If This Is Home Page 7

  “I guess,” I answer sheepishly. I’m just worried that he’s not going to come through for us, and I’m not sure that I can handle that. “Just find out if we have the right person, and we’ll go from there.”

  Kurt starts dialing each number. Time and time again, he thanks the person on the other line and hangs up disappointed. I listen to each call, my heart speeding up with each dialing and then deflating with each hang up. It’s an emotional roller coaster — imagining each caller, wondering if it’s actually him.

  About two-thirds into the list, Kurt’s cellphone rings. It’s his grandma and she needs him for something.

  “Sorry, J.J., I gotta go. But I can help you with this tomorrow,” he says. The thought of waiting until tomorrow is excruciating, yet I don’t know if I’m ready to do the calls myself.

  “That’s cool. No problem,” I tell him and walk him to the door. “Kurt.” I touch his arm and look into his eyes. “Thank you. I mean it.” And Kurt flashes me that dazzling smile and heads out the door.

  I hover by the door and stare mindlessly out toward the street until Ellie calls for me. I look at her sweet face and her bobbing blond ponytail, and I know what I have to do. I reach for the phone and begin dialing, my heart practically beating through my throat.

  By the time I make the eighth phone call, I have started to wonder if my dad doesn’t actually exist any longer.

  “Hello?” says a man’s voice.

  “Joe Loewen?” I manage. My hands are sweating so badly I grip the phone tighter, hoping it won’t slip from my fingers.

  “This is he.”

  “Joe Michael Loewen?”

  “Who is this?”

  I have no idea what to say or how to answer. Nothing feels familiar about his voice. But it has to be him. How many Joseph Michael Loewens could there be?

  “Hello?” he asks again. “Who is calling?”

  There is a long, awkward silence, and then I hang up. I wipe the palms of my hands on my pants and suck in a deep breath. After five years, I have just spoken to my dad. Well, not technically, since I couldn’t bring myself to say anything but his name, but it has got to be him.

  I call Kurt and tell him that I’ve found him, that he’s one of the Loewens without a listed address.

  “What area code?” Kurt asks.

  “Three zero six. He’s actually in Saskatchewan.” The whole notion of this feels like a gigantic kick to the stomach. How could he be so close?

  “Give me the number,” Kurt says. I repeat it back to him, and in a few seconds he tells me that the prefix of the phone number coincides with the city of Prince Albert. I practically choke. Prince Albert? It’s only an hour and a half from Saskatoon; 142 kilometres away.

  “No,” I say. “It can’t be.” I can barely breathe.

  “This can’t be right,” I say again.

  “Maybe it’s just his home base and you’ve caught him in between tours,” Kurt offers. But as soon as he says it, we both know it sounds ridiculous.

  “How could he live so close to us all of this time?” I ask feebly, tears threatening to burst from my eyes. “He couldn’t come and see us even once? Not a visit? Not a phone call? It’s been years!” My voice gets louder with each word. “And Ellie — he doesn’t even know she exists!” I hear Kurt gasp.

  “I don’t know what to say, J.J. But you have to talk to him. Find out what the deal is.”

  “I know,” I say. Our conversation peters out. I’m too preoccupied with what I’ve learned.

  Although my mind is spinning a mile a minute, I know what I have to do. I have to get us to Prince Albert.

  Chapter 8

  It’s Monday morning and I’m making a phone call that is about to change everything.

  “Joe Loewen? Why, yes, my dear. He just lives up the street from us. Been there for about ten years now, I’d say. He tends to keep to himself, that one. But he does come to our parties. Now, why were you asking, again, dear?” The dear woman clucks. She is Marj Wilson. Her voice sounds gentle and kind.

  “Uh, he’s an old friend. Just wanted to make sure he was still living in town,” I stammer. My heart is beating so wildly, it takes my breath away. “Thank you for your help!” I blurt, hanging up before she can say anything else. It feels rude to hang up on the nice woman, but what else can I say to her? The phone is slippery in my sweaty hands. Could this really be him? Could I have found him?

  Kurt had called early this morning and offered me a ride to school. When he got to the house, we’d googled “Joe Loewen Prince Albert Saskatchewan” on Kurt’s cellphone, and we’d found a photo of a man who looked like my dad in a random blog post. These people named Marj and Marcel Wilson like to post photos of their travels, their family get-togethers, and the semi-annual parties they host for their neighbours. The man who looked like Dad was holding a beer and smiling into the camera. His hair was cropped short and his fingers were free of any of the rings I remembered him wearing, but the black T-shirt he was wearing and his eyes and his smile were enough to assure me it was him. Sure enough, Dad’s name appeared below the photo. Kurt and I had scrolled through more photos, looking for anything else that might have been important, but we only came upon the one photo. We’d looked up Marj and Marcel Wilson on Canada 411 and I’d scribbled down their address and phone number.

  After I hang up on Marj, I realize that I should have asked her what Dad’s actual house number is. I can’t go door to door, as that would arouse too much suspicion. And what is the alternative? Hide in some bushes, watching people leave their homes, hoping I’ll finally spot him? No, I need to know which house he lives in first.

  Should I call back? I’ve already hung up on the poor woman. What if I made her angry and she doesn’t want to help me now? I have to take the chance. I fumble with the numbers on the phone. I almost jump when I hear the first ring.

  “Hello?” the same kind voice answers.

  “Hi. I know I just called and I’m sorry to bother you, it’s just that I’m planning a visit sometime soon and it’s been so long, and I can’t really remember which house Joe lives in …”

  “Oh, 105 Mitchellson. Is that right, Marcel — Joe lives at 105?” Her voice trails off, as though she’s covered the phone.

  “Who are you talking to?” a man’s voice says, irritated. “You shouldn’t be giving people’s information over the phone like that.” I can tell he’s suspicious already. I feel flooded with fear.

  “Thank you, ma’am. That’s all I needed. Take care,” I say, ending the conversation again.

  Mitchellson Road. After all this time, I know where he lives. I’ll pack some things, we’ll take the bus to Prince Albert, and Dad will take care of us.

  I call Mom to tell her we are going. She wants me to talk to him on the phone first instead of travelling all the way there alone, but I think he needs to see us face to face to make this real for him. This is practically life or death, and he’s had too much time away from us to allow him this distance now.

  I hang up the phone with Mom and look at Kurt.

  “I’m proud of you,” he says, squeezing my hand. “This takes guts.” I feel so grateful for him and all that he’s done for me, how he’s become such a great support to me.

  “You’re not taking the bus, Jayce.”

  “Yes, Kurt, we are.”

  “I will drive you guys. You need someone with you for this. You aren’t just showing up at some house in a strange city.”

  “What about school?” I say, but Kurt just smirks.

  “I think we both know I can manage that.” Although Kurt’s missed so much school caring for his grandma, he seems to be able to keep up with his schoolwork just fine.

  “Okay,” I agree. I won’t put up a fight on this, and Kurt knows it.

  We’re heading somewhere we’ve never been before. I have to make sure that Ellie is safe
and well taken care of, and if Dad doesn’t come through, what then? The thought of having Kurt with us makes me feel so much better.

  “Ellie, we’re going on a big adventure, so we need to pack some stuff.”

  “I don’t wanna go,” Joelle whines.

  “Sure you do. It’ll be so much fun.” I am rolling up sweaters for the two of us and stuffing them in a backpack. I’ve got some snacks to take with us, courtesy of Mom’s secret stash of money. I was able to buy some essentials for us, but I couldn’t bring myself to buy more than that for now. Who knows what the future will bring and how long Mom will be in the hospital. We’re going to need that money for a million other things, too.

  I’m not going to bring a lot with us; we’re going to find Dad, we’ll let him know what’s going on, and hopefully he’ll come back with us right away. I don’t want to leave Mom alone for any longer than I have to.

  “I wanna stay HERE.” Joelle’s bottom lip is sticking out and her arms are crossed. She’s watching me, uncertain that this adventure will actually be any fun.

  “We’re going to find Dad,” I say, finally, and Joelle jumps at me excitedly.

  “We’re going to see Daddy?” she shrieks. I see how desperate she is to meet him and make him real to her, and it breaks my heart. Mom and I have tried not to talk about him much, but that doesn’t stop a kid from wanting a dad. Joelle doesn’t even realize that it’s weird that she’s never met him.

  I check the cash in my wallet again. I don’t want to lose what my mom has worked so hard to save. I’m starting to realize just how much is riding on my dad taking us in. Food. Shelter. Survival.

  I struggle with what we’ll do if things don’t work out, but I can’t let my mind go there just yet.

  To my surprise, Ellie and I fall asleep on the way there. As Kurt pulls up to a stop sign at the highway junction just outside of Prince Albert, we both wake up, groggy and disoriented. It is grey and dreary outside, and, instead of feeling excited, I feel that my mood is matching the day. Ellie whines for a snack, and I fumble for a granola bar in my backpack. I can’t think about eating. My stomach is in knots, and at times I’m so queasy I might be sick.

  I type Mitchellson Road into Google Maps on Kurt’s phone. Ellie is chattering endlessly about random things, but I’m barely paying attention. The closer we get to my dad, the worse my stomach feels. It takes about ten minutes for us to find Mitchellson Road. Kurt pulls over when we reach the corner leading into the crescent. By this time, I’m trembling almost uncontrollably. It’s all I can do not to run away. Ellie is still oblivious and seems completely relaxed. How I wish I was her — so trusting, so sure that everything is fine. My mind catalogues the metal garbage bin near the bus stop; at least if I get sick, I can do it in there instead of spraying it all over the street.

  “Okay, Ellie, let’s go,” I announce.

  “I can pull up right to the house,” Kurt says, but I shake my head.

  “No, stay here and wait,” I instruct him. He squeezes my hand and nods.

  “I’ll be right here,” he assures me. Even he looks nerv­ous enough to be sick.

  I step out onto the sidewalk and open Ellie’s door. She looks around and sees that we aren’t in front of anyone’s house yet.

  “How much farther?” Ellie asks, and I realize that, for a four-year-old, this has already been a long morning.

  “We’re almost there, Ellie.” I kneel down in front of her so that we can be eye to eye, my knees balancing on the rough sidewalk. “Look, Ellie. Dad doesn’t know we’re coming,” I start. “He is going to be very surprised.”

  Ellie claps her hands in anticipation. “A surprise!” she says, excitedly.

  “Yeah, but we might not be staying with him. We have to tell him about Mom, that she’s sick. We’re going to ask him for help,” I try to explain.

  Ellie looks confused, but takes my hand and pulls me up. We make our way down the street.

  My legs feel like they’re made of lead, and they seem to get heavier with each step I take. I feel as though I’m practically dragging myself forward. I study the homes. This is a picturesque neighbourhood. The houses are all variations of the same soft colours. The yards are well manicured. Basketball nets are tacked onto many of the attached garages, and hockey nets line the sides of many driveways. This is clearly a family-friendly neighbourhood, and it’s much newer and nicer than where I’ve grown up.

  Slowly we pass each house and I scan house numbers … 3, 39, 47, 79, 95 … Marj and Marcel Wilson’s house is number 95; it is practically a botanical garden, with all of the flowers planted in the yard. There’s a garden gnome almost every two feet. I walk a little faster past their house, out of nerves and the sense that I’ve endangered us already by phoning them twice and fishing for information.

  And then I see it: 105. A light-blue two-storey house. It’s pretty modest and simple — certainly not the house I’d envision a successful musician to have. The reality of this is like another sucker punch to the gut. It is neat and tidy from the outside, though sparsely planted compared to the Wilsons’ yard. There is a welcome mat on the front step. The driveway is empty, but the car could be parked inside the attached garage. There is little on the outside of this house that would tip me off as to whether or not this house actually belongs to my dad.

  My heart hammers in my chest. I crouch behind a hedge with Ellie just before his house, just so I can gather myself and figure out what to do. I’ve never been so scared in my life. Ellie is looking up at me with some apprehension. I have to do this. For me and for her. For Mom.

  “Let’s go,” I say with more conviction than I feel. My knees are practically knocking together and I hope that my legs won’t give out altogether.

  We walk up the driveway and the world starts spinning for me. That’s it. I know I’m going to pass out. He’ll open the door and see that some strange girl has fainted on his driveway and wonder what the heck is going on. I bet he won’t even recognize that it’s his own daughter.

  Ellie breaks away from me and sprints to the doorway to ring the doorbell before I can do anything.

  “No!” I croak, but it’s too late and the chime of the doorbell echoes to the outside.

  We stand side by side. Sweat glides down my temples. I can feel my shirt sticking to my back. We wait for what feels like forever.

  “I guess he’s not here,” I say, ready to turn around. And then we hear the shuffling of steps, and through the glass in the door we see a shadow approaching. I stop breathing for a moment, until a pretty, brown-haired woman of about forty swings open the door. She’s dressed in capris and a T-shirt and is barefoot. Her face looks kind. She has large brown eyes with thick lashes and wears very little makeup. A tea towel is draped over her shoulder. She peers at us curiously.

  “Are you looking for Maddie?” she wonders. “She’s at preschool right now. I’m just about to go and get her for lunch.” She is talking directly to Ellie, who must be around the same age as Maddie.

  “Uh … no,” I struggle to answer. My heart fills with relief. We’ve got the wrong house. Clearly Joe Loewen doesn’t live here because there’s a nice little family here. Maddie lives here and she’s in preschool.

  “We have the wrong house,” I state matter-of-factly. The woman looks closer at us and leans into the doorway. She’s clearly curious.

  “Can I help you with what you’re looking for?” she asks. Ellie is about to tell her what we’re doing and I quickly talk over her.

  “Oh! I got the numbers mixed up. It’s 501 we need, not 105. I don’t know how I got that mixed up!” I laugh nervously. I don’t even know if there is a 501, and maybe this woman knows 501 doesn’t exist. Maybe she’ll call me on it.

  “Okay,” the woman says hesitantly.

  “Thank you!” I say quickly. “Let’s go, Ellie.” I take her by the hand and we turn back down toward the driv
eway. The woman remains standing at her doorway watching us, until I realize that a car is pulling into the driveway at the same time as we are leaving, and she’s probably waiting for whoever is pulling up. It’s a simple black four-door sedan. The door swings open and a tall, slim man steps out.

  He smiles at us politely. My heart literally stops. It’s him. He’s wearing beige dress pants and a button-up shirt — certainly not rock star clothing. It’s been so long, but I’d recognize his features anywhere. My eyes remain fixated on him. He continues toward us to get to his front door, but then does a double take as he passes me. I see the blood drain from his face, and I know that he’s recognized me. I stand absolutely still, gazing at him.

  He looks good. There is some grey that peppers his brown hair, and there’s no question he looks older. He even has really pronounced crow’s feet at his eyes, something I don’t really remember on his face when I was twelve. But what is he doing here?

  “Joe?” the woman calls out. She is wringing the tea towel in her hands uncertainly.

  My dad is oblivious to her in this moment. He stares at me intently, but looks as though he’s seen a ghost.

  I stare back at him, flooded with tons of emotions. I’m angry, sad, relieved — a million things at once. We both remain there, our eyes locked together for what feels like forever.

  “Joe?!” The woman’s voice is a bit higher this time.

  We take each other in, silently, until Ellie tugs on my arm.

  “J.J.,” she whispers. I lean down to scoop her up and look our dad straight in the eyes. It’s now or never.

  “Yes, Dad. It’s me. Jayce. And this is your daughter Joelle.”

  Chapter 9

  The woman, Dad’s wife, is named Mallory. She is weeping openly into the tea towel now. We are seated awkwardly around their dining table, in their cute-as-a-button home. Dad will barely look at me now, instead preferring to study Ellie, this foreign, near-perfect specimen that he’s just learned is his. He is tugging at his hair with his fists; tears pour down his cheeks and pool onto the table in messy splatters.