I, on the other hand, swung my arms as I marched, but not too dramatically. I earned good marks and was polite to all my teachers. I was careful not to be overly polite, though, lest I wind up being assigned to be a Prefect in Primary 7. This was one of the greatest fears of my early academic life and the tightrope I walked from Primary 4 on — how to be the good (nearly perfect) student and child, without being made a Prefect. Prefects policed the lines of students whilst we waited to get into school in the mornings and after lunch. They scurried about doing the teachers’ and headmistress’ bidding. In short, they went about being obviously perfect and telling people how to be perfect and telling on them if they weren’t. Some people even called them Perfects instead of Prefects. They hated them. I didn’t hate them at all. I just knew that, although it was important for me to seem perfect on the outside, I had this inherent flaw on the inside. Being a Prefect would have been a lie. In primary school, being made a Prefect was like being ordained perfect; it was a recognition that you were damn near good enough to be an adult; it was the ultimate legitimization. And I had sorted out by then that, no matter what fairy tale my parents told me and no matter how nicely I tied my tie, I was still illegitimate: a bastard on the inside.

I’ve liked David from the go — he’s got a twinkle in his eye, a corny sense of humor, a huge laugh and a heart of equal size. He’s also fantastic at sizing people up.

The night he tests out The Word, we’ve been out for a meal with many of the members of that side of the family. When David arrived, bouncing in to the restaurant dead last, everyone stood for hugs all round. He elbowed them out of the way, making for me, saying, in his great big Scottish voice, “C’mere. C’mere. C’mere.” What a hug. And then the banter over dinner. And then the return to my other uncle’s house for coffee and more laughter. And all the time, me ending up right next to David.

The snow starts soon after we start the coffee, so I wind up dashing from the house, facing a drive across the country (it’s Scotland, so it’s only wee — an hour and a half — but still) after dark and wanting to get on sooner than I otherwise would. 

David waits then till I’ve gone round everyone else. He reaches for me. “Right then. Ya wee,” he hesitates, and in the gap I can see The Word in his eye and the debate about whether to test it. “Ya wee…”

I raise my eyebrow and grin.

“Ya wee bastard.”

“Aye.” 

We wrap our arms around each other. Me, the wee bastard, in my uncle’s arms. Home.

Cheers? Sounded too much like what I say to my drinking buddies or the guy at the corner shop or any damn stranger, which my father was in a way, only he’s also related to me, so cheers didn’t seem right — somehow too distant and too comfortable. Best? As in All the Best. But doesn’t everyone get that? And didn’t I want this letter to seem more special? Love? My mother signed her first letter to me, “With love and best wishes.” I thought that might be too much? Could I actually say, “with love,” to a man I’d never met? I didn’t even know if he put his hand on my mother’s tummy and felt me kick before he walked away.

I settled on Best Wishes, signed and folded The Letter and hoped for the best.

While the other False Starts post features letters I drafted to blow off some steam, with no intention of ever sending them, this False Start was one of the first attempts at a version of The Letter that I might actually send.

“I’ve known, since as far back as I can remember, that I’m adopted. I’d also known for some years that, when I was 18 I could go and get my birth certificate and that I could gain access to other information regarding my birth. By the time I walked down that corridor in the House of Records in Edinburgh, I’d hopped two countries and was living in the U.S. I was back in Scotland for a couple of weeks. I jotted down the information from the birth certificate — which did not include your name — and went to the agency that I’d thought held the records of my birth.

 The process was intimidating; the social worker condescending. I left with no further information. I’d stuck my big toe in  and found the process cold and uninviting. It would take me over 10 years to take further action.

 During that time, I thought often of who my natural family might be – moreso at the births of each of my three children. During that time I also discovered the internet and searched for names, details, anything, still afraid to go back to the social workers.

 At some point, I found Birthlink and their adoption registry. I signed up – put down the scanty bits of information I had, hoping for a connection; hoping someone was looking for me, baby Jayne, born in 1967. Nothing. Again, I tucked away the idea of finding you and my mother; told myself it wasn’t meant to be — that it didn’t matter. I had plenty to keep me busy — three children, a husband, work, hobbies.

Then, on a visit to Scotland in 2003, I walked past the address listed on my birth certificate. If I couldn’t see either of you, I could at least see the house in which my mother had lived. When I came back from the trip, I could no longer let go of the need to find out who I came from.

The long and the short of it is this: I emailed Birthlink, who told me where to get the more detailed records regarding my adoption, and there it all was on the page. And there, at last, you were, Hamish, a father with a name. 

I’d dearly like to put a face with that name. And a voice. And whatever else you’d be comfortable sharing with me…”

Ultimately, I decided that this was too much information and sent a much shorter letter, which got me the reply I wanted, though not in a short span of time. Who knows if this might have worked faster.

Trying to write The Letter, that first communication, to my father brought up every writer’s challenge. Never had I been challenged with writing a more important lead. The first sentence had to suck him in, be the hook that carried and carried him, that compelled him to read on, to engage. I felt I had to build myself as the character about whom he would care so much he simply must find out what happens next. He, my father, would the next chapter, one way or another. I wanted to be the character for whom he wanted the best. The story had to be the one he couldn’t put down; the one he loved so much he must step into, become part of the action, move the plot forward to its conclusion, one the reader (and writer) would find satisfying. I had to find the perfect entry point for the action. I ran  loads of questions through my head over and over: Where does the story begin? What of my back story does he need to see in order to feel connected without losing the thread of the action? What will feel too challenging or threatening for him to take on? What will be too easy to cast aside?

 In the middle of it all, I found myself just wanting to pick up the phone and ring him. I suddenly wanted to hear his voice and get an immediate response. I decided it would be cruel to ambush him in that way and could make for a disastrous start to the relationship, if there was to be one.

So write I did, and here we are, two years later, still in contact. Amazing.

Here are a couple of the false starts — drafts I wrote to keep my sanity and help me work my way towards the real deal. As you read, keep in my that I never intended to send either of these. And I’ve changed his name. I’ll save the letter I actually sent for another post. And more serious thoughts on the writing of it for still another.  Enjoy.

Dear Hamish,

By now you’ll be feeling confident you’ve that you’ve made a clean getaway. If what you did had been a crime, you’d have passed the statue of limitations five times. You’d be coasting by now. If I’d been an embezzlement scheme or a bank robbery, you’d be tossing the money around freely by now, footloose and fancy free and pretty damn sure that it’s never going to catch up with you…

Dear Hamish,

I am your daughter.

You are my father.

We have missed each other for 39 years.

Can we meet?