Adoption Series: The reading
“You must have separated from your parents when you were five or six.”
I looked at Tom, pondering the thought. He was my first therapist.
A flush of pride swept through me that I’d been so resourceful so young.
“That’s far too young.” Tom continued.
My pride shifted to worry that I was permanently damaged. That the damage was unrepairable, but I didn’t believe it. I knew I was thriving. I had my own business. I’d just fallen head over heels in love with Carolyn. And I’d just left Judy, my first wife.
I was thirty-nine. Feeling fully alive.
I wondered about the cliché of it all. The midlife crisis. I hated being so predictable, knowing somehow I was, despite the desperate need to ‘be my own man.’
Sitting in Tom’s room, wanting to know more. Not wanting to know at the same time. Wishing I didn’t have to go through therapy.
“What’s the thought there?” Tom asks.
I imagine my thoughts flashing across my face as I sit silently.
“I remember Dad reading a book out loud to me. It was about men discovering how to build the first log rafts. We’re sitting on the side of the bed. I can see the smoke rising from his cigarette, the artillery shell ashtray, and the illustrations in the book. They were line drawings.”
“That was poignant.” Pausing to look kindly at me.
Then he said, “How did it make you feel?”
“Sad.”
We sat in silence for a moment. And I wondered if I was wasting this valuable time with him. It was expensive. He was expensive.
Then Tom asked, “What do you think that memory was about?”
“I spent much of my childhood imagining ways to escape my parents.” Then, the thoughts hit me. I was sad because Dad did love me. Dad did try to be there for me. It seemed impossible for him to know how to be close to me. But sometimes, he was close. He was loving. Sometimes, he hit the mark perfectly, and when he did, it had a profound effect on me.
“Reading that little book to me. Holding me close when he did so. In that moment, his love broke through, and I’ve remembered it ever since.”
Tom smiled. “Last week, you told me about reading to your son when he was little.”
And, again, the memories came flooding back. Baby Eric sitting on my lap as I read Time Magazine out loud. His damp, wiggly little body was still and attentive for the moment. Held by the love in my voice despite the abstract language of the magazine.
Eric must have been one.
And Tom asked, “How is your son doing? He’s sixteen, right?”
“I got a two-bedroom apartment close to the ferry. But it seems like he’s not going to live with me. I thought he would, but it seems Judy…”
“Ted, it’s too big an ask. At sixteen, his community, his home, his life is on Bainbridge.”
The cold fear raced through me. “Have I lost him?”
“No, you have his heart.”
As I drove back to the office, I thought about the contradictions of it all. The moments of love I had with my father –– despite his and my limitations. And how those loving moments helped me know how to love my son.
