“It’s hard to understand because you’re not like her, thank god. You never were.”
Hearing those words felt like a hug from God. When your own mother, the woman who conceived you and gave birth to you, is heartless enough to abandon you on a dirt road in some rural town in Ohio with a mean alcoholic, you’re always a little concerned that those awful genes will come to life within you at some point.
“Why did you speak to her, then?” I asked.
“I had to talk to her about the property.”
“The property on the road?”
“The very same.”
“I thought the bank took it and tore the house down?” I had just assumed that my father had lost the property. I couldn’t imagine how he would have paid for it from jail.
“The house was torn down, but I didn’t lose the property. The rent from Lisa covered the bank payments until I got out of prison.”
“You owned the house they lived in?”
“Yes, both houses. A lot of bad memories there, but they’re gone now. They were termite-infested, and both had water and flood damage beyond repair. But the land’s still there, and it’s good land.”
It’s strange when you learn something wasn’t as it seemed when you were a child.
“So you spoke with my mom about the property?” I clarified.
“Yes, she agreed to sign a quit-claim deed so that I could gift it to you.”
I jerked my head back. “Me? Why in the world would I want that property?”
“Remember when you were about four or five and I taught you how to swim in the water hole, back when it was fuller? You used to get on my back like a little monkey and I would swim around . . .” He looked to the ceiling, trying to blink away tears. “You’d shout, ‘Again, Daddy, again!’ and I’d dive back under the water just for a second and then come back up.” By that point, I was getting choked up again too. “I remember the feeling of your little arms wrapped around my neck and your fluttering giggle each time we’d come to the surface for a breath. I think about that all the time. I remember those moments.”
“I remember now too,” I whispered. He called it our little slice of heaven then.
“It’s yours. The property is yours to do with what you want. It’s just a place, and it can be beautiful. I made it ugly because I was a mean drunk, but it doesn’t have to be that way. I also have a little nest egg I’ve been saving for you since I opened the shop.”
I was stunned and speechless. Why is he doing this? “You don’t have to buy me back.”
He reached for one of my hands. “Listen, Emiline, remember what I said about daddies protecting their little girls?”
“I’m not a little girl anymore.”
“You’re not, but I’ll always be your dad. I screwed up so many things. This is the only way I can try to repair some of the damage.”
I had never thought of my father as an emotional, empathetic, or even articulate man, but he was showing sides to me I’d never seen. My mind was racing. I knew I had to accept what he was offering me, even though I had no clue what to do with the land.
As I stared past him, trying to visualize what I would do, he said, “Sell it. I don’t care what you do with it. But it’s yours.”
“Okay.”
“So you’ll accept it?”
“On one condition.”
“I’m all ears,” he said.
“I want my mother’s address.” I was determined to confront her, and I wanted to know if she had abandoned any other poor kids out there.
“Emiline . . .” His voice took on a warning tone. “She’s not going to change. I’m afraid you’re gonna be real disappointed.”
“There’s something I need to do. I need to see her. Please.”
I knew he understood. I didn’t have to spell it out for him. “I will. I’ll give you her address. You’re stronger than I was, Emiline. Promise me that no matter what she says or does, you know in your heart that you are good and smart and beautiful. She has her own demons, and if she rejects you, it’ll have nothing to do with who you are.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.”
“We can’t go backward. There are too many regrets. Please just move forward with me?”
I took his hand across the table. “I will.”
After lunch, we walked back to the shop and he wrote her address down on a piece of paper.
“She lives in Nashville.”
“How far of a drive is that from here?” I asked.
“’Bout six hours.” He handed me an envelope with cash in it. “There’s three thousand in there. You should deposit that as soon as you can. Actually, let’s go now. I’ll follow you in my car to the bank.”
It does seem a little behind the curve to wait until your daughter is approaching thirty years old before you learn how to be a father, but I was in forgiveness mode. I had held on to the anger for too long. My father and I weren’t going to start palling around all of a sudden, but I certainly wasn’t going to harbor any ill will toward him when he had clearly spent the intervening years trying to change.