Going Home

The light that fell upon her face was only of pale luminescence, diminished in intensity by the ceaseless procession of rain, but sufficiently focused to reveal the melancholy that ought not to have been found upon the face of one so young. Even the rosy hue that normally resided upon her soft cheeks was oppressed by this brooding sentiment, diverting attention instead toward a profound anxiety visible through the windows of her soul. Here the former resolution had faded, the virtues of its intent loosing clarity amidst the insurgent doubt.

“This is the place,” Michael said as he pulled the old Chevrolet to the side of the road and turned off the engine. He focussed his gaze upon the house that would reveal the answers his friend sought and was pleasantly surprised to find a well maintained home. An open perimeter invited passage along a stone pathway to an arched wooden door. The beautifully designed double-storey home elicited respect for its owners, however, his eyes had not been conditioned through years of hard experience to see beyond the obvious. He imagined that if it had been his life journey that had led him here seeking fulfilment that apprehension might have painted the walls a darker shade of grey, presented the path as a deeply creviced and hazardous one of indeterminate length, and weighted the door unnaturally with the promise of a devastating truth. As he turned to the woman whose feet the path were destined to tread, he realised that the imagined perspective would have been so distorted that disproving it a reality would be a task not easily met.

Although he had listened attentively to her story, affording it the levels of compassion and concerned understanding that it deserved, he knew that he could not truly empathise with her. At times an irrepressible guilt shadowed their earnest conversations, forcing him to confront the fortunate and easy life with which he had been blessed. The great discrepancies of the world seemed to be highlighted then: between justice and injustice, insouciance and struggle, frivolity and earnestness, happiness and sorrow, light and dark. Rationally he argued that the extreme on which he spent most of his time spoke nothing of his character, yet his more assertive emotional voice wondered of the interconnected impact that his leisurely existence might have had. For the moment he fought such unfounded sentiments, and deeming it unwise to comfort her through speech, reached across and held her hand in his.

Touch is the simplest but so often the most effective way of expressing support, the humanity of the gesture capable of reaching any deeply imbedded fear and subduing it. As time passed and a measure of resolve could once more be measured on her thoughts, the young lady lifted her face from the gloomy depths of the car and chose to embrace the kindly aura that emanated from her friend. A smile, reflective of her timid nature, showed a deep appreciation for a friendship that extended well beyond its necessary duties.

“I couldn’t imagine doing this with anybody else.” Her words warmed him by affirming the unique bonds that they shared. He was one of the few people who knew of the emptiness that had tormented her life and which had brought her to this spot to find the one possible means to remove it.

“Just say when, Jesse,” Michael said, supporting his words by squeezing the hand that still lay clasped in his own. Her eyes drifted past his and found the dreaded location. Through the intimacy of their contact he could feel the tremor that ran through her body. The shock wave had its epicentre in the bleakest of future possibility, the foresight of which was made possible through the warning actions of the past.

If tragedy had ever been known to stalk its victims, it had taken extensive delight in making Jesse’s formative years as desolate as the human will could endure. Born to a mother with no understanding of child rearing, having lost her father even before she could lay eyes on him, and with no family who possessed any form of moral conscience, life became synonymous with struggle. Her mother had managed to lay down the essentials by clinging to transient boyfriends, a dependency paid for in human dignity. The Jesse he knew would have been lost had these injustices persisted, but at the threshold of her endurance the world intervened to change her life forever.

At the age of eleven, Jesse had been forcibly extricated from that abusive environment, departing to the sound of a furore that would haunt her forever. Those rushed and panicked glimpses of her mother, driven by mania, were the last that she would ever see of her alive. Four years later, after having been passed through various foster homes, her estranged mother overdosed on heroin and died.

For a while afterwards life treated Jesse kindly, giving her a family that genuinely cared for her, but she was aware that tragedy was always looking for an opportunity to get reacquainted. A confrontation with the past, contained within the meagre items bequeathed to her by her mother and arriving sometime after her death, strengthened these negative sentiments. In particular, a single letter had piqued her curiosity while simultaneously filling her with a dreaded foreboding. The aged message appealed to her fears that she might ignore it, but spoke more boldly to a deep yearning desire. This will thrust her forward along a path that had its end at a door, now only several steps away. There, in those unknown confines, waited the father she never knew she had.

Michael wanted to believe that the tremor passing through her had merely been a response to the adverse weather conditions, which power had started to penetrate the idle car. A brief nod on Jesse’s part confirmed a progression toward the end. They left the vehicle, and huddling together beneath the shelter of a fortuitously cheery umbrella, began the final walk toward revelation.

He could only be impressed by her determination, evident in her solid footing and unwavering pace despite the elements that opposed her - and the more powerful portentous thoughts that would have weighed upon each command governing her step. Even with history against her, she was still able to hope that a twenty year old void might be filled.

As they came to stand before the wooden door, both travellers heard its whispered warnings of the desolation that lay beyond. Given time, imagination would have had them in cautious retreat, so Jesse boldly reached out and announced their arrival. The jingling of keys sounded the last call for withdrawal before the handle declined and the concealer of secrets withdrew from before them.

A young girl’s face emerged to regard them uncertainly. “Can I help you?” she softly enquired, fortifying her stance behind the door.

Michael waited, allowing Jesse the opportunity to explain their peculiar arrival. He suspected that it was the sight of the teenager instead of the old man that had shattered her composure. Acting quickly, Michael took the initiative. “Hello, is Mr Kirsten in? We would like to speak to him rather urgently.”

“What do you want to see him about?”

The question confirmed that they did indeed have the right house. One way or another, the night would yield all of its secrets. “Please tell him it concerns a woman by the name of Amanda Swart.”

She regarded them sceptically, but nevertheless turned to face the mysterious depths of her home. “Dad, there’s some people to see you. Do you know Amanda Swart?” she hollered.

The implications met them both with its full weight. Compelled by a need for stable comportment, the revelation teased a modest look of astonishment from Jesse’s face. The thought of having a sibling was a completely new one and would have fought fiercely for a place in an already crowded head. Before they could look upon the girl again in this new light, she had disappeared.

Heavier footsteps once more focussed their attentions. It was noticeable that they proceeded at pace, drawn inexorably by the power of a name not mentioned in two decades. When they fell silent, a man in his early fifties stood wearily before them. Below the greying hair, blue eyes that held the same depth and soulful character as Jesse’s looked out upon them.

“Can I help you?” the unrevealing words were the same as those previously offered by his daughter.

This time, Jesse found strength well up inside of her. “We are sorry to disturb you, Mr Kirsten. But we thought we might be able to talk to you about Amanda Swart?”

The earnest depiction of his face evinced the words of the letter she had been left. “How do you know Amanda?”

Michael had hoped that their dramatic declaration would come only after they had entered the house and perhaps shared a warming drink together. Presented before an invitation had been given afforded cowardice the opportunity to rear its ugly head. Closing the door would be all too tempting.

“I’m her daughter.” The words should have elicited some form of emotion, yet they proved powerless upon him. Fearing complete rejection, she explained the reason for her visit in a way that could leave no doubt. “I believe that you are my father.” She removed her mother’s letter from her bag and handed it to the bemused man.

Emotions surged across the face that Jesse had only just come to know, but which would have been so familiar to her: a spark of anger that was given no time to flame because of a dousing sorrow; the gravity of regret and shame that pulled downward upon his features; and the calm of hope, of being given the chance to make amends for a vast absence.

“I didn’t know,” he uttered, looking down at the paper that he held in his shaking hands. He had not been told about her, had never been given the chance to be to her what a father was supposed to be.

When he found courage to look at Jesse, it was through a film of water that had flowed from a newly formed emotional rift. Nevertheless, he projected intent that fell peaceably upon her, and which promised to satisfy the hope she cherished.

As they stepped out of the cold night into the warmth of the house, Michael knew that his friend was finally home.