The streets of Belfast click by. I stare out the window, but I don't see them. I keep my expression stoic to conceal my racing mind. Less than a half hour ago, my mother had interrupted me rereading The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe. I've read it a dozen times before but there is nothing else to do here except raid the boxes of books in storage until the next rummage sale. In her usual clipped tones, she instructed, "Get your coat on, Kerrianne. We're going to see your da."
My da? My da is here in Ireland? My heart beats faster just at hearing the title spoken aloud. His Christian name, Filip, was a curse in Jimmy's flat, (and, even though Ma and I lived there, too, trust me, it was always Jimmy's flat), spat out of Jimmy's mouth with a sneer when he was angry with my mother. The first rule I ever learned was that Jimmy claimed the title da, and that any memories of Filip Telford as my father should be locked away and unmentioned.
Unspoken for so many years, my memories of him are fragmentary and scattered at best. I have a few photos stashed inside a poetry book to keep his face fresh in my mind – an impish grin framed by dimples and warm, loving brown eyes. His hair was dark, though I wonder if it's now streaked with grey like my mother's. I guess I'll know soon.
Our reunion is imminent, and I try to resurrect what else I can remember of him. The two clearest things are his voice and his scent, both of which feature into a movie I play in my mind when I want to feel the safety and love I felt with him. He loved to read me to sleep, and I've clung to that over the years. Sometimes even now, when I'm lying awake, scared and lonely, I close my eyes and, suddenly, I'm four years old again.
The scene is always the same: I frown up at the clock in the bathroom as I take my bath, squinting to read it and recall the lessons on telling time Ma's been teaching me. As Ma ruffles my hair with the towel, I give up and ask in frustration, "What time is it?"
Ma chuckles deep in her throat. "Your da's got a half hour to get home before you're stuck with me reading your story."
I dress in my red flannel pajamas with kittens all over them, brush my teeth, and then undertake the most challenging task of the night - deciding what Da should read to me. I'm still standing at the bookshelf when the flat door opens.
"Da!" He's kissing Ma hello when I barrel into his hip. He maintains his balance and puts his large hand on my damp curls. He gives Ma one more kiss before he leans over and picks me up. I snuggle into his shoulder and plant a kiss on his cheek, inhaling the whiskey and leather that scent his skin always.
"How's my baby girl tonight?" he asks as he carries me down the hall. I chatter about the errands that Ma and I ran today until he gently drops me on the bed and plants a kiss on the top of my head. "Ok, I'm going to get changed and then I'll read you a story."
I pout, sticking out my bottom lip, and give him puppy-dog eyes. "Story first, please, Da?" I don't know how to put into words that I like the rich smell and texture of his leather jacket under my cheek while he reads to me. I've been falling asleep to it all my short life. Da gives in, like he always does. He withdraws a slim volume from the inside pocket of that black leather jacket I love.
"Got you a new book while I was out today. Thought we'd read that, if it's okay with my baby." I nod and rub my hands together eagerly. He helps me under the covers and then sits down next to me, his baggy jeans and boots on top of the Minnie Mouse blanket I'm half-under. He opens the cover of the book, creasing it with his rough fingers. One arm goes around me, holding me fast against his side, and he positions the book so we both can see the illustrations. As he reads, I lean my head against his chest and feel the rumble of his voice as much as I hear it. "In January it's so nice while slipping on the sliding ice to sip hot chicken soup with rice..."
I know it in my heart it's not a memory of a specific night. It's a composite of a hundred different nights that all followed the same basic script, and I've woven them into one of my stories. I've never dared to scribble it out into one of my spiral bound notebooks, so I've etched it somewhere even Jimmy can't tear it out - my heart.
The van takes a turn too fast, tossing me against my mother and breaking me out of my reverie. As she helps me sit back up, Ma treats me to one of her rare smiles. She puts her arm around my shoulders, tugging me close, and kisses the top of my head. "Your da's going to be so happy to see you, lovey." I let my head fall onto her shoulder.
And then we're there, pulling up to the lot by the Sons clubhouse in Belfast. There's a crowd of rough-looking men, all dressed in black. Some of the faces are familiar. Even if Ma would like to keep me clear of the Sons, I spend enough time at Ashby's Provisions with Trinity that I know who they are. But there's a group in the center of the crowd that I don't know, and as we step onto the pavement, I see him in the middle.
He's older than the smiling young man in my photos, and his shaggy hair is going gray, but something else stops me. I see his mouth form words, and then he's half-walking, half-jogging towards me and Ma, but all the blood is rushing in my ears because – Mary, Mother of Christ, what happened to Da's face? The scars slice through his dimples, a grotesque ghostly smile permanently onto his face. A thousand overheard conversations and the past decade of my life suddenly come into focus and I know. Most adults think that kids are deaf or stupid, so it's not news to me that Jimmy engineered my Da's exile from the IRA and manipulated my mother into their current, abusive marriage. The Jimmy I know is a ruthless, possessive bully who hires thugs and lackeys to commit his violence for him so that his hands stay lily white and his precious three-piece suits stay pristine. But the visceral reality is that Jimmy hated and envied my father enough that he plunged the knife into my father's face and carved it like a Halloween jack-o-lantern. I want to vomit from the realization.
Now my Da is reaching for me, his arms open to embrace me for the first time in ten years, and I can barely tear my eyes away from those awful scars. His eyes are shining with tears, and they're older and more worn, just like the rest of him. While I stand there frozen, he wraps his arms gently around me. I can feel the weight and strength of his arms, but his hold on me is so light that I feel like a baby bird being cradled in protective hands rather than a teenage girl in her father's arms. My mother joins in the embrace, and I can tell by her breathing that she's crying.
I lean forward, allowing my chin to find his shoulder, and that old familiar accent rumbles in my ear, "oh, my baby, my little girl." My heart jumps, and I gulp for air. I inhale the essence of him, the leather and whiskey, and he's not a stranger any more. He's my Da.