Finding Dad: From "Love Child" to Daughter (5 page)

In the bathroom, I tried to collect my spinning thoughts. I wanted him to be the one bring
IT
up, but I realized my time was running out. Soon, the staffer would be back to drive me to the airport, and we hadn’t discussed my reason for being here. I finally gathered my guts and went back into the room armed with my question.

“So, do I look like anyone on your side of the family?

Pause.

“No,” he said with a good poker face.

My heart sank. Really? Is that it? He doesn’t think I’m his? But we seemed to get along so well. The only thing certain was this meeting was almost over, and my plane would be leaving soon.

“Look, they have asked me to take a blood test, so I will take a blood test. We’ll get the results and go from there. Regardless, it was nice meeting you,” he said matter-of-factly.

He had put so much effort into battling against me, but my stubborn spirit wasn’t about to let him win. Despite the barriers he put up, my younger, more open, heart felt something he wasn’t revealing.

I kept my smile intact in order to hide the disappointment that sucked the air right out of me. My rational side protected my heart, and I told myself that once we got the DNA results, he would say or do more. I knew we weren’t alone, and I could tell he was being careful about what he said out loud. It wasn’t until years later that I uncovered a file in his basement and discovered he had been advised by his attorneys to keep his answers to me vague and noncommittal. At the time, I’d have given anything for some telepathic powers to hear his private thoughts and feelings.

We were both infinitely changed at our secret meeting, with that first handshake. It was a major fork in the road of our lives, and an unspoken healing energy was set in motion. I was determined that one day I’d unlock his heart, and he would protect mine. But we had a long way to go before we reached that point.

I thanked him and Patti for the popcorn and walked to the door. The biggest moment of my life was over, and I had no idea what it meant. I held on to the feeling that I just knew he liked me.

David, the staffer, was waiting by the car to take me back to the airport. I didn’t want to say too much, but would later learn that David didn’t need me to say anything. He’d been holed up in an empty office across the street with other senior staffers and already told them I was clearly my father’s daughter. “She looks and acts just like him.” He says he saw it in my face, but it was my confidence that reminded him of my father. He thought I was quite poised for a teenager.

I had always been good at covering up my emotions with a smile, but underneath my confident exterior I was just hoping the blood tests would prove Mom had been right.

When I arrived home that night, Mom wanted to know all about my trip. “Did you see that you looked just like him?”

“Not really—maybe—I couldn’t really tell.”

Mom was dying to know every detail, but I was so overwhelmed by my day, I just wanted to go to my room and be alone to process it all.

“What did he say?”

“He was nice, but very formal. He showed me pictures and shook my hand firmly, like you said he would.”

“Yep, that’s Bruce. What else?”

“He said that we’d talk more after the DNA test comes back.”

Mom instantly got defensive. “Oh, Kara, we don’t even need that test. We can get it, but I know you’re his, and so does he. He better do the right thing, so help me God.”

I was so exhausted, all I wanted to do was sleep, and I couldn’t bear to think about what the “so help me” next steps would be if he didn’t do the right thing.

Mom would later tell me she saw so much of my father in me that day. “You’re blessed with those rational, analytical genes.”

While Mom was a bundle of nerves, she told me I’d appeared so calm, and ready for the next step. She’s always had difficulty disconnecting from her emotions, but she says my ability to pull the plug comes from my father’s wiring.

The following day, I called Dayna and Brooke to tell them how it went. “It was fun, and he was cool, but I don’t know what will happen. I’ll have to wait for the results of my DNA test.”

As kids, we were used to taking tests, but this was one I really had to pass. It was the last hurdle that allowed me to continually give him the benefit of the doubt. Technically, he hadn’t rejected me yet, since he didn’t really know I was his. At least that’s what I told myself.

  
6
I’m His, Now What?

Mom and I walked into the lab at Beaumont Hospital in Troy to get our DNA test. The phlebotomist asked for our IDs, took our fingerprints and Polaroid pictures of our faces. It was such a surreal experience that part of me wondered what facial expression was appropriate for something like this. Do I smile? Keep it serious? I wondered if this would be the same procedure for my father. Would the Governor need to show ID? Could he rig the test if he wanted to? With his money and power, he had made me go away once before. Could he do it again? Would he?

The wounds of rejection back then were only energetic imprints on my tiny heart, deeply buried. But over time, they had grown. Now there was so much more at stake. This time he would be rejecting
me
, not just Mom. If this test wasn’t positive, I would always wonder if my life story was a lie, or if my true identity would be forever hidden by a corrupt nurse. I had seen this play out badly on
General Hospital
.

I clenched my clammy hand to make a tight fist, willing my heart to pump out my very best blood to guarantee the proper results. I felt queasy, knowing the shame would swallow me up if Mom was somehow wrong.

Ten days later, our attorney called to say it was “highly likely” I was Bruce Sundlun’s daughter. That was the language on the test result document. When my father heard his lawyer use the term, “highly likely,” he said he’d never heard of that in a legal sense.

“So what exactly does that mean?” we asked, equally confused.

It meant that the results were 98.6 percent positive, which in the world of science at that time meant it was as good as it got. He was my father, no ifs, ands, or buts about it. Thank God Mom was right. I could breathe again. Somehow, just knowing this wasn’t all a lie meant more than knowing if my father would acknowledge me. I had already won something, and the feeling was tangible, like cement being poured into my shaky groundwork. I looked at all the little letters on the test results that represented chromosomes, and wondered if I could determine exactly which parts of me came from which parent. Wow, I guess that curly hair did come from my Jewish half. Double wow, I guess I really am half Jewish. That big, strong hero was my father.

Now what?

Would we celebrate holidays together? Would my half-brothers like me? How would I get to know this man who’d helped create me? I was excited and relieved, yet so unsure about what this confirmation of identity really meant.

But nothing happened. I received no news from my father about his plans, given the positive DNA test results. He’d easily won his second term for Governor and, apparently, I was not high on the list of priorities. By December, about two months after the tests, I got mad. Christmas was coming, so do I buy him a gift? So far, I hadn’t gotten so much as a phone call from him about our confirmed bloodline. Frustrated, I called the State House again. Patti took my call when I asked for the Governor. She tried to calm me down and told me to be patient; my father was just trying to figure out what to do.

“What do you mean he’s trying to figure out what to do? I’m his daughter. He’s seventy-two years old. If he can run a state, this should be easy!”

I tried to be tough, but instead I felt the tears streaming down my face. My inner unrest had erupted, and there was no more stuffing down my feelings to project my self-created calm, mature demeanor. I was a teenager having a tantrum, and he deserved it. Since he never took my calls, I was exploding on the only one who would send him my message.

“It’s not fair!” I cried. “He promised he would do something after the test, and now he knows I’m his daughter, so what’s taking him so long?”

Patti didn’t have any good answers, but promised to talk to him and let him know I wanted to hear from him.

I was furious and sat down to write another letter, but I had the sense to calm down before pouring my heart out on paper.

I wanted him to know this was a problem he had to handle, and not push it off on his handlers.

I never got a response and was left feeling empty and uncertain about what do next. I’d hoped he would at least send me a card for Christmas, but I got nothing.

It wasn’t until later that I learned he’d been on his traditional holiday vacation with my brothers and their families at his villa in Jamaica—and he’d never told any of them about me. I imagine he thought about it, but I know now that he just didn’t do emotions. Patti would later confess that I’d frightened him way more than any plane with a shot-out engine. He knew how to handle a crisis, so long as it didn’t involve his heart. Just like when he ran from the Nazis—who’d shot down his B-17—he was going to stay underground for as long as possible.

Meanwhile, my mother was furious he was hurting us all over again. On February 10, 1993, two months after the DNA test results, my mother saw my dejection and went into protective mode by faxing a letter to Patti to give to my father. Her intent was to make it clear we didn’t want to hurt him, but we needed to hear from him soon.

She went on to share some of her own story of surviving as a single parent while trying to build a business. And for the first time, she admitted she needed his help.

She told him he should help pay for my education, and start taking an active role in my life. As much as it pained her, she could see just having a mother wasn’t enough for me, and she wanted me to be all I could be.

Once again, nothing came back. I couldn’t believe it. How could he just ignore me?

Our attorney, Mr. Read, tried his luck with a letter to my father’s attorney.

The files I uncovered years later showed my father had no intention of claiming me. While I was pouring my heart out, his lawyer was sending him case law, citing reasons why he didn’t owe me anything, since my mother had taken his crappy settlement and I’d been adopted by another man.

He did tell our attorney he would help me with college but, to him, that meant dictating a few letters—not agreeing to help with expenses. On February 25, 1993, fifteen days after Mom faxed her letter, my father wrote a letter to the assistant director of admissions at Boston University saying,

“Kara is someone whom I know personally as a very intelligent, vivacious and highly motivated young person.”

He managed to leave out the part that I was his daughter when asking that every consideration be given to my application.

A similar letter was sent to the Governor of Michigan, John Engler, urging him to help me get in to the University of Michigan, since I was a “remarkable student.”

The timing of all the letters and calling me a “friend” made it clear my father did not plan on acknowledging me, and was trying to see how to make all of this just go away. Eventually, an offer did come from his attorney for $1,000 a year and $10,000 when he died, but no admission he was my father.

Really,
Dad?
I bared my soul to you, proved I was your daughter, waited in silence for months, and you’re offering me twenty bucks a week? I felt sick. Had I really gone through all this just to be kicked in the stomach with a cheap offer? He was the one being slimy, but I was the vulnerable one. The shame of this insulting offer made me feel all the more unworthy.

My sense of self-preservation had toughened me, and I decided I’d come too far to give up now. I had nothing left to lose. If he didn’t want a relationship with me, then I would still fight to make him publicly acknowledge me and help pay for college. My doubts about my father were growing, and I had to prepare myself to either give up, or fight harder. I chose the latter because, as crazy as this sounds, part of me still had faith my father would come around. I believed my identity was worth fighting for.