Her eyes open wide, disbelief etched across her wrinkled face. “Sadie?” She ask, her voice catching in her throat.
All I can do is stupidly say “Hi Nana” again. She stares at me for a few seconds; I realize I’m holding my breath. She walks toward me a few paces, but then stops, as if she wanted to give me a hug, but thought better of it. Her body is rigid, a smile frozen on her lips, her cigarette forgotten in her hand. Her eyes look me over, taking me in, searching for any trace of that little girl in me.
Hesitantly she says “Well sweetums, I suppose you ought to come in. I bet you got some stuff to talk about.” My shoulders relax and I exhale as she turns and leads me inside her house.
As my eyes adjust to the dark room, the smell of stale smoke fills my nose. My nana is clearing a spot on the coffee table. She picks up a pile of papers, yarn and other assorted things and set it’s by the gray stone fireplace. Dusting her wrinkled hands against her faded blue jeans, she turns and says “Now, you come on in here and take a seat. You hungry or thirsty?”
Hoping that will make things less awkward and I say “That would be great, thank you.”
“Well now I’ll just go on and get that, real quick.” She disappears down a hallway.
I look around the room; the pale blue walls are covered with pictures. Everywhere I look I see my dad. He’s in a soccer jersey, a baseball jersey, playing a guitar, trick or treating as an astronaut. But none of the photos of my dad are of him past my age, after high school, like Nana stopped taking pictures of him after he graduated. One in particular catches my eye and I walk over to the fireplace to get a better look. It’s my dad as a kid standing beside an elementary school sign, a mischievous grin etched across his tiny face, so similar to the one he would flash me when he picked me up from my school.
My dad would always pick me up from school. He would be the first parent in the pickup line, leaning against his dented old station wagon, still in his suit, his tie slightly loosened, and his jacket on the passenger seat. At exactly 3:30 the bell would ring, and I would be the first one out running to his car, throwing my arms around him, and rattling off my adventures of the day. Then one day he wasn’t there; I looked down the line for him but I didn’t see him. No station wagon, no dad, no one in that long line for me. The car line teacher walked over to me, where I was sitting on the curb crying and asked me what was wrong. Somehow through my tears I managed to sob out that my daddy wasn’t there, that he was never late, because if he was I would miss my gymnastic practice, and then mommy would get mad at him. The teacher took my hand and pulled me to my feet. Together we walked back through the large double doors of Tribute Elementary, and down to the office. After calling my mom multiple times with no answer, the teachers had no idea what to do with me. It was getting late, and I was the last kid there. Finally, my first grade teacher called my friend’s mom, and she came and picked me up. I remember sitting at her house just crying, my friend’s mom hugging me and giving me hot chocolate but it wasn’t the same, I wanted my parents.
“I got us some ice tea here and some homemade gingersnaps. What are you looking at darling?” At Nana’s voice I turn, and walk back to the couch.

“Oh just the photos of, um” the word seems stuck in my mouth “dad” I somehow manage to spit out. At my stumble I see a look of pain flash across her face. She hands me a glass of ice tea, and grabs a small bottle of dark amber liquid from off the table. She sees me looking at it, and just smiles at me as she pours the contents of bottle into her ice tea. Swishing it around she takes a long sip, and says “Now does your mama know you’re here?”

Grabbing a cookie I tell her “No, she doesn’t, she isn’t home right now”

“Well, when is she ever?” She replies, cracking half a smile

Looking down at my lap, I take a bite of cookie. “These are amazing, Nana,” I say through a mouth full of gingersnap.

Nana lights a cigarette, and say “Now my cookies ain’t the reason you here are they? Why don’t you tell me the reason for you driving all this way?”

I freeze, panicking; this is the moment I drove here for, “I want to know his side of the story.” I look at her, trying to read the thoughts behind her brown eyes.

“Well I hate to be saying this, but I’m guessing I don’t know as much as you’d like to know.”

“You have to know something, please Nana anything is more than I know.” I say, unable to keep the hope from mixing with my words.

“Well first off your father ain’t a bad man despite what I’m sure your ma has been telling you. Now with your ma hell-bent on becoming a famous painter, and your dad tried to support her and be a good husband to her, but it just got to be too much.” Nana says pausing to take a drag on her cigarette.

My stomach churns with familiar resentment. “I don’t blame him for leaving; I just wish he had taken me with him,” I surprise myself by saying.

Giving me a sympathetic look Nana continues, “He stopped here after he left you two. I could tell he was upset and torn up by it. He didn’t say much, very moody. Just the way he would get when he was growing up and had to make a tough decision, he didn’t want to make. All I got from him was that he just couldn’t take it no more and had to get out of there.”

I can’t help it, a sob escapes from me.

Taking my hand in her wrinkled one she says “He made an effort to stay in touch with me for a while after he left here. Just like he did when he went off to college, I didn’t even know you existed or he was married until he called me and invited me to come and meet you. But, sweetie, just like then, I haven’t heard from him in years.”

That shocks me; I’d always thought he loved nana. With my voice shaking, I ask her “Nana, why does he do that?”

Her eyes well up, “Some people are like that, you just can’t hold on to them. And if you try they just slip between your fingers and out of your grasp, ain’t nothing no one can do to change that, no matter how much you love them.”

She pulls me in a hug, and for the first time in a while I feel loved. “Nana”, I ask her breaking away from her arms. “Do you by chance have the last letter he sent you, the last address?”
Wiping her eyes , she says “Well let me think, the last thing he sent me was a Christmas card. I’m sure I’ve got it somewhere.” Getting up she rummages around a few of the piles muttering to herself “Shoot the dog, where has it gotten to?” Turning around, a triumphant smile imprinted on her face, she says “Found it,” and holds up a small white envelope.
She walks back to the couch, and asks me “Now you sure you want this, I can give it to you and you can go get your answers, or we can visit a tad more, and you head home none the wiser.”
She looks at me expectantly, but my mind is already made up, there isn’t any decision to make. “May I have the address please? I’ve come too far not to.”
She smiles at me and says, “Honey, I would have done the same thing as you.” Grabbing a pencil from amongst the clutter, she writes the address down. Handing it to me, I hold it in my hand just staring at it. This is the closest I’ve been to my father in 10 years.
“Thank you so much, and Nana I want to stay and visit with you. Get to know you better, make up for the years my mom took from us, but…” My voice trails off.
“Oh I know sweetheart, you go on I’ll still be here on the way back.” With a smile she pulls me to my feet, enveloping me in a big bear hug. I hug her back tight as I can.

Walking to the door, I promise that I will stop by on my way back and she promises that she will cook me a real homemade meal to fatten me up. Smiling, I walk to my car, the little paper clutched tightly in my hand.

Getting into my car, I give Megan the address. My destination, my dad if he is still there, is nothing more than just a red dot on my screen, just over an hour away. I pull out of the driveway, looking into my rearview mirror, I see Nana standing in the doorway waving at me. I drive forward and follow Megan’s instructions. Tears well up in my eyes, and I realize I’m sad to be leaving Nana’s house. She was more than what I remembered; she was warm, sweet, cigarettes, whiskey and all. Driving, listening to Megan’s soothing monotone I start thinking about the days after no one picked me up from school.
A few hours after my friend’s mom picked me up, we were finally able to get a hold of my mom, and she came and got me. The next few days were a blur of unreturned phone calls, tears, and questions. My mom wasn’t any help; she was a mess of red-rimmed eyes, smeared mascara, not painting, not traveling, not doing anything. I remember asking her, “Why did he leave?” “Where is he?” “When is he coming home?” “Is it my fault?” She gave me a look like her heart was broken in two, and snapped, “He is gone, just gone. He just couldn’t deal with the stress.” Even then she never blamed herself, just him; I don’t think she’s ever blamed herself for anything.
For months after that, I would go to sleep with my pillow damp with tears. My mom, instead of crying turned to wine and on very bad nights straight up tequila. While I was drowning myself in tears, she was drowning herself in booze. Nannies, took the place of my dad, picking me up, taking me places, and watching me while my mom traveled even more, listened even less. She was never a warm person, but when he left it was like he took the little sunshine she had from her life. It seemed to me that the time she did spend with me she hated, like I was a reminder of him, too much like him for her conscience to handle. It seemed to me that I didn’t just lose my dad when he left, but I lost whatever little bit of my mom I had as well.
“Turn right up a head, Destination 200 feet on the left.” Without even paying attention, I made it to Sunnyside, West Virginia. I turn right, and I’m on the street, his street. The two-story red brick house is in front of me. A small playground is across the street from it and I pull my car into the parking lot. From my parking space I can see the house perfectly, the 562 Elm Wood Court address matching the numbers written on the scrap of paper. He could be in that house right now. I can’t seem to focus on anything, my hands are shaking and the world looks hazy, like this is all dream and not real. A dark blue mini-van comes down the street, and turns into the driveway of the house. I tense up. The driver’s door opens. My breath catches in my throat; my stomach is tight. I feel like I’m about to be sick. Part of me doesn’t want to look. A man wearing jeans and a blue plaid shirt steps out of the car. My legs are twitching and restless. His hair is brown and curly just like mine. His shoulders stoop more than I remember, and the past 10 years have added a slight paunch to his middle, but it’s still my dad. I want to open my door, run across the street, and throw my arms around his neck. Then the door of the house opens. Out steps a woman, homely compared to my mom, small, younger, and pregnant. I’m trembling all over. He can’t be her husband, he couldn’t be the father. The pregnant woman walks towards my dad, a little boy, probably around six, pushes past her. My heart seems to weigh a thousand pounds as the boy, his curly dark hair identical to mine, throws his tiny arms around my dad’s middle. My dad picks him up and throws him high in the air. I want to rush over there, and scream, “No he’s my dad!”

Tears prick at the corners of my eyes. I never pictured seeing my dad like this, never him having a new wife, a new child with another on the way. How could he have just left me and moved on? He could have taken me with him. Did he ever think that she was my mom too not just his wife? I need fresh air, to clear up my head. I push open my door and step out. A wooden bench in the park catches my eye and I head over. My feet crunch mulch as I collapse on to the bench. Placing my head in my hands, I try taking deep breaths to stop my shaking, but it won’t stop. Did I ever really know him? I hear a voice in front of me saying “Hurry Patrick, go swing a little and then we’ve got to get back home for dinner.”

The sound of little feet pattering and the little boy from across the street runs past me, squealing in delight as he grabs a swing and pushes off. I know what’s coming, the heavy thudding steps are a dead giveaway. I know my dad is walking towards my bench. I lift my head and our eyes meet. At first there’s nothing, just the blank stare of stranger, but then he looks at my neck and there’s a glimmer of remembrance. He saw the locket, I know he did. A feeling of hope rises in my chest. But instead of saying my name, and giving me a hug, he just blinks and shakes his head, then turns and walks to his son. I stare at his back silently begging him to turn around and remember me, but he just keeps going. I watch as Patrick launches himself from the swing and my dad’s arms wrap around him. Numbness has settled over my body and I feel nothing as I stand up and unclasp the locket from around my neck. Walking back to my car, I open my hand and drop it, leaving it, with my father behind me.