Finding Dad

by Kara Sundlun

  In my Annie-like fantasy, I told the girls my dad was a governor, and I was flying going off to meet him, since he was dying to make it all up to me now that he knew where I was. I imagined what it would be like to have a powerful father who could protect me and teach me about the world. I loved how Brooke’s father, who owned a big company, would cheer her on at our soccer games, and take her on great vacations to see the world. Hers was a storybook life; he was powerful and important, and her mom smiled all the time and made the house beautiful with hydrangeas, and home-cooked lemon mint pasta dinners that looked like they were right out of a magazine. It made me wish my mom didn’t have to work so hard.

  Dayna’s dad was always worried about us and had an overprotective nature that Dayna sometimes felt stifling, but I vicariously loved the protection. I yearned for a life right out of a Rockwell painting, complete with a father who would worry about what boys were trying to take me out, and stay up making sure we came home by curfew.

  I wondered if my real father could give me what I was missing. Since I now knew exactly where to find him, I had the chance to start erasing the past and create a new future that mirrored the realities I envied—like the orphan who imagines her parents are better than they are, I glossed over his rejection, and fantasized my father would be perfect if I just gave him the chance to do things right. I could have a dad that I would be proud of, and life could be even better than normal, since he was famous and powerful. I could go to the college of my dreams, maybe an Ivy League, like my father. Shouldn’t he want to right his mistakes? The fairytale in my mind was growing wings.

  Mom gave me her support saying, “I don’t want anything to do with him, but he’s your father. If you want to reach out to him, I will help you.”

  I was almost seventeen when I reached a point where my desire to meet my father trumped any fear of rejection, and I decided to just go for it.

  In May, 1992, four years after seeing him for the first time on TV, I sat down at our dining room table with Dayna and wrote the letter I had been thinking about for years. She and I did everything together, and I wanted her help with what to say.

  Just reaching out to my father didn’t seem good enough, and I felt the need to prove myself to this larger-than-life man, even though he had never proved to me he was worthy. Regardless of the outcome, I needed to make a move and get over my fear of rejection and abandonment. I felt shackled by feeling I needed to strive for everyone’s approval and acceptance, which ended up with me taking more crap than I should have—be it a bully, or a father who didn’t want me. I was so enamored of my fantasy that I skipped over any feelings of hurt. Instead, I wrote in my best cursive on resume stock paper, even placing lined notebook paper underneath to keep my handwriting straight.

  This is a bit of what I wrote:

  Dear Bruce,

  This letter is to inform you that you have a daughter who happens to be intelligent, beautiful, ambitious, and in serious trouble.

  Nothing gets attention like teenage drama. The “serious trouble” referred to needing help for college.

  Lately, I have had a strong interest in meeting you. If not for anything else, then to see what the other half of me is like. Bruce, I am one of your children, I hope you choose not to ignore this, because I think you would be proud of how I turned out. If you choose to disregard this letter, I assure you it will not end here. It took a lot of courage to write to you after seventeen years, and I won’t give up on the first try. Sincerely,

  Kara K. Hewes

  I included an extra page with some facts about me, as if I really was writing a resume:

  5’2”

  Blonde, Green Eyes (like my mom’s)

  3.75 in West Bloomfield High School

  National Honor Society

  Very outgoing….

  I went on to list anything I thought might make him like me and respond. Just being his daughter didn’t feel like enough. I know now that feeling “less than” is a text book symptom of fatherlessness, but back then I just wanted to win over my hero so he could see I was worthy of acceptance.

  Dayna and Mom read it and approved, so I stuck the stamp on it, marked it personal, and mailed it to Governor Bruce Sundlun at the Rhode Island State House.

  I figured I had nothing to lose, and hoped he would write back soon.

  I never got a response. I would later discover my letter was stamped “Received May 6, 1992.” I spent months wondering if the letter had gotten lost amidst the influx of citizen complaints and gala invitations to the Governor’s office. I couldn’t imagine he would just ignore such an important letter, and part of me wanted to assume he just didn’t get it. Mom admitted that she had written him about his medical history after I was hospitalized for a rare blood disorder when I was four. Even though I was paralyzed from the waist down for three days with mysterious bruises all over my legs, he never answered her letter. Fortunately, the condition cleared up after a few days at the Children’s hospital.

  In spite of my not hearing back from him, my life as a high school junior just went on with homecoming dances, football games, debate competitions, tests, and quizzes. But the quest to meet my father was set in motion and, as I had told him in my letter, I knew nothing would stop me from making that happen.

  4 Time to Get a Lawyer

  After months of hearing nothing, the reality of my father’s rejection was coloring my fantasy, but I still had an unshakable feeling that if I could just meet him, he would have a change of heart. Mom knew if I really wanted to get my father’s attention, we would need an attorney. Since my father had already rejected me as a baby through his high-powered lawyers, it would take someone strong to tackle a sitting Governor. She chose Arthur Read, a well-known leader in the Rhode Island Republican Party who, she believed, would not be intimidated by a sitting democratic Governor. Before taking our case, Mr. Read wanted to meet me, to determine if I was the real deal, or simply someone looking to cash in.

  He flew me out to Rhode Island, where I spent the night in his lovely home in the quaint New England town of Barrington. It was my first time to the East Coast, and it felt strange to be sleeping in the same state as my father. The moist air made my hair curl and my skin dewy, and I knew why they called it the Ocean State. His wife’s smile was warm as she brought us some snacks and drinks, while Mr. Read talked to me in their living room, trying to size me up.

  I explained I wanted to get to know my father and hopefully have a “real father-daughter relationship.” At the very least, I also thought he should help with my college expenses. I believed the deal Mom signed at my birth was unfair. Being forced to accept a small lump sum for my life was a pittance compared to the realities of raising a child. Mr. Read agreed, in both a legal and a moral sense. After determining I was the real deal, he agreed to take my case, and a more forceful letter writing campaign began. I couldn’t help but feel excited knowing that someone besides Mom thought I was right and validated my desire to meet my father.

  Mr. Read called it my, “Arthurian quest.”

  I didn’t want to admit I had no idea what that meant, so I was relieved when he explained the hero legend about Arthur, who didn’t know his father was a king and had fathered him out of wedlock. Legend says Arthur was the only one in the land who could draw a sword out of stone, and he fulfilled the prophecy, and took his rightful place on the thrown.

  I, too, wanted to pull the sword out of the stone and take my place in my father’s life. But I worried that if I caused any epic problems, he would shut me out before I had a chance to touch his heart. Mom and I stressed to Mr. Read the need to tread lightly and avoid any sensationalism that would come if the story of my existence surfaced while he was a sitting Governor. That meant no lawsuits for now.

  I hoped that Mr. Read’s letters imploring my father to get a DNA test and agree to a meeting would do the trick. I believed if my father just knew I was his flesh and blood, he would claim me.

  If I proved myself, how could he
not do the right thing and take responsibility?

  I was wrong. My father’s attorney, Robert Flanders, responded coldly to the letter and didn’t agree to do anything, which made me mad. Wasn’t he the least bit curious about me? Even though I was only seventeen, I knew this whole runaround was an injustice, and I wasn’t going to give up that easily. One day, while I was alone at home after school, my teenage impulsiveness took over and I threw caution to the wind. Forget the lawyers; I decided to try to get my father on the phone myself.

  Back then, when you needed a number quickly, you called information, so I pounded 1-555-1212, into our 90s style cordless phone and asked for the number for the Governor’s office in Rhode Island. I dialed it fast so I wouldn’t change my mind. The operator at the State House answered and I pretended to be someone my father knew. I deepened the tone of my voice so I’d sound more like an adult. “This is Kara Hewes, the Governor will know what it’s regarding.”

  Surprisingly, I was put through to the Governor’s executive assistant, Patti Goldstein, who answered the phone in a friendly, disarming voice. I never expected to get this far, and my heart nearly leaped out of my chest. It was my turn to speak, and I had no plan of what I would say, so I just punted. I told her I’d sent a letter and would like to meet the Governor, whom I believed was my father.

  Patti seemed to know all about me and was aware of the attempts to schedule a meeting with my father. Her voice was soft and sweet, and she talked to me like I was a child, trying to make me understand his schedule was so busy with the upcoming election and all. “Bruce does want to meet you, he just couldn’t possibly do it right now.”

  Something in me made me want to scream “This is bullshit!” Instead, words I didn’t expect flowed out of my mouth from a deep, powerful place. I told her I was coming to Rhode Island to look at Brown University as a possible choice for college, and since I was going to be there anyway perhaps he could spare a moment in his “busy schedule.”

  Patti’s sweet, mom-like voice asked if there was any way we could schedule another time, since they were so booked leading up to Election Day.

  “No.” I wouldn’t budge. “I already have the plane tickets for this trip.”

  I didn’t really have tickets, but I felt justified in forcing the issue. I really wanted this, and I wasn’t going to back down. I figured if she said yes, I would buy the ticket somehow.

  Patti promised to get back to me.

  I must have gotten their attention, because soon after, Mr. Read called and told me my father would meet me and get a DNA test. I’d won my first important battle, and I was giddy with excitement. So long as the DNA test came out the way we believed it would, the rest would take care of itself. Or at least I assumed it would.

  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 ma
ke 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.