Missing My Dad On Christmas
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“Dad, are you there?” I said into the darkness. “Can you hear me?”
It was a long shot. The phone call was an experiment—a desperate hope that my dad might be able to talk to me from wherever he is in his afterlife. But I had to try something. If only so I could stop asking myself why it has taken me so long to do this. Why did I wait until now? What made me think I should keep putting off calling him?
I don’t know. It just seemed like such a daunting task, especially with all those unanswered questions hanging over our lives: Who killed him? Was he murdered? How and where will we find out the truth? And how can I possibly have the conversation about what happened without falling apart?
But I couldn’t put it off any longer. Not if I wanted to move on with my life. So here I am. In the middle of the night, alone in bed. Wishing my dad were sitting next to me instead of the empty space on the other end of the line.
“Are you listening?” I ask again. “Please say something.”
Nothing. Just silence.
I sigh. A few moments later, I give up. I hang up.
A few minutes after that, I’m back in my office at home. Sitting at my desk. Filing away some paperwork. Thinking about the time when I’d first come across this old box full of my dad’s stuff. All those years ago. When I was a kid.
He used to take us camping every summer. Up north somewhere. We would go hiking and canoeing through the woods. Go fishing for trout or salmon. Or visit one of the many beautiful lakes scattered around northern Ontario.
And once during one of these trips, we stopped by a little country store outside a tiny village called South Baymouth. There, we bought some fresh baked goods. One thing led to another and before we knew it, my parents decided to buy a house in the area.
That’s how they ended up buying this big old house right on Lake Superior. Which meant I grew up spending almost every weekend at their place.
So even though I never lived there, I always felt connected to the place. Like it was mine too. Because of my dad. And because it was his favorite place on earth.
The memories of that time are still vivid in my mind. Even after all these years. I remember the way he used to get excited whenever he took us kids fishing. His eyes lit up whenever we caught a fish. I remember the way he always wore this big goofy grin. The way he loved to laugh. And the way he would spend hours teaching me everything he knew about catching fish.
My earliest childhood memories are all tied up with the lake. I remember standing on the dock watching my dad cast his line into the water. And then seeing him reel it in, holding up the fish he’d just caught. Then handing it over to me so I could hold it. Before taking it back again and putting it back down in the water.
When I was little, I thought I understood what my dad saw in that place. Back then, it was nothing more than a vacation home for them. They spent most of their time working hard to pay for it. But as far as I knew, my father didn’t care about any of that. He just liked being there. Every day, he looked forward to going back.
He would sit out on the porch in his rocking chair, sipping coffee while gazing out over the water. Or he would sit down at the picnic table near the shoreline, enjoying the sunshine. Or he would lie in a hammock swinging gently above the water. Watching the waves lap against the shore.
Or sometimes he would stand in the middle of the lake, looking up toward the sky. As if he was searching for something. Or trying to understand something. Something about himself. About who he really was. Maybe he was hoping to find answers to the mysteries that had been haunting him since I was a little girl.
At least, that’s what I assumed. Until I found out that he wasn’t actually happy living there. At least not anymore. Once upon a time, maybe. But no longer. By the time I turned twenty-five, my father had already moved away from the lake.
All those years I spent thinking he’d finally settled down there. That he was finally content. Only to learn he had left behind a wife and two sons.
That he hadn’t found peace. Not yet.
By the time I reached my thirties, I figured he must’ve moved back to Toronto. To live closer to the rest of his family. My brothers. My mother. Or at least close enough to see them every now and then.
It was only after my mom died—and my brothers moved away—that I realized he was probably still here. Living in a small cottage nearby. On the very same property where we’d grown up. Where he and my mom had raised us.
This is why, when I stumbled across that box of letters, I had no idea what to do with them. What did I do with them? I kept them safe inside this old shoebox. In hopes that someday, I might have an opportunity to read them. To find out more about my own past.
But reading those letters has been difficult. Especially without my dad’s help. For all these years, I’ve wondered about him. Wondered what happened to him. How he must’ve been feeling. If he was okay. Or if he ever found what he was looking for. Or whether he ever got the chance to tell his story.
I can’t help wondering.
Because the last time I saw my father, I was seventeen. We were sitting together on the back patio of our cottage. It was early springtime. Just like today. The weather was beautiful. The air warm and clear. Birds chirping loudly in the trees around us.
We were talking about my upcoming birthday party. When he told me I couldn’t invite anyone else. That I couldn’t let people know about it. He said I should keep it private. Private. Like it was some sort of special secret.
“Why?” I asked. “What’s wrong with inviting everyone?”
“You don’t want to be embarrassed,” he replied.
“Of course, I’m not embarrassed!” I insisted. “I’m your daughter.”
“Your friends won’t think that,” he warned me.
“They’ll think it anyway!” I snapped.
“No they won’t,” he countered. “Not if you’re smart enough to stay quiet. Smart enough to play dumb. You’re too young to be doing anything serious. You need to focus on school. Not boys. Not relationships. Nothing that could get complicated or messy.
“So promise me, Emma. Promise me you’ll stay out of trouble.”
The words made me angry. Because I hated being treated like I was stupid. So immature. So naïve. Like I was a child instead of a woman. Which was exactly how my father always seemed to view me.
Like he thought he knew better. And he always tried to make sure I knew what he thought. Even if it meant making me feel guilty. Embarrassed. Ashamed of myself. Of who I was.
So I promised him. I swore to him that I wouldn’t tell anyone about my birthday party. No matter what. That I’d pretend to be surprised by my own birthday gifts. That I’d smile politely when people wished me well.
And I did. For almost three months. I played along. Pretended to be excited about turning eighteen. All while secretly planning to throw the biggest surprise party for my dad. One he would never forget.
One day, just before the big event, my father suddenly changed his mind. Without warning. He told me he didn’t want any part of my party. That he wanted nothing to do with me. That I was a disappointment. A waste of space. A loser.
He said he was ashamed of me. Afraid I was going to ruin everything. Ruin his reputation. And ruin mine as well.
When I asked him why he refused to answer. Refused to even look at me. Instead, he turned his back and walked away. As if I meant nothing to him. As if he’d never cared about me in the first place.
As if he never loved me.
I never forgave him. Never forgot what he’d done. Never stopped hating him for abandoning me. Abandoning us both.
But that doesn’t mean I gave up trying to find him. Trying to figure out why he acted the way he did. Why he abandoned me.
Trying to understand him.
And that’s why, whenever I hear someone mention my father, I can’t help but wonder.
Does he remember me? Does he know where I am? Has he forgotten all about me? Or does he still care? Still, love me?
I hope so.
Because I miss him terribly.
***
My father used to call me Emmie-Lou.
Or Emsie-Lou.
Or sometimes, Emmylou. But only when he was upset with me. Whenever I disappointed him. Whenever he felt sorry for himself.
It wasn’t easy growing up without him. I often wondered what life would’ve been like if he hadn’t left. If he’d stayed with us. With my mom. With us kids.
For most of my life, I assumed my dad had died. Killed in battle. Fighting for some foreign country. Or killed by terrorists. Because that’s what happens in books. In movies. To characters like me. Characters who aren’t important. Who has no real impact? No real purpose.
Except to entertain others.
To fill their lives with meaningless drama.
That’s what I believed. Until the summer before I started high school.
When I overheard one of my teachers saying something about my father. About how she hoped I found him.
She sounded sad. Confused.
Worried.
And it took me weeks to realize she must’ve known my father. That she must’ve seen him around town. Had spoken with him. Spoke with my mother too.
Which meant…
That maybe he wasn’t dead after all.
Maybe he was alive somewhere.
In fact, I decided right then and there.
I was going to track down my father. Find out where he was hiding. See if he remembered me. See if he cared anymore.
If he ever really did.
Even though it terrified me. Terrified me beyond measure. It scared me to death. Terrified me more than I’d realized.
More than I’d realized until I saw my teacher’s face. Heard her say those awful things.
Because deep down, I’d always believed my father might be gone forever. That he might not come home. Ever.
That he might leave me behind.
Forever.
I’m not sure what happened next. How long I stood there. Staring at the front door. Waiting for him to show up. Wondering when he’d finally decide to come home.
Finally decided to see me again.
See me as an adult.
Not a child. Not a daughter.
An equal.
Someone who mattered.
A person with feelings.
Who deserved to be treated fairly.
With respect.
The doorbell rang.
At first, I didn’t move. Didn’t budge.
Waiting to see if my father would step through the door. Finally, come back to me.
But then, after a few minutes, I couldn’t take it anymore. Couldn’t stand waiting. Any longer. So instead, I headed toward the kitchen. Grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. Then went upstairs to grab the rest of our groceries.
After which, I grabbed the bag of presents. Wrapped them in Christmas paper. Decorated the room with tinsel and ribbons. Hung stockings on the fireplace.
Then waited.
And waited some more.
Eventually, I heard footsteps coming down the stairs. My heart raced wildly inside my chest. Pounding hard against my ribcage. Making it feel like it was about to burst open. Like my insides were going to fall out.
Like they were about to explode.
I watched the front door as my father approached.
Stopped just outside of the living room. Looked me straight in the eye. Then smiled.
“Hi,” he said. “You’re looking beautiful today.”
I blinked. Took another breath. Felt my cheeks begin to burn.
“Thank you,” I replied. “So are you.”
He nodded. “Yeah. Me too.”
I glanced down. Saw his hand reach for mine. Gently squeeze. His thumb gently rubbed my knuckles. As if he wanted to make sure they weren’t cold. That he didn’t hurt me somehow.
As if he wanted to make sure everything was okay.
Just like he always did.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
I swallowed. Hard. Felt my throat constrict. “Emmaline.”
“Nice to meet you, Emmie-Lou.”
He reached for my hand once again. Pulled me forward. Closer to him. And whispered, “Are you ready for Christmas? Ready to celebrate the holidays?”
I nodded. “Yes. Yes, I am.”
He looked into my eyes. “Good. Because I think we should start now.”
The End