Quod erat demonstrandum, ‘that which is to be demonstrated’ had been drummed into me in Year One science. The facts must be accepted as irrefutable evidence. But these results – 99.9% likely paternity – utterly unbelievable – I always wore protection!
I reread both the DNA pathology report, and the attached letter. A small photo is enclosed, a petite redhead, introducing herself as Phoebe Shamus; glasses suggesting a slightly schoolmarmish young woman. She is thirty-two years old, born in November 1993, and she thinks we are related!
I realise I’m humming the 23rd Psalm’s wonderful descant – when stressed, it’s always such a comfort. My mind swirls back to my youthful 1990s.
I’d just finished Uni, living in that grungy three-bedroom flat in North Carlton, with Roberto and Stavros. There had been outrageous parties, a lot of booze, girls, music, not much sleep. I reckon I must have just met Anna! I clearly remember her insistence on the need to get out of that flat, gain some privacy, an early precondition, she said, if we were to become ‘an item’.
I remember some indignation at her ‘Terms of Engagement’; we blokes had been together since high school. I recall stringing Anna along, assuring her that I had started looking for a new rental. The parties continue: she is getting antsy, threatening. I lie: I tell her I have found new digs, but they will not be available for another eight weeks.
Jeez, there was that fantastic weekend. Late summer, we’d hired a shack. It was somewhere on the Goulburn River. There are indelible memories of sheep, green pastures, still waters; an outdoor table setting: we all bought swags, mobs of booze and a few snags. Anna had an exam coming up. She didn’t come on the trip.
What was her name? She had red hair, a great body, just finished her Pharmacy at Latrobe and was trotting out with Roberto. Somehow, we ended up in the river together. One thing led to another, swish-oh, and there it was. Roberto stumbled upon us entwined, asleep, compromised. He was furious and drove back to Carlton that afternoon, alone!
I tried to explain to Roberto that it’d been a ‘spiritual, preordained encounter’: the green pastures, the river, I was being led: there was nothing personal, but it took years to achieve the reproachment!
I move out; and then in, with Anna. We set up house in Northcote, settle down, start a family and eventually get married. Three wonderful kids, the eldest, Rebecca, just turning 30, and about to get married.
I never did give Anna many details of that Goulburn River weekend. My memory suggests I probably fudged most of the specifics: time erased the rest.
I scrunch the pages into my pocket as I wander outside. I climb the railway embankment behind the house, following the path to my High Street café.
“G’day Callum. Your usual?” “Ah yep, thanks, Bob”. I continue to mull over the pocketed paperwork.
…
Meanwhile Phoebe is consumed by a niggle. With her mum, Sandra, she grew up in Nunawading. Her mum was the local pharmacist, while she attended the state schools in Mitchum. They had each other, always a mob of kids around, trees to climb and birthday parties to attend, but the others all had dads: that caused some ongoing schoolyard discomfort.
Mum’s brother Dougal was a proxy dad. He and his wife Merle, and their three kids lived close by, and they saw a lot of each other.
As a young teenager, Phoebe did ask her mum where her dad was, but her mother was evasive, saying just that he’d gone away before she was born. The explanation was accepted, sort of.
There were good times, regularly shared holiday activities with the cousins, sometimes in remote bushland, even a couple of summer holidays at Rosebud – close to the beach. But there remained a gap in the party!
She remembers one holiday when they went with Uncle Dougal’s mob to a cottage somewhere on the Goulburn River. Mum got quite upset at the proposed trip, ending up saying she couldn’t get time off work. They went without her! It was a great spot, lots of sheep, green pastures, an outdoor barbecue setting beside the tumbling, burbling river!
She finished school and was accepted into Latrobe to do a Bachelor of Education. She revelled in the study, made a lot of friends but just after graduation, her mum has a breast cancer diagnosis. It floors her.
Chemo knocks it, but a few years later, it returns in a mean, aggressive form. Phoebe loses her best mate and despite Merle and Dougal’s support, she feels abandoned. Those first few months were pretty terrible.
The issue of an unknown Dad took on a new dimension. The need to find the missing man in her life becomes an overriding obsession!
Her Mum’s old diaries don’t provide any clues, and Uncle Dougal isn’t much help in identifying any mysterious bogeyman. Phoebe sees an ad for Ancestry.com, touting successes at tracking missing relatives. She submits a DNA sample.
It takes about a month for a response to arrive. It advises close matches to several people on its database. Two of those matches live in Melbourne.
She sits on the info for about a week, thinking about what she might do. She decides to revisit Ancestry and sends a message to both matches, including her address, explaining her interests, and seeking their possible help.
There are a few anxious weeks and then a letter arrives. It is from a woman living in Brunswick. She is quite defensive, even a little guarded but she mentions her Scottish forebears, who migrated to Melbourne during the gold rushes. She and her younger brother are the only living relatives. She finishes with her best wishes for Phoebe’s endeavours.
There is a brother! Is this a breakthrough? Her excitement grows, and she writes a second note.
…
Using Ancestry, I write to the woman again. Months go by, my frustrations grow, unsure what my next steps might be. I assume Mum must have had an affair, fell pregnant and decided not to share things with the father.
And then one day, an email arrives. A young woman named Rebecca, about my own age makes contact. She tells me of a discussion with her Aunt about a letter from some girl named Phoebe suggesting she was related. Rebecca asks me if that is me, and if so, asks me to post a photo and details of my birthday and email contacts.
Could this be my half-sister? I have a selfie and the other information attached to an email and forwarded within minutes!
I am left on tenterhooks for a few days before an email arrives: Rebecca’s photo. I am almost looking into a mirror: an uncanny likeness, the same red hair, freckles, button nose, ear lobes and smile. I burst into tears: I sense I am one step closer to finding my Dad!
Rebecca phones a few minutes later. Excited introductions, questions fly between us, there are tears, laughter and we arrange to meet at a Preston cafe next weekend. I am beside myself, all the years of wondering, Mum’s prevarication, the unanswerable queries about her romantic liaison, so long in the background, might finally be over.
I reread Mum’s earliest diaries with renewed interest. I find quite a few references to old boyfriends: one in particular, a Roberto, features for a year or so! She records boozy parties, some Carlton flat, mention of Roberto’s flatmates, bush camping trips, and confidential ‘Dear Diary’ admissions of her emotional interests in this bloke.
I can hardly contain myself as the tram trundles up High Street. I have a folder of documents and photos of Mum. I approach the Café and as I open the door, a body flings itself around my shoulders, shouting “Phoebe!” MY SISTER holds me tight, tears flow as she grabs both my hands and steers us to a corner booth.
Rebecca is still holding my hands, vice-like. The waiter takes our order. Tears and shuddering hiccups provide a necessary pause as we stare at each other. We both start to talk! “How come…” “How did you…”
I open my folder and hand over Mum’s pics. “This is my mum, Sandra.” Rebecca stares, and then opens her bag and takes out her family snaps. I look at a young couple standing in the shade of a large tree. “Is this Roberto?” I ask, and immediately see confusion. “No, No this is my Dad, Callum: Callum Mc Rolfe. And that’s Mum, Anna, on their wedding day. No, Uncle Roberto – he’s not really our uncle, that’s him, next to Dad” as she hands over a group wedding photo.
I’m totally confused. I take a moment to consider what’s being implied. So, Roberto is not my dad.
A million questions swirl, my shoulders hunch. So what now? The cogs turn!
…
Rebecca and I talk for ages; our coffees cool and stand forgotten. Our stories bump along, but the revelation that this bloke Roberto is not my dad, has taken the wind from my sails. From excited elation, I sense I maybe back to square one!
I need to talk to Rebecca’s dad, Callum, but I assume from his earlier reaction to my Ancestry approach, that such a conversation will need to reassure him of my non-filial intent. And what about a meeting with this ‘Uncle’ Roberto? Maybe he could shed some light on this Gordian knot.
Rebecca and I share Facebook details, we take several selfies, and leave. Excitement rekindles as I sense a new direction for my search takes shape. My brain starts to work overtime, certain that my next step will be a letter to Callum: written reassuringly, a very carefully considered draft, but still seeking some confirmation of our relationship. It needs to land without raising fears. I reckon I compose twenty possible opening sentences as the tram jiggles along.
I spend the rest of the weekend on the laptop. Eventually:
Dear Callum,
My name is Phoebe Shamus. I am 32-years-old, working as a teacher in country Victoria. My mum, Sandra and I lived in suburban Melbourne; she was the local Pharmacist. I never knew my dad, Mum just told me he ‘disappeared’, before I was born. Mum died of breast cancer a few years ago, without ever revealing any details of my biological forebears.
I suppose her death prompted me to pursue this quest, and hence my decision to use the Ancestry DNA services to see if I could find my missing parent. Their DNA analysis led me to contact two people identified as 99.9% positive relatives. I had a response from one of those matches: a woman: possibly your sister.
Mum was a diarist and reading her early journals, mostly covering her student days at Latrobe, she was, for a time, going out with a young man named Roberto. I thought I had found my dad, but subsequent investigations suggest he was not Mum’s partner.
Her diary mentions regular visits to Roberto’s Carlton flat, which he shared with a couple of his unnamed mates. I am wondering if you might be one of those mates?
I need to reassure you that my interest in finding my dad is purely and simply to put someone into that special place, complete my family tree, fill an important gap. I do not want to exert any unwanted intrusions into my father’s life, or to make any moral judgements on what happened decades ago. But I would love to have some person I can know as my father; maybe even an occasional hug!
At this point I consider attaching one of the ‘selfies’ of Rebecca and I, but immediately realise the untenable position this would place her in. I end up just attaching a recent pic of me, and a photo of Mum, taken at her Latrobe graduation.
…
The email arrives late on Sunday evening. Thank God the family are asleep as I need space to absorb its contents. I know instinctively it’s from the Ancestry girl. I open the attachment, a photo. I am thrown into a tailspin. Out of the blue, I am staring at one of my kids! It could be Rebecca, maybe a slightly older version.
I need a whiskey, some reflective time. I reread her – ah, Phoebe’s email. It takes me a couple of moments, but I am quickly brought back to that boozy weekend on the Goulburn River, a weekend of bushland adventure. Tears well, I slump heavily into the armchair as my tears tumble. Sandra Shamus. I remember now. Why didn’t she ever tell me? I dig out the old scrunched letter from Phoebe.
The aroma of Anna’s thoughtful, long black brought me back to the here and now. “Your keen, if you’ve slept here all night”. I sip my coffee, wondering where to start.
“I’ve had an email”, I begin, “from a young girl suggesting I am her dad! She has attached a photo. Take a look.” Anna moves across to the computer and scrolls down to the photo. There is a momentary pause, an audible gasp and she moves back up to the top of the email and reads.
The trees outside brush the window pane gently as she reads. She swivels in the chair. “Gosh, a missive from your past, from when you were living in that horrible flat in Carlton. My memory says that Roberto was trotting out with a girl named Sandra? I shouldn’t ask, but it looks like there was some genetic dalliance at work!” “She looks absolutely adorable, just like Rebecca. Mm, so she was born a couple of years before we were married. I take it you never knew?”
She moves over to the couch with a reassuring cuddle and a huge, lingering kiss. “You bloody Casanova! Phoebe, such a wonderful name. So when are we going to meet her?”
I realise I am holding my breath; tensed, on a knife edge. I take a deep breath and put my arms around her. “Well, if I remember …”
“Stop! I don’t want to know the details. Maybe the priority now is to give Phoebe her long-searched-for Dad – probably that requested cuddle wouldn’t be out of place either.”
My tears resume. Anna leaves the room and I pick up my mobile. “Phoebe?” “Hello Dad.”
It’s a wonder we didn’t drown as our tears cascaded down the interminable years. “Where are you at the moment?” “I’m at home, in Nunawading.” “Can I come over. It will only take me 20 minutes.”
“Let me check my social calendar. Yep, that should be Ok. I mean I‘ve only been waiting 32 years for this meeting.” We laugh, and I’m in the car, driving towards a long, long overdue rendezvous.
Roberto crosses my mind, but that will be a discussion for another day!