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I flung myself onto my bed after slamming the door to my room. I did not want to hear the nonsense that my mother was telling me. My father was Frank Randall, I shouted inside my mind. Tears overflowed as I cried, my head pillowed on my arms, my reddish gold hair splayed around on the bed. I did not want to believe what my mother was telling me. I could not believe it. Surely my mother was insane for thinking I was the product of the man my mother had described, I sobbed.
Yet, it was my heart that spoke more strongly in that moment. I tried to tell myself to be rational about the situation. My mother was overworked, stressed since my father’s death, perhaps this was my way of coping. I mind tried to rationalize everything, but my heart was stronger.
My mother had described my “father” in great detail to us as she began her story. It was then that I felt cool with recognition as my mother spoke. I had schooled my features to give away nothing, but the more descriptive my mother became about this man, the more alarmed I became. Once I had heard enough, I verbally attacked my mother, not out of anger, but fear. Fear of a truth even I thought might be possible. I lifted my head from the bed and looked out the window to the green lawn beyond, my mind drifting back.
I knew…I knew the man my mother had described to me. I had never told anyone about him, the odd man I had seen throughout most of my childhood. He always appeared the same. Dressed as a highlander, tartan plaid draped across and pinned at the shoulder, moss grey jacket, a sword, dirk and pistol at the waist, tall boots, and grey beret set at a jaunty angle. His hair and eyes were the same color as mine, but I never thought much of it; thinking that he was the product of my own mind, so it was only logical he would look like me. His shoulders were broad, his legs long. He looked fierce at first glance, but then he would smile. He always smiled at me and it warmed my heart to think of that smile, even now. As I had gotten older, his visits were less frequent, but he would still be there. I called him my ghost for he had never told me his name, and I have never asked.
But how had my mother known about him? I thought. I never spoke to her about him, yet there she had been; describing my ghost as the man who was my true father.
The last time I had “seen” him was shortly after my father’s funeral.
I had put on a brave face in light of his my father's death, but late one evening I broke one of his favorite cups. As I started to clean it up the broken shards I stared at the broken pieces, I suddenly broke down, the waves of grief washing over me. As I sat on the floor sobbing alone, my tears dropping on the tiles, I felt him. He’d crouched down and embraced me, his presence solid and comforting. He whispered soothing unfamiliar words to me, as he stroked the back of my head. At that moment I did not care, I clung to him and cried. I don’t know how long I cried, but later I woke up on the kitchen floor, the shards of the cup still lying next to me.
I took a deep breath, leveraging myself up, gazing out the window. My mind reeled backward, going farther and farther back. When was the first time I remembered seeing him? I closed my eyes and drifted back in time.
I was very young. My mother was always amazed that I could describe things that had only been around before I was five years old. I remembered a velvet green tablecloth at Christmas and a neighbor’s cat in great detail, both of which were not around by the time I was three. So my memories, certain memories, were very clear from a very young age.
I sat on the floor, playing with blocks and toys and such. A scattered mess around me. I was about 3 years old. My mother was in the kitchen washing dishes. I was alone when he appeared, typically. I remember seeing him, craning my head back to peer up his long frame as he stood there. I remember being frightened a bit, my chin and lip must have started to tremble, for I remember his brow furrowing in concern and then his smile as he crouched down in front of me.
“Shhh… mo nighean àlainn. Don’t be scarrit.” He whispered, stroking my fat cheek with his finger tip, his smile widening as my unshed tears dried in my eyes. I watched as the man looked to my mother, a wistful look of longing crossed his face.
“You want to speak with Mama?” I asked quietly and went to get up.
“No. No. I….I want to speak with you.” The man spoke softly.
“You talk funny.” I stated astutely.
“Aye. That I do. Your mother said the same to me on occasion.” The man sat down easily amongst my toys strewn about. He looked at the wooden blocks I had stacked up, the letters of the alphabet on each side, picking up one and examining it.
“That’s a T.” I stated, pointing the side the man was looking at. The man smiled at me and turned the block over looking at another letter, his eyebrow arching curiously like was asking me a question.
“That’s a C.” I stated enthusiastically.
“Ye be a smart lass, like yer mother.” The man stated and I giggled a bit, clapping my hands with joy. The man chuckled as well at my antics as we continued to play with other toys around me quietly.
And that how it was. He would appear now and again, when I was alone playing. Often he was be there one moment and I would turn and he would be gone. Sometimes he was only there for a moment or two, other times much longer. I remember sometimes waking at night and knowing he was there with me. Sometimes I would hear soft singing of an unfamiliar song. I was soothing to me, like I had heard the song long before I could remember.
My mind thought back to the time I had wondered off and gotten lost while mother and I were at a park in Boston.
I had been about 7 years old. Old enough to know better, but mother had been studying for an exam for medical school. She was so engrossed she didn’t notice me as I wandered off. An hour or so later, I found myself on an unknown street, away from the park, very much lost in a very big city. I tried to go back the way I had come, but got even more lost. Hours later I was in an alleyway, afraid as the night drew closer. I was so scared. And then he appeared… I remember throwing myself into his very “real” arms and him holding me as I cried how scared I was, both for being lost and how mad mother was going to be at me for wandering off.
“Aye. And right she should be upset with ye.” He advised sternly as knelt before me and gazed into my dirt streaked face. He smoothed my hair around my ear and tucked a finger under my chin.
“Ye should no be wandering about in this place, Brianna. Promise me ye no do this again.”
“I promise.” I stated earnestly, shaking my head vigorously. The man smiled again and I smiled back.
“Ye got her smile.” He whispered. Breaking the moment, he stood sharply. “Come along, I’ll see you back to the park. Yer mother will be verra concerned by now.” I took his hand and we walked through the back alleys in between the buildings. Soon I saw the entrance to the park. He let go of my hand and nodded for me to continue on towards the park. I saw the police cars and then my mother and father, both of whom looked frantic with worry. I remember crossing the street and my mother’s eyes catching mine as I ran towards her. I remember her calling my name and running to me, pushing everyone in her path out of her way. We embraced, she yelled at me, I cried, and we embraced again. I remember looking over my mother’s shoulder and seeing the highland man across the street watching us both. I shy raised my hand to wave and he crossed his arm across his body, touching the brooch at his shoulder and bowing slightly to me.
It became more and clearer as I thought about moments over time.
I remembered the prom night. I was dressed in my pretty silver taffetta gown, my long red hair in a sophisticated updo, a large white magnolia flower pinned at the base of my neck. I never wore a lot of makeup, my mother said I didn’t need much, like her she would muse. I was in my bedroom standing in front of the full length mirror, waiting for my date. I was so nervous, I kept fidgeting and pacing. Then he was there, I saw him in the reflection of the mirror behind me.
I turned towards him. I had not seen him in a while, but he was there. I smiled at him and walked to him. His eyes gazed at me from my feet to my hair, a look for wonder in his eyes.
“Mo nighean àlainn.” He spoke softly as he lightly touched the flower in my hair.
“You always call me that. What does that mean? ” I asked.
“My beautiful ….lass.” The man hesitated on the last word. I knew it wasn’t true, but I still liked it. I heard my mother’s call for me from the stairs, and I turned and my ghost was gone. I smiled as I left the room and walked down the stairs thinking of my protector.
Much later that evening, I found Roger in the library alone. He glanced up at me, but didn’t say anything as I walked in. I sat on the couch, thinking. Roger continued to work on whatever he was working on, neither one of us speaking.
“Can I ask you something?” I finally asked to Roger, who glanced up, placing the pencil down to give me his full attention.
“What is it?”
“What does ‘mo nighean àlainn’ mean?” I asked briskly and pointedly.
“It’s Gaelic for ‘my beautiful daughter’.” Roger stated directly. He must’ve seen the look of shock on my face. “Why do you ask?”
It was too much to bear. I broke down. It was him. The man who had been there for me all those years. My ghost, my protector, my father.