The Meeting

 

The Meeting

You know when you don’t have a mother and your father is in prison but you aren’t allowed to visit him because he would be a ‘bad influence’ and so you sneak out to meet him for the first time? Regardless of whether or not you have been in that situation, that is the predicament I found myself in last August. Having been abandoned as a baby, and left on my great aunt’s doorstep, I couldn’t help but feel wistful at the idea of never having met my father. It might not surprise you that, being the criminal he is, my great aunt would never let me talk about my dad, let alone visit him. That’s why, one Friday afternoon after school, I made a master plan to sneak out and meet my dad in jail for the first time.

Adorned with heavy earrings, a big fur coat and a caked in my great aunt’s makeup, I marched confidently to the jail which was a good walk from school. You might be wondering why I was disguised in such atrocious clothing. You see, the prison’s rules were that you had to be at least 16 years old to visit the prisoners without your guardian. Of course, my great aunt being the unreasonable, iron-fisted vulture she was, there was no way I would be able to get her permission to go. No, all this must be kept quiet and secret.

I wobbled precariously along the pavement in sparkly high heels (just the sight of them made me want to throw up) and towards the threatening enclosure of a prison. A trickle of dread ran down my spine and for a second the thought of turning back fluttered across my mind. No, I must keep going – I must meet my dad.

As I approached, my mind quickly devised a plan of action: request a visitation under the name of Jane Austin (she was my favourite author – I hoped that wasn’t too obvious) and then wait until visiting hour. As for meeting my father – well I hadn’t really thought of that part. Suddenly, a million thoughts of dread overwhelmed me. What if my father had forgotten about me? Would he even recognise me? After all, the last time he saw me, I was a baby. What if the guards found out my real identity and then locked me up? All these thoughts buzzed like annoying flies in my mind. I swatted them away and fixed my eyes upon the next task.

Chin up, I marched towards the reception.

“I would like to request a visitation of Evan Kendall, under the name of Jane Austin,” I declared as confidently as I could to the lady at the desk. She gave me a glare, suspicion clearly portrayed on her face. It was a few seconds until she broke eye contact with me and then turned her gaze to her log book. My breath seemed caught inside my chest as I waited for the verdict. Finally, she spoke. “Go on in then, he is free now.”

My heart leaped for joy. Then it plummeted as I realised how close I was to seeing my father. 13 years, it had been. I sure hope he recognises me, I thought. I made my way to the private visiting room, where a cold, metal desk stood. Almost as menacing loomed a guard, his features carved roughly into his pale skin. I gulped and sat down to wait for my father. An eternity later, the door slid open and there stood my father. Although recognisable, he was very different from the pictures I had seen of him. No longer was his skin as smooth as marble, nor his eyes filled with the same twinkle it had before. The few photos I had of him, tucked secretly away from my great aunt, showed a different version of the man I was seeing before me. Prison must have a great toll on a person, I thought to myself. But what was I doing, standing here gaping? This was the moment I had been waiting for! My father was standing before me and this was my chance to finally meet him. I opened my mouth to speak… but no words came out. I stood appalled for a minute at my incompetence.

“Sandrine, is that you?”

Barely a whisper and yet it rocked my world. It shook me to the core and woke my senses. He knew me! I ran towards him, arms outstretched. As I fell into his embrace it felt as if the world had fallen into place. Just a moment – a few seconds – and yet everything had changed.

Looking back on it, I cannot describe that moment and do that memory justice. All I can say is that I finally felt at peace; at home. In the arms of my father, I had experienced something I hadn’t felt before: the love between a father and daughter.