I had the surreal sensation that I was going to wake up any moment from a dream, and I wasn’t sure whether it was a good dream or a bad dream.
Pamela mistook my vague, abstract expression as an empathetic response. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”
“No, I’m sorry.” I shook my head to try to clear it. “It must have been a difficult time. My mother also died of cancer.”
Again Pamela misinterpreted my response. “Then you understand how it was. She had a mastectomy and went through chemotherapy. Nothing the doctors tried was effective. She lost a lot of weight and developed sores around her mouth and in other areas.”
Pamela was near tears.
“You don’t need to go into the details,” I said.
She wiped her eyes with a napkin and said, “Yes, you’re right. During this time, as I sat by her bed for hour after hour I pressed hard for details about my past. And specifically about who my real father was. She told me everything she knew, but ultimately all she could say was that she never found out.”
“How… How is she doing?”
“She died about six months ago.”
I wanted to say I was sorry, but when I heard myself in my own head, it sounded too much like a cliché. Instead, silence descended over our corner of the room for a while, and as if the volume had been suddenly turned up, I became distinctly aware of the sounds around us: the murmur of conversations, the scrape of chairs, the click of glasses on tables…
I said, “Do you want another drink?”
She nodded. “Sure.”
When the second round arrived, we sat sipping. I felt regret that I had agreed to converse with her. I had a strong desire to make my excuses and cut loose from the situation. This wasn’t what I needed. I had done the father scene and graduated from it. I didn’t want to get involved in this woman’s life. It was obvious that she had gone to a great deal of trouble and expense to find me, but what was the point? She was an adult; she had a career; she must have friends and family where she came from. Who was I in this mix? Nothing. Nobody.