My Sister

My parents divorced when I was nine. That was when my father told me that I had a sister. Wow. Talk about a jaw-dropping moment. Apparently, he had been married before my mother and they divorced while she was pregnant. She was from a wealthy, influential family in Southern California and my dad had a blue-collar Northern Missouri upbringing. They had met one summer when he was working on her family’s ranch in California. They fell in love and settled in Iowa. Their romance was short-lived and when she left, her family contacted my father and struck a deal with him. If he promised to never try to contact the unborn baby, they would never come after him for child support. He was a young 28 and from humble means. He acquiesced.

Five years later, he was remarried to my mother and I was born. When he told me about Holly, I was excited and sad all at the same time. He told me her name and that she was five years older than me. That was it. End of discussion. He just wanted me to know, but also explained his vow never to contact her. I was an only-child and I would never meet my sister.

When I turned 11, I thought to myself, “Holly’s having her Sweet Sixteen birthday this year. She’s in high school. I wonder what she’s like…”

When I graduated from high school and was considering college plans, I thought to myself, “I wonder where Holly went to college… or if she went to college…”

When people would comment that I looked like my dad, I thought to myself, “I wonder if Holly looks like my dad.”

When I got married, I wished I could have my sister in my wedding. When each of my children were born, I thought of Holly’s children.

She haunted me for 18 years. My dad and I seldom mentioned her. She had her life. We had ours. But, somehow, that wasn’t enough for me.

Then, one Thanksgiving, my dad came to visit us. My daughters were 5 and 1 ½. Dad watched them play together and something was touched deep inside of him. Sisters.

When he got back home, he pulled out an old shoe box that he had saved for over 30 years. Inside were various, faded pieces of paper. Holly’s mother’s social security number. Address. The name of her divorce attorney. The telegram that he had received in early January of 1962 letting him know that a baby had been born and named. The few mementos he had saved all these years. He mailed it all to me with a promise that he wanted no part of the search. If I wanted to find her, that was my business, but he wanted to stay out of it. He had given his word.

I immediately went to work, with the help of the internet, trying to find out what I could. I managed to get a copy of her birth certificate (did you know that you can do that?) and eventually find out where she went to elementary school. But, after 6 months, I just didn’t seem to be making any progress. I told my dad about my frustration and he made me an offer to pay for a private investigator. I had to be the sole contact. He would simply write the check.

I found a P.I. in Southern California and $700 later, the search began. He called me every week to give me updates.

He found out her mother had remarried.
She went to high school in Arizona.
She went to college in Arizona on a music scholarship.

Each week when he’d call, he was always sure to ask me if I wanted him to continue. He became a sort of counselor for me, trying to prepare me for whatever we might find. She could be dead. She could be homeless, a drug addict, a prostitute. We didn’t know what she'd been told, if anything, about her real father. She might not know the truth. She might not want to know. Every week, I told him that not knowing was worse than anything he might find out.

He found out she was married and had kids.
She had lived in California.

Six weeks into the investigation, I answered the phone one day at my job in Northern Idaho, “Coldwater Creek. This is Kathy. How may I help you?”

“We found her.” The voice on the other end was familiar and tears filled my eyes. He told me that she was living in San Jose, California. He had her current, married name, address, phone number, husband’s name, and knew that she had two kids. He asked if I wanted him to stake out and find out where she worked, where her kids went to scho--

“Stop!” I’m sure I said it a little too loud. All I needed was her name and address.

That warm June evening, I wrote her a letter. I explained who I was, how thrilled I was to have a sister, and asked her to call me. In the envelope, I included a couple of pictures of me with my daughters. I sent it Certified Mail, Return Receipt Requested so that she would have to sign for it at the post office and I’d be notified. At least I would know that she received the letter, even if I never heard from her. Done.

On her end a few days later, she received the notice and had her teenage son in the car with her when she went to the post office to pick up the letter. Curiosity got the best of her and she opened the envelope as soon as she got back into the car. The pictures fell out in her lap and her son grabbed them. While she began reading the letter, Wes said to her, “Mom, why does this lady look so much like you?”

She called me that night and, as luck would have it, my dad was at my house for a visit. Turns out that she was raised with the truth. Her mom had remarried when Holly was 12 and he had adopted her. Her mother’s philosophy had been, “We were young and dumb. We have a nice life. Let’s hope he has a nice life.” Holly never questioned it. She was concerned that if he had done this once, he may have children everywhere. She might have half-siblings everywhere. Her life was good the way it was and she had decided not to delve into what might turn out to be very complicated. To her relief, it was not complicated at all. She was also an only-child, biologically. Her mother had adopted a brother for Holly when she was young but had never given birth to any more children. Holly and I were each other’s only biological sibling.

Holly was as anxious to meet me as I was to meet her. However, she was six months pregnant and wanted me to wait to visit until after the baby was born, so that I could meet the whole family.

In September of 1996, my dad bought a plane ticket for me to fly out to see Holly for a long weekend. Twenty years of imagining what my sister looked like. Twenty years of praying for her. Twenty years of sharing my life with her in the silence of my heart. Twenty years of waiting and wondering. As the plane circled over the San Francisco airport and began its descent, I began to cry. Twenty years of pain and loneliness washing down my face, tear by tear. By the time I left the plane and began to walk down that portable tunnel to building, I was a complete mess. I saw her immediately, standing next to her husband who was holding a baby-carrier. Her dark hair, dark eyes and that Kysar nose were all a dead give-away. I ran to her arms and blubbered something about being happy to see her. She was dry eyed and probably a little shocked at my emotion. A few deep breaths and several tissues helped me make my way to the luggage carousel and then to their car.

Holly and I spent that afternoon drinking Chamomile tea and sharing photo albums. I’d brought one with pictures of my childhood with my dad and she pulled out one with pictures of our dad and her mom’s wedding. It was like looking at a story book of strangers. It was strange and comforting all at the same time. The cracks were sealed. The puzzle was whole.

That weekend, we went shopping at the Wharf where people immediately recognized us as sisters everywhere we went. We went to Sears and bought matching sweaters and had our portrait made together – like we were kids. Our first portrait. We laughed and cried and talked and talked and talked. Sunday came much too quickly and we were back at the airport.

This time, she cried. I was all smiles. It was an answered prayer for me. A twenty-year mystery was solved. For her, it was just beginning. I had known about her for 20 years. She had known about me for only three months. She wasn’t ready for me to leave. We were sisters. The bond had been forged.

I left that day with a light heart and a smile that wouldn’t quit. I had a sister!

Holly and I are as close today as ever. We don’t get to see each other as often as we like. But, we have gotten our families together over the years, taken vacations together, and talk on the phone as regularly as time allows. Dad has even gone to visit her and they now keep in contact. She and her husband, Brent, came to visit me just this past summer in Homer. I can’t imagine my life without her and I’m sure she’d say the same.