Finding Dad: From "Love Child" to Daughter (4 page)

  
5
The Secret Meeting

October 25, 1992

This was the day that everything I’d worked for would finally pay off—I would get to meet my father for the first time. My brain was on overload, trying to imagine what it would be like. My adrenaline was pumping as I raced around our apartment trying to get ready. I’m surprised I didn’t forget to breathe. My morning started out with my usual routine, a steaming hot shower followed by slathering hair-straightening products into my long kinky-curly blonde hair. My mother was yelling from the kitchen, “Wear your hair curly…like his. He’s Jewish, and that curly hair came from him.”

I yelled back from my room, “No, I want to wear it straight.”

At seventeen, I had mastered the art of using a hot hair dryer and big round brushes to smooth my frizz, and I wasn’t about to go curly now. What a strange feeling, making myself look pretty for a man who had provided the DNA that determined how I looked. Would he not like me if I didn’t look like him? Even though the frizz was his fault, I didn’t want to meet him that way. I wanted to be beautiful, and secretly hoped he would claim me on the spot. I would only get four hours because “the Governor’s schedule is so busy.” I protected my blow-out with more straightening products and moved on to the next thing on my Meeting Dad To-Do list.

What should I wear to meet my maker?

I wanted to look polished, smart, and East Coast. I wanted to look “good enough” for him—my rich, powerful, Harvard-educated father. I decided to dress like I would for a college interview, hoping I would impress him. The designer clothes I’d scored at the discount stores would come in handy today. My grey wool turtleneck tucked into charcoal grey slacks hit the perfect combination of conservative and feminine, just like I imagined he would want me to be.

Mom tried pulling my head out of the clouds with common sense. “He’s going to greet you with his standard, ‘Hi, Bruce Sundlun.’ He’ll shake your hand firmly. That’s how he greets everyone.”

I told myself if anyone should be nervous, it should be him, and planned to shake it back just as hard.

First, I would have to get there, and as if I wasn’t stressed out enough, I realized, as usual, I was running late. Oh God, I couldn’t miss my flight! This secret meeting had taken so much time and energy to get. And as late as I was, I was about to meet my father, and I desperately needed my baby book. Crap, where was it? My mother had saved baby pictures, cards, stats from my pediatrician, all information that would sum up the beginning of my life—the days
he
tried so hard not to be a part of. I half thought that he didn’t have the right to see this yet, but I considered that it would give us something good to talk about. A conversation piece, like a pretty coffee table book, only this was more of a marketing package to make him like me—make him accept me, and have a real father-daughter relationship.

Here, look at the cute blonde baby you wanted nothing to do with. Look, here’s me and my mom at the zoo…after she sued you for paternity and was forced by your big-time lawyers to settle out of court and go away. I know you didn’t want me, and made us promise to never call you or use your very important surname, but I just want to show you all the sweet times you missed at Christmas, my birthday, my first day of school. Hey, I hear my brother, Peter, has blonde curly hair, too. Do you want to see my lock of hair in this little envelope? Everyone always tells me I look just like you. Do you think so? Do your baby pictures look like mine? By the way, my hair really is curly, I just make it straight.

After racing around our apartment, I finally found it. The Hallmark-like picture on the cover of a woman cradling a newborn while basking in the glow of love for her new baby had yellowed with age. This cookie cutter memory keeper did not quite fit my life, but it would have to do.

With my baby book and plane tickets in hand, I hopped in my teenage love, my first car, Nissy, a used silver Nissan Sentra, and raced to Detroit Metro airport. I wanted the quiet of driving myself to the airport—free of my mother’s reminders to do this or say that. I also needed to avoid questions from any friends who seemed incapable of understanding this experience. This was something I had to do alone, and seven hours from now, I could tell everyone how it went.

My father’s people had arranged to fly me into Boston to avoid the possibility of local press in Rhode Island getting wind of our clandestine meeting. Getting off the plane an hour later, I found a young staffer named David holding a sign with my name on it. He was tall and thin with wavy hair, and as we locked eyes, I suddenly looked away as the gravity of what was happening hit me:
Oh God, my father has a staff, and this guy is here to pick me up and keep me hidden.

David drove me away from Logan airport in a dark blue Crown Victoria that looked like an undercover police car.

I wonder if we’re being recorded in this car, like the movies?

We made the hour trip to my father’s condominium in Providence for our secret meeting. I learned from David my father didn’t actually live there, but used it when he had to work late at the State House and didn’t want to drive all the way home to his Newport estate. As he drove, we talked about school, the weather, and basically anything other than why he was driving me to meet the Governor. I wasn’t sure what he had been told, and I was scared to make a mistake and say something wrong, so we just chatted about whatever, and I laughed a lot…my way of taking the edge off.

The car came to a stop in front of the historic brick building from the 1800s on South Main Street, and David, unable to stop himself from an unapproved question, asked, ”What are you going to talk to him about? He isn’t one for small talk.”

Truthfully, I had no idea what I would say, I was a talker by nature and hoped the right words would just come out. At least I had my baby book to fall back on.

“I don’t know,” I confessed, “but I have some pictures.”

Patti, the sweet, perky lady who had taken my calls to the State House, answered the door. She had set out popcorn and photo albums of my father’s life.
Great, he was ready for Show and Tell, too.
She explained the Governor was a Washington Redskins fan and the team was playing today, so she would put the game on TV in the background. It could have seemed cold, but I felt relieved there would be a distraction, something to focus on if our conversation turned awkward. Our casual snacks didn’t match the formal décor. The room was filled with antique end tables and a couch that looked custom made to match the regal drapes. It seemed like a room right out of the White House, and I imagined my father holding high-powered meetings here.

My father entered the room and extended his hand to me. “Hi, Bruce Sundlun.”
Wow, Mom got it exactly right
.

“Hi, Kara Hewes, nice to meet you,” I said, giving him my best firm handshake. I was too nervous to make real eye contact.

“Nice to see you. Sit down,” he said motioning to the fancy couch as if to welcome me.

Breathe, Kara, just breathe.

I tried to look at him without making it seem like I was staring. He was old enough be my grandfather, but looked much younger than seventy-two since he didn’t have the wrinkles I expected. Instead, he was tall and handsome, and walked with the intensity of a soldier with his shoulder blades pinched back in his navy blazer as if he was squeezing an apple between them. He was buttoned up in his striped tie, and I could tell he wasn’t about to let his guard down. He had a full head of thick, grey-white wavy hair that he slicked back to reveal an intimidating widow’s peak. Like a real life Daddy Warbucks, he was powerful, polished, and intense. I couldn’t help but feel a little intimidated, but I refused to show it.

The first few moments were awkward. I couldn’t remove my reflexive pasted-on smile as he spoke with long pregnant pauses about things I knew nothing about, like the banking crisis in Rhode Island, and how he was fixing it.

“What’s that pin for?” I said, trying to break the ice by noticing a green “M” on his lapel.

“This is for my wife, Marjorie. She nearly died a year ago when she was hit by a car in upstate New York.”

The pin was for the one-year anniversary of the accident, and celebrated her triumphant recovery. She had fought to walk and talk again, even though doctors said she never would.

“Wow, she must be a strong lady,” I said, trying to make conversation.

It was strange to think of him having a wife, since I had only pictured him alone in all of my daydreams.

I knew Marjorie was his fourth wife, and I wondered what happened to the third wife, the one he cheated on with my mom. He talked about how much Rhode Island loved its First Lady for her warm personality, joking that she was much more likeable than he was. I could see the pain behind his eyes. Even though he looked like the tough guy Mom described, my intuition told me there was more to this warrior underneath his rough exterior. Problem was, I wasn’t sure how to get to it.

This was new territory for both of us. He didn’t know how to talk to a seventeen-year-old girl, and I wasn’t sure what to say to a governor. Thankfully, our photo albums were worth way more than a thousand words. He showed me pictures of himself as a young runner and told me he discovered his speed while running away from other kids who wanted to beat him up for being Jewish.

“It taught me that if you have a disability, make use of it,” he said with a smile, uttering the piece of advice I would later hear a hundred times more in my life.

He mentioned that he’d have probably gone to the Olympics in 1944 if they hadn’t been cancelled for the war. Instead, he dropped bombs over Germany from his B-17 Flying Fortress. I reminded myself again that I was sitting next to a real life hero. Wow.

His fierce energy may have scared others, but it was exactly what I needed in my life to feel safe. Like a guard dog, his bark could instill fear in outsiders with just a look, but I wanted to be an insider, so his growl could protect me.

He spoke to me in a kind, but formal tone, as if he was giving a lecture. I know now that he felt comfortable in the role of leader and teacher. He loved to hold court like a king, and being in charge allowed him to build a protective moat around his heart.

I looked at his photos, trying to see the man behind them. His boyhood pictures looked almost angelic with soft curly hair and innocent eyes, but his face hardened as we turned the pages. His life was marked by battles that he always seemed to win, but I couldn’t help but wonder at what cost? Here I was sitting next to him, a casualty of his fight to not be a father because it didn’t suit him, and all we did was dance around the big white elephant that I could be his daughter.

Yet, I could feel his approval as I showed him awards from school, and told him I was a straight A student. His eyes widened as he looked at my accolades, “You have an impressive record for such a young lady.”

Wow, he likes me, and I like him.

As I pointed to a picture to explain what he was seeing, my hand briefly touched his by accident. I felt a rush of electricity. My God! He was real, and this was actually happening!

Though he wasn’t saying much, a part of me was connecting to the softer side of him, the side he tried to never show. I saw glimpses of it when his eyes softened while looking at my pictures. There was an unspoken transfer of energy as we talked about our lives, as though we saw our reflection in each other. He was the other half of me. In fact, later, my new family would joke that I was the female version of him. We really were so much alike, and each held the missing piece to heal the other. He could be my rock solid source of stability and safety, and I could be the one to soften his heart. Like a new puppy, I was eager to give him the kind of unconditional love he needed, but never let in.

His smile revealed a hint of pride looking at my varsity ski team pictures and my winning debate record. These were things he was good at, too, and I wondered if he saw himself in me even though we seemed like opposites. I’m already a bubbly person by nature, but my nervousness that day made me smile and laugh more as I tried to tell him stories about my life back home.

As I giggled, he stared at me and said, “You remind me of your mother, she was effervescent too.”

Wow, he just mentioned Mom, maybe we were going to talk about why I was here?

I grabbed some popcorn and sucked down some pink juice getting ready to move past pleasantries, but it was a false alarm.

Instead, he moved on to pictures from his inauguration, and he showed me my three half-brothers, Tracy, Stuart, and Peter, and, who he referred to only as his sons. I stared at Peter since Mom always told me I looked most like him with his blonde hair and light eyes, but I couldn’t be sure. My father’s eyes were dark brown, and nothing on his face jumped out and said “I have your DNA.” He was fifty-five years older than I, and a man, so it was hard for me to see the striking resemblance everyone would later remark on. I kept waiting for something deep inside to go DING! and let me know for sure this man was really my father. But it didn’t. Like him, the rational side of my brain was running the show, and I told myself I would just have to do this one step at time.

He was judging me, too. I’m only 5’2” and wasn’t even a hundred pounds yet, so when I stood up to go to the bathroom, he seemed shocked as he looked me up and down.

“You are one of the smallest women I’ve ever seen. Was your mother that short?” he asked, seeming to question how he could have a daughter as tiny as I was. He was still trying to convince himself I couldn’t be his.

“No, she’s 5’6”, but her mother was short, and I’m told yours was, too.” No comment.

My stomach tightened. I had just inched toward the real question of why we were both here sharing our life stories on a Sunday afternoon over juice and popcorn with people listening to us in the other room.

Thank goodness for football so he could look away and yell, “Hot damn, that’s a good play.”

The game and my bathroom break was a good way for us both to take a breath.