change the fact that he was on my shit list.
It was me who took the picture of her. The look she gave me—I couldn’t identify it back then. Her green eyes soft, and she was biting her lower lip, seemingly lost in thought. The look was intense, and I remember wondering if she tried to tell me something. Now I know what it might have been, and I realize she might never look at me this way again.
I slam the laptop shut, running my fingers through my hair. This is not what I’m here for. I need to focus. With that thought, I crash onto the guest bed and fall into a restless sleep with green eyes haunting my dreams.
***
The next morning I finally decide to bite the bullet and call St. Michael’s.
“St. Michael’s Hospital, how can I help you?” The voice is so cheerful it makes me wonder if the staff gets medicated as well.
“Hi, my name is Ben Gibson. I’ve learned my father, Noah Andrews, is a patient in your hospital, and I’d like to visit him. When is that possible?”
“Hold on a minute, please.” I hear her typing before she addresses me again.
“Mr. Gibson, according to our records, you aren’t on the approved visitation list. You’ll need to have a background check and provide two forms of identification. We have to verify that you are Mr. Andrews’ son. Once the background check is completed, you’ll be put on the visitation list. This procedure can take up to a month.”
Great, thanks to my cowardice, I already wasted two months, and will potentially waste another.
“What type of identification do you require?” I have a sinking feeling in my stomach and it’s confirmed when she answers. “A birth certificate and driver’s license would do the job.”
“I don’t have my birth certificate.” I sigh, running my free hand down my face in agitation.
“You can request a certified copy with the Vital Records Office.”
“No, I can’t. Listen lady, I just found out that Mr. Andrews is my father. I don’t have anything to prove it.” I’ve seen my birth certificate before and Ron is named as my father on it, so getting my original one might be a bit hard.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Gibson. But without those documents, visits aren’t possible.”
“Thanks.” I slam the phone down, kicking the kitchen counter, leaving a scuff in the varnish.
I pace the kitchen for a while thinking about my options. I can’t call my mom and ask for proof. She’d be here within a few hours, and that’s not something I can handle. After some research online, I also realize if Ron adopted me, my original birth certificate has been closed and is inaccessible. Fuck.
It takes me a moment before I realize that there might be something in my grandmother’s house.
For the next few hours, I take everything apart. No drawer or cabinet stays untouched. I start out with the kitchen, but other than bills and coupons, I don’t find much.
My father’s room is next, but there aren’t any papers anywhere. I then turn my attention to my grandmother’s room. I find more pictures of me as a baby and of my father as a kid. We looked exactly the same—it’s remarkable. I find pictures of other people, newspaper clippings of wedding announcements or obituaries, and for a moment I wonder if there was something my grandmother didn’t collect. But just as I want to roll my eyes in frustration at the old woman, I come across a birth announcement—my birth announcement. Holy shit. I stare at it for a moment, finally having something that proves I lived as someone else’s son at some point. I go through the box and it turns out my grandmother’s hoarding habits might be worth something after all. Feeling triumphant, I hold up the copy of my birth certificate—the original one. “Yes.”
I don’t care why she had it but I’m fucking glad she did. I don’t know if this is going to suffice for the hospital, but I hope together with the letter from the lawyer and my license, I might be successful.
With the papers
It was me who took the picture of her. The look she gave me—I couldn’t identify it back then. Her green eyes soft, and she was biting her lower lip, seemingly lost in thought. The look was intense, and I remember wondering if she tried to tell me something. Now I know what it might have been, and I realize she might never look at me this way again.
I slam the laptop shut, running my fingers through my hair. This is not what I’m here for. I need to focus. With that thought, I crash onto the guest bed and fall into a restless sleep with green eyes haunting my dreams.
***
The next morning I finally decide to bite the bullet and call St. Michael’s.
“St. Michael’s Hospital, how can I help you?” The voice is so cheerful it makes me wonder if the staff gets medicated as well.
“Hi, my name is Ben Gibson. I’ve learned my father, Noah Andrews, is a patient in your hospital, and I’d like to visit him. When is that possible?”
“Hold on a minute, please.” I hear her typing before she addresses me again.
“Mr. Gibson, according to our records, you aren’t on the approved visitation list. You’ll need to have a background check and provide two forms of identification. We have to verify that you are Mr. Andrews’ son. Once the background check is completed, you’ll be put on the visitation list. This procedure can take up to a month.”
Great, thanks to my cowardice, I already wasted two months, and will potentially waste another.
“What type of identification do you require?” I have a sinking feeling in my stomach and it’s confirmed when she answers. “A birth certificate and driver’s license would do the job.”
“I don’t have my birth certificate.” I sigh, running my free hand down my face in agitation.
“You can request a certified copy with the Vital Records Office.”
“No, I can’t. Listen lady, I just found out that Mr. Andrews is my father. I don’t have anything to prove it.” I’ve seen my birth certificate before and Ron is named as my father on it, so getting my original one might be a bit hard.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Gibson. But without those documents, visits aren’t possible.”
“Thanks.” I slam the phone down, kicking the kitchen counter, leaving a scuff in the varnish.
I pace the kitchen for a while thinking about my options. I can’t call my mom and ask for proof. She’d be here within a few hours, and that’s not something I can handle. After some research online, I also realize if Ron adopted me, my original birth certificate has been closed and is inaccessible. Fuck.
It takes me a moment before I realize that there might be something in my grandmother’s house.
For the next few hours, I take everything apart. No drawer or cabinet stays untouched. I start out with the kitchen, but other than bills and coupons, I don’t find much.
My father’s room is next, but there aren’t any papers anywhere. I then turn my attention to my grandmother’s room. I find more pictures of me as a baby and of my father as a kid. We looked exactly the same—it’s remarkable. I find pictures of other people, newspaper clippings of wedding announcements or obituaries, and for a moment I wonder if there was something my grandmother didn’t collect. But just as I want to roll my eyes in frustration at the old woman, I come across a birth announcement—my birth announcement. Holy shit. I stare at it for a moment, finally having something that proves I lived as someone else’s son at some point. I go through the box and it turns out my grandmother’s hoarding habits might be worth something after all. Feeling triumphant, I hold up the copy of my birth certificate—the original one. “Yes.”
I don’t care why she had it but I’m fucking glad she did. I don’t know if this is going to suffice for the hospital, but I hope together with the letter from the lawyer and my license, I might be successful.
With the papers
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