I had spoken to my father a few times on the phone. In the following is an excerpt from Split at the Root: A Memoir of Love and Lost Identity of my first meeting with him.

What would Gil see when he looked at me, I wondered? Would my lips, as I shaped them into words and smiles, take his thoughts back to long forgotten embraces? Would my skin remind him of the texture of my mother’s velvet body? Could looking at my eyes rekindle the spark that lit his soul? In how many ways would I remind him of my mother, the woman he had secretly held in his heart?

I drove to Brooklyn to meet my father on a gloriously sunny June day in 1992. Along the freeway, pines, maples, elms, and birch trees boasted shiny new green. Here, bushes of wild pink and mauve rhododendrons; there, yellow forsythias were in full bloom. Patches of white wild flowers dotted the hillsides, and the Catskills seemed more beautiful than I had ever seen them. I was at peace as I raced south on the New York Thruway, over the Tappanzee Bridge, down Henry Hudson Parkway, through the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel, along Shore Parkway, to the Rockaway exit. I made the various turns I was instructed to take and ended up on a tree-lined street in a courtyard with poplars. I parked next to an elegant, white American car and walked to the building thinking: Brooklyn? This sure is a lot better than I had anticipated. A doorman announced my arrival. The elevator took me to the fourth floor, and I walked to the end of the corridor to apartment 4B.

After bracing myself with a slow deep breath, I raised my hand and rang the bell. The sound of footsteps behind the door made my heart pound so loudly I missed the shift of the latch. He’s not six feet at all; he’s my height, was my first thought. The hair he had in my photograph was gone. Before me stood a portly, pleasant-looking, elderly gentleman in a perfectly tailored medium blue linen suit, pale blue batiste shirt and a conservative, small print, dark blue tie. Elegant to boot. He was right: he could be taken for a successful doctor, lawyer, or businessman. I was the professor from upstate who had merely taken care to color-coordinate her clothes.

“You’re punctual,” he smiled mildly. “Did you have a good trip?” I felt his eyes absorbing me as he gestured for me to enter.
“Everything went very well. After all, I had excellent directions,” I smiled at him and stepped into the strikingly clean apartment. The living room was to the right, but I was directed left, to the kitchen where Vivian sat at a table. The Haitian woman who came three days a week to stay with her while Gil ran errands was also there.
“Mrs. Tully,” Gil said formally, “this is my wife, Mrs. Reed.”
“How are you, Vivian? How are you feeling today?” No way was I getting stuck in formal shenanigans, and I handed her the box of truffles I brought for them.

Vivian’s illness had reduced her to an ethereal whisper. A long tube attached to her delicate nose connected to a large oxygen tank. Having long lost the vibrancy of health, her eyes were but sad, opaque pools of pale grey. As I held her tiny breakable hand, I was overwhelmed with sympathy for her and wished I could make my strength flow into her body.

“Hello, Mrs. Tully,” she said in a strong voice that defied frailness. Turning to Gil she exclaimed, “She looks exactly like Lucio!” And after looking me up and down, somewhat louder remarked, “It’s amazing, she’s Lucio all over.”
“Who. Is. Lucio?” I asked.
“He’s your uncle. He’s Edmundo’s brother, Lucio Cayetano,” she explained.
“Interesting… I’ve never heard that name.”

It was clear I had to get Gil away from Vivian, as she was set to control the content of the conversation. The plan was to meet at his home and then go somewhere to talk. He wasn’t making the first move. “We need to talk, Gil,” I said, feeling quite brazen. “How about going for coffee somewhere?”
“Yes, of course,” he obliged. I promised Vivian to visit with her later.

On the way out, Gil picked up a folder lying on a table by the entrance. Where’d I get the courage? How great was that! Yes! Without sitting down, I managed to extricate my father from the clutches of his wife.

I had indeed parked next to his car: the newest model of a fancy Chrysler. One glance at my Honda Civic, and Gil decided we’d take the Chrysler. It was immaculately clean, inside and out, and had every gadget that made travel comfortable, including a collection of cassettes with catchy dance tunes. This eighty-one year old geezer seemed to like fun and was prepared for pleasure. “Tell me what this is,” he said placing a cassette in the player.
“Guatemalan Marimba,” I shrugged.
“The whistle, listen…”
“And?”
“That’s the sound of the Ferrocarril Verapaz in Livingston! Isn’t it great?” His face beaming all over.

The whistle of the German-owned train that used to bring coffee from the highland plantations to be shipped to Europe had become part of a syncopated rhythm that invited to clap hands, tap feet and swing hips. I shook my head and grinned, as I recognized the makings of a troublemaker in my pedantic father’s eyes.

“I want that table by the window,” the hostess heard as he walked by her and she followed. It was, of course, the best table in the place, and he took the best seat. Then and there, it struck me that he behaved with the natural, uncomplicated, self-centeredness of a White man.

Sunlight filtered through the window softening our features as we sat facing each other. A faint touch of his cologne spiced our booth. I asked for coffee. “Nothing to eat? You’ve been on the road for hours,” he noted, and ordered two coffees and two English muffins. No questions asked. My eyes followed his graceful gestures as he spoke to the waiter. “I don’t feel like eating either,” he gazed at me, “but you must eat something.” I smiled, amused at his paternal command.
“All right then, a muffin’s fine,” I agreed, grinning.

Read more: Split at the Root: A Memoir of Love and Lost Identity (Kindle) or Split at the Root: A Memoir of Love and Lost Identity.