at straws at this point. I can hear the desperation in my voice, and it makes me actively dislike myself. Get it together. He didn’t even leave you a letter before he died.

“Ah, poor thing’s in a state. I’m afraid she doesn’t want to be reached. However…” He strokes his chin, mulling an idea. “I know someone who could help you. Follow me.”

I shadow Father Doherty into the church, all the way to the dim back office, where he sits at a heavy oak desk and scribbles an address on a piece of paper. He talks as he writes.

“My grandson busks on Drury Street. He knew your da well enough. Glen taught him how to play the guitar. I’m sure Mal is full of stories about Glen. Why don’t you talk to him over a few pints, eh? But not too many, unless you want the stories to take unexpected, bizarre turns.” He chuckles, sliding the address across the desk along with a fifty-euro note.

“Thanks, but I can’t take your money.” I grab the address and shove it into my corduroy jeans’ pocket, leaving the note untouched.

“Why?”

“Because you owe me nothing.” I hitch one shoulder up. “And you’ve already done enough.”