There was no doubt in my mind: Kate was the one person who would help me filter the chaos into an informed choice.  Going to her, scattering out the myriad of emotions and facts, and watching her veer my thoughts toward a productive end had become an essential step in my thought processes.  So I sought her out.

I had told her virtually nothing about my teen-aged years, and encapsulating it into something that could be explained in a few paragraphs proved challenging. 

She knew my default forms of communication.  I presented facts as if giving a military report, but sputtered emotions as if they were the disjointed ravings of an injured child.

But she listened to the ramblings of my heart.  She listened in silence, nodding her head to encourage me on, waiting for the right moment to interject a thought, or redirect mine.

I was lost, searching aloud for a path, some guidance, some clarity.  I paced as I spoke, ambling around the room, unclear even in determining the direction of my footsteps.

“It’s just that I’ve had them in this place in my head,” I tried to explain, “where it didn’t matter if they were alive or dead…because I didn’t know for sure.  Now that I know he’s alive, but not for long, and that my mother has already passed…”

“It matters,” she said softly.
 
Just the sound of her voice gave immediate relief.

“Yes.”

“So what’s stopping you from going down?”

She was asking me to focus – distill the confusion down to a single thought.

“I’m just not sure what I’m walking into,” I heard myself answer, as if half of me spoke without consulting the other half.

“I know he’s not asking for me.  What if he won’t even see me?  Or what if he lets me in to confront me…to accuse me of coming down just to have the pleasure of watching him die.”

It was possible.  It could all be a trap.  Amy could still be harboring resentments, setting me up.  No, she sounded sincere on the phone.  But still, was going down the thing to do?

“I mean,” I resumed my argument, “is it really even fair to foist myself on a dying man who may not want to see me, just to satisfy some cultural convention?”

Clarity still eluded me, so I stumbled into a less-than-convincing conclusion.

“Whatever it is, I can’t see this having a happy, fairy tale sort of ending.”

Kate sensed a break in my meandering thoughts.

“In my experience,” she began, “happiness is directly tied to expectation.  So if you expect a lot, you’re likely to be disappointed.  On the other hand, if you expect very little, you might be pleasantly surprised.”

Fairly obvious, but on point. 

“It’s a survival technique I learned years ago,” she continued.  “When facing the unknown, in the back of my mind, I just repeat ‘high expectation equals low happiness; low expectation equals high happiness’.  Mostly, I just aim for reasonable expectations.”

Had she stopped there, I might have stayed in the same comfortable, if somewhat driven, eddy of confusion.  But her next sentence jolted a nerve that spun me into a rampage.

“So just don’t expect him to embrace you to his chest and ask for your forgiveness.”

Forgiveness?  Forgiveness?  I paced with renewed vigor, aggressively striding with a decided clomp to my steps.  My palms drug sweat across my forehead.  There was a noticeable increase in volume as I spoke.

“You know, that whole concept has always felt strange to me – asking for someone’s forgiveness.   I mean, you’re asking the one you’ve wronged to do you a favor - to give you something as if they owe you.”

I tried to stand still to make my point, but it felt somehow necessary to keep moving.

“When I came back to make amends with Henry, I apologized but I stopped short of asking for his forgiveness.  It just seems wrong.  I mean, sure, you’re humbling yourself in a way.  But in another way, you’re asking them to give you the right to feel better.”

Was she getting this?  Was I being clear?  If I shout, will it make it easier to grasp?

“Maybe you don’t have the right to feel better.  Maybe anyone who’s hurt someone should never feel better.  Maybe they should always feel badly so they won’t do it again.”

I could feel myself spinning out of control.  She tried to reel me in.

“Are you talking about yourself now, or your father?”

I drew in a deeper breath, slowed my pacing, and bristled back at her.

“I don’t know,” I spat.  “I just know I don’t want him to ask for my forgiveness and I certainly won’t ask for his.” 

I suddenly stopped with such a jolt, I stomped my foot.

“Besides,” I barked with too much volume, “forgiveness has nothing to do with this.”

She cocked her head, narrowed her eyes and started the journey into the core of my rage.

“I think maybe it has everything to do with it.  I’ve never seen this level of anger in you before, just at the mention of a word.”

Although I stood firmly in place, I could feel myself trembling with indignation.

“My mother used to tell me to ‘just forgive him’”, I snarled, “like that would sweep it all away.  But it was just to let him off the hook, that’s all.  I wouldn’t do that.”

“That’s not what it’s for,” she said slowly.  “Forgiveness doesn’t undo the harm done, it just allows you to get passed it to build something better.”

My skepticism deferred to sarcasm. 

“It’s some magic wand, or what?”

She had gleaned enough from the Reader’s Digest version of my home life to conclude that such things as kindness and tenderness were almost foreign.  So she introduced this alien concept to me, gently.

“I think forgiveness starts with understanding.”  She paused to let that thought sink in.

“Maybe you didn’t ask for Henry’s forgiveness, but you earned it by coming back and explaining to him why you had done what you did.  You helped him to understand it so the two of you could start over.  It doesn’t undo what you did or make it right, it just allows growth beyond it.”

She had a point.  She sensed my heart opening and continued filling it with her wisdom.

“Lilly’s lie was easier for you to forgive once you knew what was behind it.  It didn’t change the fact that it was hurtful, but it allowed the two of you to get to the heart of the matter and move on.”

Yes, true enough.

She raised her chin, signaling a slight challenge.

“Is there any way for you to try to understand your father’s violence toward you?  Was there any reason he mentioned?”

“He never discussed it,” I volunteered quietly, “but…he was angry.”

“At what?”

“At God.”  I felt myself wince.  “My sister died when she was thirteen.  Slowly, from cancer.”

Her lips parted in empathy.  “And he had to watch and couldn’t save her,” she said respectfully.  “Can you imagine the frustration and powerlessness he felt?”

We had wandered into horrific territory.  I didn’t want to revisit my own feelings about Emily’s death, so I side-stepped them.

“So that makes it okay for him whack me around?  Couldn’t he have found another way to get relief?”

“No, of course, it wasn’t okay.  But look at it from his perspective.  What options did he think he had?  Beating up a stranger instead and getting arrested, or maybe someone at work and losing his job?”

I shook my head with a scoff.  She led me calmly, but firmly along.

“Maybe he couldn’t handle being powerless and needed to have control over something, anything, and that turned out to be you.  My guess is you were the toughest one in the house.”

When Emily died, I became the oldest, and yes, her death had toughened me.

“Maybe something got twisted in him,” Kate suggested.  “His sense of fatherhood, perhaps.  Maybe he wanted to distance himself from a child so he wouldn’t feel the pain anymore.”  She paused.  “You’d know about that, wouldn’t you?”

“Yeah,” I murmured.  “I would.”  I pictured myself pushing Henry away all those years ago.  The truth poured itself into my cavern of resentment: a man’s need to protect himself could collide with an injured father’s despair and ultimately be taken out on the child.  I had experienced it firsthand, from both perspectives.

She took my hands in hers and pulled me down beside her.

“Imagine if Henry became ill and there was nothing you could do to stop his death. Wouldn’t the rage and despair eat away at you?” 

I felt a sudden emptiness in the pit of my stomach at the mere thought of it.

“Why couldn’t he have just explained it then?” I sighed.

“Even if he could have found the words,” she said softly, “do you really think at that age you would have understood?  You hadn’t yet experienced fatherhood, the depth of love you can have for a child, the incredible loss it would be.  You couldn’t possibly have felt what he did.”

She was right.  I wouldn’t have had a clue.

“But you can now,” she insisted, “and that understanding can lead to forgiveness.”

I rolled these thoughts over and over, like manipulating dice in the palm of my hand.  They were starting to make sense. 

Emily’s death had destroyed him. It changed him fundamentally.  And how would a father ever recover from that?  How would it even be possible to allow yourself, while still that raw, to stay close to another child, knowing they could be taken from you at any time?

Yes, I was beginning to understand.  I was the obvious target, the only one he could attack without compromising the family as a whole.  It allowed him to let off enough steam to stay upright in the world.  It had essentially helped him to survive, helped the family to survive.  Yes, I could process that, maybe even eventually find a way to forgive it.

But what of the deeper issue – whether that forgiveness could be reciprocated?  Maybe she could guide me there, as well.

“And how do I get him to forgive me?” I asked with a sad resignation in my voice.  “How do I explain the rationale for what I did to him?”

I shook my head at the sheer selfishness of the act.  How would I ever justify it?

“Joining the British army wasn’t some involuntary by-product of rage at God over losing a child,” I confessed.  “It was a long thought-out, intentional strategy specifically aimed at breaking his heart.”

A heavy cloak of regret draped over me.  

“I was thinking yesterday about his face – the last expression I saw on it.  Now I’m wondering what expression he last saw on my face.  It must have been a smug self-satisfaction at finally knocking him to the ground, emotionally at least.  I wonder if that’s what he remembers of me.”

I gripped Kate’s hands, hoping to draw strength from her.

“How could he ever forgive that?” 

There was no way to find some redeeming quality, no way to couch it in any noble sense.  It was wrong.  No, it was more than wrong.  There was a specific intention that made it tantamount to evil.  I suddenly released her hands, as if unworthy to touch her.

“I just wanted him in pain,” I admitted.  “I didn’t think about the ramifications – what it would do to my family, what it would do to my life.  I just wanted…”

“Payback?  Revenge?” she asked calmly.  “Things an abused 20-year-old would crave and even plot for. You don’t think that’s understandable?”

She was thinking too highly of me again.

“Craving and plotting is one thing,” I clarified.  “Executing the plan is something else.  I wasn’t young and impulsive.  I was strategic and adamant.”
 
“You wanted him to feel the pain you had felt.  You wanted him to understand how deeply he had hurt you.”

It still didn’t feel like justification enough, worth putting my mother and siblings at risk, worth guaranteeing the banishment I knew it would bring, worth losing my place in the family altogether.  How could I have done it?  How could I have been that wrong, that evil? 

Evil.  That word seared itself into me with the fire of truth.  I was evil.  He had known it, and I had confirmed it in that one action. 

“He knew I was evil,” I blurted.  “He told me as much.”

“How did he tell you?”

I pulled the memory from those protected corners in my mind.

“He took his anger out on me,” I began, “and I suppose there were times when I gave him enough grief, I might have deserved some of it.  Most times, I knew I hadn’t done anything that warranted …” I stopped short of a full description.  That wasn’t pertinent.

“Most times, I hadn’t done anything at all.  But my attempts to argue that point proved ….counterproductive.”

The muscles in my back began to tighten.

“But one time, I plucked up the courage to ask why he was hitting me.  I said, tell me what I’ve done so I can learn not to do it again.”

I could still see the sly grin on his face.

“He said, ‘I’m punishing you for the things you will do, that I just won’t be there to see.’”

I tasted adrenalin in the back of my throat as I spoke.

“In his eyes, not only was I capable of doing things deserving of punishment but I was guaranteed to do them.  As if he knew I was innately bad at my core.  Even evil, somehow.”

I swallowed hard.

“I began plotting at that moment to pay him back, not so much for the beatings, but for believing I was destined to do harm.  I decided I’d show him how damaging I could be, and I’d make sure he’d be there to see it.  I’d look him straight in the eye and tell him I’d joined the Brits, and watch his heart break.”

I shook my head in shame.

“And in doing that, I proved him right.  How can I ask him to forgive my very nature?”

“You’re not evil, Terry.”  Her palm rose to my cheek, touched it lightly, then cupped my chin, forcing me to sink into the warm comfort of her eyes.  “You just have a hard time letting go of guilt.”

“But Kate, how can I make him understand something I can’t?”

“Maybe you start with an apology.  When you came back into Henry’s life, you knew the chance for reconciliation was slim, but you felt compelled to at least let him know how sorry you were.  Maybe that’s what you should focus on now.”

She paused, then dug into the deepest part of me and asked what needed to be answered.

“It boils down to this, Terry.  You came back to Henry so that you could become the father you wanted to be.  The question is: what do you need to do to become the son you want to be?  You’ve been given an opportunity.  Are you going to take it?”

For all the blustering about evil and revenge and justification and forgiveness, the heart of it all couldn’t be escaped.  I had to go.  I had to face him.  It was the only course I could take.

And so with a sigh, half resignation, half relief, I made the decision.

“Yeah,” I said quietly.  “I’ll go up to see Henry tomorrow.  This is too much to tell him over the phone.”  I sighed heavily again.  “Then I’ll make arrangements to fly down.”

Touching her arm in gratitude, I added, “And I’ll remember to expect very little.”

I took one step toward the door when the thought hit me and I turned to ask.

“Hey,” I smiled. “I hope you’re not happy with us just because you have low expectations of me.”

That giggle surfaced like playfully escaping bubbles.
 
“Oh, I expect great things from you,” she said slyly.  “But I think that’s a very reasonable expectation.” 

She took my face in her hands, her tone now serious.

“You just keep in your mind that you have a woman here, waiting for your return, who loves you deeply. I’m only a phone call away, day or night.  Understand?”

I could only nod.  In her eyes, I saw that look, the one I’d always dreamed of.  The look of knowing that was just for me.

“I wish I could go with you,” she whispered as we kissed, “to give you a little back up.”

So did I.  Christ, did I.  How would I face him after all this time?  What would keep me from reverting back to the angry, injured teenager?  A lifetime had passed and yet I knew it would compress into dust as I turned into that eighteen-year-old again, once I stood at his feet. 
 
“I’ll be fine,” I wished aloud.

For the whole of the drive up to Henry’s school, scenarios played relentlessly in my mind.  How could I assure that I would be me, the man I was now, rather than the boy I had been in that environment?  Those smells – my father’s tobacco, the familiar fragrances of the town’s industrial section, even the plants and flowers my sister would have grown to remind her of mum - all of it would converge on me.  And I would turn back into him: the resentful, immature, selfish adolescent. 

My father wouldn’t see how far I had come because I wouldn’t be able to show it.  He wouldn’t know what I had been through because I couldn’t tell him.  How would he ever see me as anything other than what I had been then?

And how would I see myself as anything other than the reflection of his memories.  I would be too guarded.  I felt it even in that moment – a defensiveness, a raising of the shield somehow. 

It became clearer with every mile I travelled, every minute that passed - confronting my father had very little chance of going well.  If only Kate came with me….Christ, stand on your own two feet.  Remember who you are now.  Be that man.  Be the son you want to be.  Do the things you would want your son to do in this circumstance. 

I almost laughed aloud.  My father still had the power to undo me, even now.  Even this far away.  Even lying at death’s door.  I was still afraid of what he would do and mostly of what I would become again in his presence.

As I pulled through the gate at Montgomery Hall, I steeled myself.  I couldn’t let Henry see my trepidation.  I needed him to believe in my strength, above all.  The desk receptionist located him on the grounds.  As he ran toward me, his face reflected alarm.

“What’s wrong?” he asked breathlessly.

“Nothing….” I started to say.

“But you’re here unannounced.  There must be something.”  He nodded his head, his eyes wide with worry.  “You’re going in, aren’t you?  The job’s gone awry and you have to go in.  You’ve come to tell me in person.”

“No, no.”  I pulled him to me, his arms easily encircling me in response.  “It’s nothing to do with the job.  Everything is stable there.”  I pulled him back gently.  “I just wanted to tell you about my family.”

His long intake of air revived him and even allowed a smile.

“You called them?” he asked with an edge of excitement.

“I talked to my sister.”

“That’s fantastic,” he shouted.

“Let’s sit a minute while I tell you about it, okay?” I led him to a couch in a corner of the lobby.  He scanned my face and shoulders as we sat, assessing my demeanor, and changed his tone immediately.

“So,” he probed tentatively.  “Are your parents still alive?”

“My mother,” I began, “your grandmother, died two years ago.”

Henry remained silently respectful.

“Your grandfather,” I continued, “is alive, but very sick.  In fact, he’s dying, fairly soon they think.”
 
His mouthed opened.

“So I’m going down to…” to what, Terry?  To what?  “I’m going down to see if my father and I can have a conversation.”

He narrowed his eyes, as if trying to read my face and tone of voice.

“What if he won’t let you in?  He did tell you never to come back,” he said quietly.

I honestly had no response for that.  My face must have registered my stuttering confusion.

“I’m going with you,” he said resolutely.

I chuckled somewhat nervously.

“No.  This won’t be a site-seeing trip.”

“I know.”

“It’s liable to be some pretty heavy stuff.”

“That’s my point.  You need me there.”

Again, I was baffled and sat dumbfounded. 

“Do you think your dad wants to see you?” he asked firmly.

“I…I don’t know,” I stammered.

“Has your sister told him you’re coming?”

“I haven’t confirmed it to her yet, so, no.”

“So maybe he doesn’t even want you there, right?” 

Was he reading my mind or was it that obvious a predicament?

“I don’t know,” I repeated.

“Then I need to be there.”  He nodded confirmation of his thought. “Look, I got you into this.”

I couldn’t let him take on this responsibility.

“I made the call myself.”

“But you wouldn’t have if I hadn’t pushed you.”

“Henry, I needed to do it.  You just helped me decide that.”

He looked into my eyes and saw it all, verbatim: the uncertainty, the hesitation, the fear.  I couldn’t find a poker face to hide it.

“Look,” he insisted, “if it took that much effort to make the call, actually facing him will be harder, right?  You could be walking into enemy territory.” 

He paused and attempted a smile.  “You’re gonna need a wing man.  You’re gonna need someone in your corner, right?  You’re gonna need me.  Admit it.”

I pictured him there with me.  With Henry at my side, I would be forced to be the man I am now – the father, not the son -  the man, not the boy.  With Henry beside me, I could see the better side of myself, not the lingering disappointment I always saw in my father’s eyes.  With Henry as my wing man, we could withstand whatever happened and laugh it off later. 

He was right, but it was too selfish of me.

“This is not about what I need,” I conceded.

“Then make it about what I need.”

What’s this?

“Listen,” he persisted, “if you go down there and I’m up here, all I’ll be thinking about is whether you’re okay.  If I’m with you, I’ll know and if you’re not, I can help.  If he rejects you and you’re alone, you’re gonna feel just like you did when he first threw you out.  Right?”

Jesus, am I that transparent to him?

“I could talk to him and say the things about you that you wouldn’t say.  I could tell him that you turned out all right after all. I could tell him that you make good on your promises, that when someone talks to you, you really listen, that you give good advice.  And most important - that you’re gutsy: you stand your ground when you need to, you apologize when you need to, and you risk your life to rescue people.  He needs to know that stuff.” 

I couldn’t speak.

“And who better to tell him than me? To tell him that you’re worth giving a second chance to, that you’re worth caring about.  That life is better with you in it.”

I could barely breathe.

“You told me once,” he continued, “that fathers owe their sons strength.  Well, maybe it can go back the other way.  Maybe sons can give strength to fathers when they need it.  If I can make you stronger by being there for you, maybe you can give some strength to your dad and make him feel a little better.”

His words caught in my throat.  I blinked to clear my eyes.

“Look,” he pleaded, “he doesn’t know you the way you are now.  And you don’t know how he turned out, either.  And he needs to know about me.  So let’s do this, the three of us. We’ll sit down and figure it all out together.  Just a room full of fathers and sons.”

***

Dear Alice,

I’m writing to you from a flight on its way to Australia to see my family.  Asleep in the seat beside me is my son, my wing man.  He insisted on being by my side to help me face whatever awaits me.  Comprehending the depth of that will take me a good long while.

I can feel you smiling at the inevitability of it all.  You must have known the path you set me on would eventually lead back to my father.  I think you might even be a little proud of me for stumbling onto the right direction at last.

But as momentous as this step in the journey is, I realize it is merely that – a step.  The voyage you set me on has taught me so much since we parted.

I have learned that when you face someone you’ve wronged, if you open yourself completely, even enough to reveal your vulnerability and your demons, they may actually want to become closer to you and even to seek your advice.

I have learned that having the courage to pursue someone whose qualities intimidate you can raise you up in an attempt to become worthy.  I’ve discovered that beyond the constraints of one-night-stands, there lies real connection, real intimacy, someone to trust in and learn from and relish with your heart as well as your body.

I’ve learned that holding onto unwarranted guilt doesn’t make you noble, it only makes you wrong. 

I’ve learned that helplessness will confront you, but faith will hold you upright.

I’ve learned that lies can be for protection rather than harm and seeking their motivation is more valuable than assessing their damage.

I’ve learned that differences can be set aside, even between the staunchest enemies, if some commonality they share becomes the priority.

And I’ve learned that forgiveness is possible, once understanding begins.

But most importantly, I’ve learned that each day holds within it not only a lesson to learn, but a responsibility to uphold as well. And it never ends.

While basking in the light of my son’s support and the love of an incredible woman, I fully comprehend that much remains to be done. 

Assuring that those two people remain my focus, even when my normal work-mode would exclude them, will take practice and attention.

Although I believe in the General’s tenuous agreement to our uneasy peace, it will take diligent monitoring to maintain. 

I hope with continued attempts, I can wear down Lilly’s armor and find a welcome place in her heart. 

And, of course, this impending visit with my father will test how much I’ve learned about fatherhood, and whether it is enough to lead to a reconciliation.

I owe all of this to you: the path you made so clear, the belief you had in me, the things you taught me. 

But most valuable of all, you gave me the promise of hope.  It is, in fact, invaluable because it isn’t just a casual promise.  It is etched in stone and fulfilled in the heart.  It has allowed me to pursue the impossible.  It has guided and protected me through rough terrain so far and will continue to hold me upright. 

I realize now that whatever outcome there is with my father, it isn’t definitive.  It won’t undermine the life I have built nor the man I’ve become.  Hope itself will carry me.  That is the promise of hope.  

And as I think about the look on Kate’s face as I was leaving and my son’s insistence on being here with me now, I know that promise has been completely fulfilled, in my heart and in my life.

I will cherish every memory I have of you, carry you forever in my soul, and color the darkest chambers of my heart with gratitude for all you have done for me.

Knowing that you will always be a part of me, I can now let you go.  And so, I write this last letter to say thank you.  And good-bye.

Terry