Didn’t you go to see her? I ask. I tried to, he says Right away, right from the start.
I’d ask to visit or for her to come here but there was never a good time for it. Either her mother was pregnant and didn’t need the stress or someone was recovering from whooping cough, chicken pox. There was always something and I soon realised there always would be. So the summer she turned eight, I just went ahead and bought a ticket. When I arrived in Vancouver I went straight to the house. Her mother answered the door and immediately slammed it. I just kept banging on it, shouting I’m not leaving until I see her. I’m her fucking father and this is not what we agreed. After about ten minutes, she showed me in. I kept looking to see if I could see her in the yard behind but got shown into the sitting room. I heard her called down and Jesus, the nerves. My chest. Then the door opened. She was ushered in and my ex said Two hours, no more.
And suddenly there I was again, trying not to cry. Just the sight of her. The first sight of her after all that time. She’d grown so tall. My solemn-eyed eight-year-old. New front teeth all uneven and so beautiful. I just wanted to grab hold of her but I knew not to touch by the way she stood there, watching me. Taking it all in. So I fished about in my bag until I was together enough to get out the presents I’d brought — some books and one of those Sylvanian animal things Hamleys swore all the little girls loved. Do you like them? I asked, holding them out. She nodded and took them and was very polite. They’re from England, I said. She said Me too. I know that, I said I used to take care of you. She doesn’t know me, I thought and my heart started to break but then she just said it Are you my English Dad? I am, I said Any chance of a hug? And she did, came over, sat herself on my knee, wrapped her arms around and squeezed the life out of me, like she always had. I can’t describe how it was, after those four years, to suddenly have her there in my arms. I just kept saying I loved her and missed her, and fucking crying of course. Eventually she said Dad, can I open these now? Oh right, I said Of course, and put her down. Then she got on with the serious business of ripping the boxes apart. Getting me to assemble the various structures. Soon enough, she was all talk. Her school. Her ballet class. Her dog. How she was going to camp and when did I think nail varnish was allowed? Would I like her to dance? Of course I would but I couldn’t sing the tune right so that was no good and, Jesus Christ, that laugh! I kept inventing knock-knock jokes just to hear it again. But two hours doesn’t last very long. Bang to the second her stepfather walked in and told her to say goodbye, then go upstairs and wash her hands. So she hugged me and off she went. I remember promising See you soon, as she went on up. Then standing there, with his son in his arms, he said You are never to come here again. My wife and I will not tolerate your being around our children. I only want to see her, I said I don’t want to interfere. You made your choice, he said You have to live with it. No, I said I never chose this and I’m still her father, whatever you think. I’m her father, he said I’m the one she cries for at night. I’m the one who picks her up from school. I’m the one who buys her shoes and. Please, I said I’m not asking much. Her mother promised me and for years there was nothing. If you were me could you give up on your son? How dare you, he said We are not the same. I would never have put my child’s mother through what you did and if you ever come here again we’ll call the police. If you even phone this house there’ll be no more letters, or anything else.
So I went home and relapsed over every woman I could. It was a bad one. Went on for months. Then I got someone pregnant and that snapped me back to myself pretty quick. She didn’t want to have it. Just wanted me to help. Drive her there. Pick her up. Which I did. And I know she probably made the right choice — what other choice could she have made? — but I left that clinic knowing it was time to get hold of myself because I really didn’t want to do that again. Which meant facing that my daughter was going to grow up without me and I was going to have to learn how to live without her.
I’ve had more than a few furious phone calls with my ex over the years. They always end with contact threatened or how she’ll tell her The Stories. I couldn’t bear for her to hear those and I can’t lose her again so I’ve tried to be satisfied with what I have and it’s become easier with time. I write my letters and wait for hers. They’ve only become more frequent over the years. Twice a month without fail now. I love seeing them on the mat, even when they’re hard to read. In her early teens she got so angry with me and wanted to know why I gave her up? Didn’t I love her? Didn’t I want her? Said she didn’t care if my letters stopped. But I never stopped writing. Sometimes she’d ignore me for weeks then, out of the blue, reply and I’d be so relieved. She doesn’t seem to be angry any more. I think we get on well. It’s hard though, knowing how much to say about what happened between her mother and me. What’s too much? How do I know when she’s ready? I mostly just answer what she asks. But this last while she’s been asking about her grandparents a lot and I don’t know about that. How could I tell her those things? And, really, why would I? Besides, I prefer hearing about her life. She wants to be an actress now. I don’t think that’s such a great idea but anyway. When she’s old enough she can do whatever she wants and I’ve enough money put by for her to be independent. She could go travelling. Buy a flat. Spend it on a PhD or dresses or whatever she’d like. It’s depressing how money’s turned out to be what I can most easily give but I hope it will be useful and that it won’t be all. In the meantime I just stare at the photographs she sends — those same grey eyes looking out at me though she’s almost grown up these days. They keep me going while I wait until she can choose for herself. I’m hopeful though. She always writes Dear Daddy or Dad, and that’s what I’ve always signed. No one can take that away. That word is mine alone.
And that’s how it was for her and me until she phoned that day. Her mother didn’t know, she said and I didn’t recognise her voice. I thought it was you taking the piss, putting an accent on. No Dad it’s really me, she said. I nearly dropped the phone. Just knowing she wanted to speak to me, that she knew I’d want to hear. I kept saying It’s so lovely to hear your voice. But she was straight into When can I visit? Any day, I said. I’d book her a ticket and, whenever she was ready, just to say. I said I’d show her all London, that I couldn’t wait. Me neither Dad, she said and it sounded so nice and for me. She had to go but then she just slipped in I know why she doesn’t let me see you Dad and I just want to tell you that it doesn’t matter to me. I started saying What? But she’d already hung up. I can’t tell you how long I held onto that receiver, just willing the portal to open again. Of course I couldn’t have her here but when she’s coming I’ll get a flat or buy a house in case she wants anyway anyway she’s not coming yet. I was euphoric standing out there with her actual voice ringing in my ears. Soon as I came back in here though, that past started screaming in. All that feeling that had been put away for so long. The sheer desperation of the years after she was taken. I couldn’t get it under control. I just wanted her to be coming here right away, fast forwarding into it then remembering she wasn’t. Couldn’t. For years yet. Go for a drink, I thought To settle yourself, and you know what happened after that. I should never have called. I should have known. I just didn’t want to be alone. I could see myself telling you about her too, about how it had been and then I couldn’t and it all got so fucked up instead. I’m sorry for that night, he says — resting his forehead to mine — And for everything. For taking so long to tell you so many things. It’s just, that past is so unclean. So much of it lived without thinking I’d ever be different or survive long enough to want to be changed. I decided, years ago, not to inflict it on anyone again so I closed the door on the idea of being with someone and never thought about what it might mean or how I’d ever explain. And then you came and being with you’s been like having a light shone into the back of my eye. All these months I’ve stumbling around half-blind and I still don’t know what to say. So whatever you want, to stay or go, I’ll understand but it’s up to you now.