Birthright – Part 1

An Anatomy of Typewriters Story / 2,731 words / 11min Read Time

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His hand was cold when I took it in mine though they told me he wasn’t gone yet. He started awake at my touch and looked over at me. The nurse told me to prepare myself for how he looked but how could I prepare properly for the last time I would lay eyes on my father. He looked much older than the last time I saw him. 

It was at mom’s funeral. For three days he sat unmoved by her casket while friends and neighbors came by to pay their respects. He looked at me just once my entire visit and all he could say was “I’m sorry.”

I thought he looked older then. But now, his skin was a different color. The skin around his eyes and cheeks seemed pulled tightly. A mask covered his mouth and nose to help him breath. I closed my eyes for a moment to try and remember how he looked before. When I was just a little girl and I took his hand then to cross the street when we walked to the ice cream shop like we used to do every Saturday, rain or shine. I managed a smile then. His hand still felt the same. He was still with me. For now.

The nurse told me he shouldn’t speak and I wasn’t to encourage him. But he was nearing the end of his time here and I just wanted him to know he wasn’t alone. 

“It’s okay, dad. I’m okay. You can go be with mom now.” The last sentence broke me and I let one tear drop fall down my cheek. I let go of his hand to wipe it away and when I reached back for it, he had moved it. I looked down to see he was pointing to a folder that was on his bedside table. I hadn’t noticed it when I first walked in but it had my name printed on it in black sharpie: DELPHINE PATTERSON

“What’s this?” I asked him, knowing he couldn’t answer me, as I pulled the folder off the table and opened it, a photograph fell out and I dropped the folder beside him on his hospital bed while I bent down to retrieve it.

A picture of a house I had never seen before in my life. At least, that I could remember.

When I looked back up at him he had tears in his eyes. He wanted to speak but couldn’t. I pulled the folder towards me and opened it to find an envelope, also with my name on it. But it was written in a handwriting I did not recognize. It was old. I could tell by the greying around its corners. And it was sealed, probably from a long time ago. For some reason my hand shook uncontrollably when I picked it up. It felt thick and heavy in my hand. I have a feeling it might just be his Will, the last thing I wanted to think about right now. But that was how my father had always been. He was a man of action. Never needed any help from anyone. When mom passed away he simply pressed on and did what needed to be done. Sorted through her things, sent me what I asked for and got rid of the rest. I was surprised when a family friend told me he had gotten rid of everything from the house. My childhood home. They said it never looked emptier. He was never sentimental. So it was odd that he kept something that was clearly old, like the picture, and this letter.

He watched me closely, his eyes darting from the letter in my hand to my face and I suddenly felt my mouth go dry as I opened it. Clearly he wanted me to.

I’ll admit I didn’t expect to chuckle the way I did when I read the first line. It’s a line you’d expect to hear in a movie or a book but not in real life. I covered my mouth to stop from laughing as I kept reading. Laughter seemed to be a coping mechanism of mine. I’d come to find out many others I inherited much later.

I don’t think I took a breath the entire time I read the letter. I read it again, this time slower, just in case I misunderstood it. The room started spinning and I heard a long loud beep. He was gone but I couldn’t bring myself to move. The world moved around me. Eventually, I was lifted from my seat and escorted out of his hospital room. 

There were people talking at me and I nodded my head when I felt it was appropriate to do so. Many of them wanting to help me. Guide me through this difficult time. The next few days were like that. Planning and packing and throwing away. 

I had no siblings. No cousins. No aunts. No uncles. Everyone in my family was gone. Or at least that’s what I thought. All the while the letter and photograph remained in their folder on the kitchen table. Then on the fifth day came a knock on the door of my parent’s home. My childhood home. 

I thought it might have been my taxi cab. But instead I was met by the stern face of an elderly gentleman in a suit. The letter came back to my mind. “…my solicitor will bring you the keys…”

I looked back at the folder still on the kitchen table. I wasn’t really sure what to do with it. I didn’t want it for some reason. Keeping it felt like I was denying the parent’s I already had and lost. In the last five days I went through what Google tells me are the many stages of grief and betrayal. I may still be on the anger stage.

“Who are you?” I asked him. I knew who he was but I wasn’t in the mood. Dealing with my parent’s estate and preparing the house for sale was enough for any only child. But to then be reminded—

“Are you Ms. Delphine Patterson?” He asked me, pulling a set of keys from his waistcoat pocket and looking at a tag that dangled from the key ring.

“That’s me. But, listen. I don’t want the damn house—”

“Oh,” the man said, and for the first time in a while I felt sorry for someone other than myself. He was easily more than twice my age and the many wrinkles on his brow folded over onto themselves as he frowned at me. “This is most irregular. Do you mind if I come in? The drive out here was longer than I realized.” He took a step towards me and I felt compelled to step aside and let him in.

“Sure, why not. Make yourself at home,” I said, following behind him as he made his way to the kitchen, the only room in the house that had any seats left. I managed to have a junk removal company come on short notice and charge me twice their normal rates for the privilege of taking away all the furniture in the house. Everything except the kitchen table and chairs, which I used to go through boxes and papers and clothing that was left behind. Whatever I didn’t keep or couldn’t give away I loaded into more than a dozen trash bags. I’m sure when garbage day rolled around the men will not be happy about it. But I’ll be long gone by then.

“You see, Ms. Patterson—”

“Delphie, please. That’s what my friends call me,” I said.

“Delphie,” he said with a smile as he sat down in the only empty chair available. It creaked slightly and I prayed to myself that this wouldn’t be the moment it gave way. I had been putting pretty heavy boxes on it and every time I feared the worse. “My name is Mr. Chisolm III. Of Chisolm and Sons. If you can believe it, I’m the ‘son’ part of the name. My father…well…he’s the one who dealt—,” he stopped himself and smiled again. “He made the arrangements with your mother—”

“Birth mother,” I interjected, correcting him. I never met the woman and whether or not she was my mother was still debatable as far as I was concerned.

“Right, birth mother. Well, the stipulations of her wishes are quite clear and if there is one thing my father drilled home to me from when I was just a boy is that Chisolm never lets a client down. Especially, when they are no longer with us. And my father, well, he’s taken ill and soon I’ll be in charge.” He straightened his back in the chair. A boy sat before me even though he couldn’t have been younger than seventy. But to hear him talk of his father as if he were still a boy trying to step into his father’s shoes, almost brought a tear to my eye.

“Fine. I’ll take the keys. But I’ll probably never use them.”

His face suddenly went white with fear. “Oh, you must use them, Ms. Patt—uh, Delphie. I was to make sure you understand that as owner of the house you are now required to maintain it inside and out. You see, ever since your mother—sorry—birth mother past away, we made sure the exterior was taken care of. The front and back yard are mowed regularly, trees trimmed, mail collected. Oh, that reminds me,” he said, and slammed a large black briefcase down on the table. I didn’t even realize he had it until this very moment. He pressed on the clasps and the lid popped open. He then handed me a large bundle of what I assumed to be mail.

I reached for it reluctantly. “What is this?”

“Mail we’ve received since your mother’s passing of course. Now, the gardener comes once a week this time of year—”

“Wait, how exactly is all of this being paid for? If you think I’m paying for some gardener—”

“Oh no, Delphie. All of that is taken care of by your…birth mother. She was a very wealthy woman. I suppose that makes you one now.” He slammed the lid shut on his briefcase and stood up. “But I can see you are busy. I mustn’t take up any more of your time. Here is the address of your new home. As per the arrangements made we have not stepped foot inside the house since her passing. So you may want to bring along some cleaning supplies. Oh, and before I forget. She said you might want to see what she looks like. Would you?”

“Would I what?” I asked. He was talking and moving so fast I was hardly able to keep up with everything he was saying.

“Would you like to see a picture of your birth mother?”

I remember nodding my head. I couldn’t quite say the word. He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and handed it to me. I pressed it to my chest without daring to glance at it. He must’ve realized I wasn’t go to look while he stood there so he made his final goodbyes and was gone just as quickly as he came. I stood there in the empty house of my childhood. Memories of running through the house, my mother yelling at me to slow down before I hurt myself bounced against the empty walls. 

I could hear my heart pounding in my ears and suddenly I could hardly catch my breath. Without thinking I ripped the bandaid off and looked down at the picture in my hand. I pulled it away from my chest and held it shaking in my hand. It was like looking in a mirror. She had my hair, my eyes, even my sharp pointy nose. A tear fell from my face onto the picture and I quickly wiped it away. This was the only picture I had of her and I wasn’t about to let it get ruined. 

Then again, part of me wanted to rip it up. Throw it away. Do the same with her letter and the keys, both of which sat on the kitchen table. 

A car horn honked outside and I screamed with fright. I wiped the remaining tears from my eyes and looked through the peep hole of the front door. The taxi was here. I opened the door and shouted, “Be right there.”

I grabbed my suitcase and rolled it to the front door, then I went back for my backpack and stopped. I put the folder inside and her picture into the folder as well. Then I grabbed the house keys and met the taxi driver who took my suitcase and put it in the trunk of the car.

“Airport?” He asked and for the first time since I arrived I was unsure of my answer. I looked down at the keys in my hand. Mr. Chisolm III was right. The drive would be long. Too long for a cab driver to take me. I would need to rent a car and then drive there. 

“Yes, airport,” I said. But I knew I wouldn’t be flying back home. I could rent a car at the airport. I just wanted to to see the place once before I left it forever. What harm could come of that?