Dear Diary,
It was only when Ethel fell ill that I finally learned the truth about her father. She had been feeling poorly for weeks, even visited the school nurse, who sent her to a neurologist. Ethel begged Margaret to make the appointment, but Margaret forgot, and later chastised herself, wondering how different things might have turned out had they known sooner.
Is he alive? Ethel asked, her voice trembling.
Margaret stared at her worn sock. A glaring hole gaped in the toe.
Alive, she repeated, voice thin. Im sorry.
Ethel never pressed much about her birth father. She barely remembered him, though she knew he existed. From the age of two, Arthura man she called dadraised her and eventually adopted her. When she turned thirteen, their relationship fractured; she felt he demanded too much, scolded her constantly, and left her no room to breathe. Thats when she began to hunt for her real father, pestering Margaret for a name, an address, anything. Margaret played the mute statue, saying nothing. Ethel could hear her and Arthur whispering, weighing whether to reveal the truth. No matter how she fought with Arthur, she was convinced he had urged Margaret to confess.
He died, Margaret finally said. He crashed in the mountains.
Strangely, Ethel believed her then without seeking proof or asking relatives. She never found any.
Ive called him, Margaret continued. Hes agreed to a test. If hes a match, theyll do a bonemarrow transplant and everything will be fine.
In that moment Ethel realised there would be no fine. Her mother had deceived her, her father had abandoned her, and Arthur had withdrawn, claiming you cant force love. Who needed her now? Perhaps nature was discarding the superfluous.
I dont want this! Ethel shouted. No operation. I hate you all, I dont want to live!
Margaret tried to hug her, but Ethel broke free and fled to her room.
The sky merged with a lowlying fog, erasing the horizon. Ethel liked her windows overlooking the wasteland, though Margaret had sighed when they moved, lamenting that the other windows faced the back gardena view Ethel found dreadfully dull. From her room she could watch the sunset, while the garden below was filled with children and old women. That evening, however, no sunset came; a grey gloom settled and refused to lift, even in the brief pause between day and night. The world dimmed and blurred, just like Ethels life.
When she heard footsteps, she expected Margaret to apologise, but it was Arthur. He lingered in the doorway as if fearing she might push him out.
Dont be angry with Mum, he said. She did what she thought was best.
Best, huh! Would you have liked it if theyd buried you like this?
She wrote to you, Arthur went on. Said you wanted to meet. You never answered. Mum thought it would be easier this way.
Ethel bit her lip. He hadnt answered then; now, learning he was dying, he finally spoke.
Arthur shuffled toward the kitchen, waiting for her response that never came.
An hour later Ethel went to Margaret. She had already decided, but gave everyone time to cool down.
Margarets bedroom smelled of vanilla perfume, a scent that always overpowered everything else, yet Ethel still detected the powdery makeup, the strawberry hand cream, the musty smell of library books. Margaret adored borrowing from the town library, claiming it was a mark of sophistication. The lamp was off, her silhouette merged with the armchair, a long robe covering her pale feet. She disliked artificial tans and spent the winter yearning for summer sunshine.
Fine, Ethel said. Let him do his test.
She learned at the York Hospital that her father was a match. Her condition worsened, despite the doctors reassurance that there was still time. There was no time left. She was fading, almost ceasing to exist.
Ethel lay turned away from the wall, picking at a flaking patch of paint with her nail. She stared at the cracks, feeling unreal. She pressed the chipped paint into her nail until blood welled, as if that might make her feel alive. The crumpled mattress, the nurses voices down the corridor, the antiseptic hospital smellall seemed like a dream.
Before she could open her eyes, she caught a familiar scenttobacco mixed with motor oil. She inhaled sharply, then opened her eyes.
A man in a white coat stood at the foot of the bed. He had a suntanned, creased face, thick eyebrows, and the same straight brown eyes as Ethel.
Hello, daughter, he said, his voice low and oddly familiar.
Hello, Ethel croaked, coughing. Hello.
The man was not at all what she had imagined. He had a wife and three sons, worked as a mechanic repairing doubledecker buses. Ethel had never known such a trade. She told him she wanted to become a canine handler, but Margaret opposed, so she would study veterinary science firstthen still pursue dog work.
Dogs are better than people, he remarked.
The operation succeeded. Ethel waited for her father to visit or at least call, but he never did. Margaret and Arthur turned up alternately every other day; Margaret left behind vanilla perfume and fresh books, never noticing that Ethel hadnt opened the old ones. Arthur simply sat beside her, spouting nonsense even as she turned her back to the wall.
On the day of discharge, Ethel still hoped her father would appear. She stood, looked at the halfopen window smeared with childsize handprints, stepped toward it, inhaling the crisp, damp air. The floor seemed to sway beneath her, as if she were a boat on a swift river. The ward was empty; she flung the window wide. The wind struck her face, carrying the smells of wet earth, dustladen asphalt, and distant traffic. Cars roared past, scattering flocks of sparrows. The bright blue of the spring sky cut into her eyes.
She thought of her fathers rough hands stained with diesel, his thinning hair swept aside to hide a balding crown, the endless days he spent fixing buses. Now, whenever she saw those hulking iron machines with their strange hornlike extensions, she would think of himof the creases on his forehead, the words he would never utter.
Below, Arthur and Margaret clung to each other as the storm of their emotions raged, their legs unsteady, much like Ethels after a long illness. They were about to leave when the door swung open, sunlight and the scent of water spilling in. Her father stood in his work jacket, holding a small bouquet of tulips.
Ethel wiped a tear from her cheek, smiled, and stepped forward.
Looking back, I realise that the lies we tell, the secrets we keep, and the people we abandon all leave scars deeper than any physical wound. Truth, however painful, is the only medicine that can truly heal. I have learned to speak openly, even when the truth hurts, because only honesty can keep those we love from fading into the mist.
