Apparently I met him once, when I was five. We were stationed in Guam. I do not remember this.
Apparently his children with his wife, my half siblings, are all brilliant and successful. I have three.
Apparently he and my mom came up with a story so my dad wouldn’t have to ask his permission to adopt me.
Apparently, he still adores my mom.
That’s what he told me.
I picked up the phone and dialed. He answered. Mr. Garcia? Yes. Hi, this is May Anderton. Oh, hi.
We talked for about ten minutes.
He is a soft-spoken man.
He speaks pretty good English.
He is 60 years old. I was born when he was 28. My dad had just turned 32.
So much more information, but it’s not right to publish it here, at least not now.
We said a lot in those ten minutes. We’re very efficient.
My life hasn’t really gotten any more complicated. He’s a figure from my past, and knowing that I didn’t know him doesn’t change who I am today. Jenny reminded me I turned out pretty awesome. So, there’s that.
I write here because I feel safe here.
Apparently, he wants to come meet me. He says it’ll be in about a month. Whatever public place, whatever terms I lay down. Maybe I could have a few of you around at a safe distance, in trenchcoats, hats and sunglasses. Walkie-talkies.
I don’t think he’s very tall. You could totally take him.
Anyone up to it?
My head doesn’t quite know how to process this.