Finding Dad: From "Love Child" to Daughter (13 page)

“Welcome to my farm,” my father said taking my bags from me and giving me a hug hello. “I think you’ll love it here.”

“Wow,” I said, looking at the shiny silver sitting on top the fine antiques, “it’s beautiful…um…so much fancier than I expected.”

“Oh, we do okay,” he said with a small grin. “Mary Lou will help you get settled,” my father said.

I liked Mary Lou, the housekeeper, right away—as much as Mrs. Schuster. “C’mon, I’ll show you to your room and get you some soup I just made.”

Now this was the way to come home for the holidays
!

Mary Lou walked me down a long hallway filled with beautiful antiques and sliver, then up a long spiral staircase with shiny wooden spindles to my room. I couldn’t believe this was my father’s
second
home. When we arrived at my room, the crisp white linens reminded me of my old bed in the “Blue Room” back in Newport.

Wow, life with my father is just full of surprises. Very lovely and fun surprises!

When I came back downstairs, my father told me his plans. “I’m having a dinner party tonight, so why don’t you rest up and be ready by seven p.m.”

Panic rose up in my throat, since I knew I had the wrong clothes. “Okay, but I have to tell you that when you said farm, I thought Old McDonald, so I only brought jeans and sweaters.” I hoped he wouldn’t be mad.

He folded his arms and put on a thoughtful expression. “Hmm. Well, that’s not going to work. Come with me—we’re going to have to go to town and get you a dress.”

We hopped in the car and sped off for our first father-daughter shopping trip. He squeezed his big white Jeep Grand Wagoneer with wooden side paneling into a street parking space, and led me into a beautiful boutique.

“Do you have any black dresses in small sizes?”

The sales lady quickly gathered up all she had and placed them in a fitting room, then escorted my father to a big comfy chair. Each time I tried on a dress, my father had me come out and model it for him, where he would quickly dismiss one he didn’t like with the shake of his head or a crinkle of his nose. I’ll say this for him; he had an eye for style, and wanted me to look a specific way to meet his foxhunting friends. I was worried about the price tags, since some of the dresses were several hundred dollars, but he never asked about the cost—he just wanted it to look good. Finally, we settled on a knee length black cocktail dress and a strand of large pearls to go with it.

As he handed the lady his credit card, he said, “Let me tell you a lesson about packing that I learned from Jackie Kennedy: A woman should never leave home without a black dress, a strand of pearls and a houndstooth suit. If you have all that you will be fine for any social occasion.”

“Ok, I’ll remember that next time,” wondering where I would ever need a houndstooth suit at the age of eighteen.

That night, we sat with my father’s friends in the formal dining room while Mary Lou served homemade borscht soup in china bowls. I’d always thought I hated beets, but I was hooked after tasting Mary Lou’s.

During dinner, Marjorie made a toast welcoming me to the family, then said something that caught us all off guard: “I always told Bruce that when his daughter came looking for him, he should open his heart, and I would, too.”

Marjorie’s announcement clearly clashed with Dad’s position that he didn’t know I was his—but no one said anything.

The next day was Thanksgiving, and we had a glorious turkey dinner on more beautiful china. I enjoyed relaxing with my brothers and meeting my sisters-in-law, Karen and Isabel, for the first time. They were both gracious and sweet, and it felt great to have some females around.

Karen hugged me gently, saying how happy she was to meet me. Isabel was equally warm, but mindful of my baby niece, Felicity, crawling around her feet. Felicity was such a cute baby, I got down on the floor and bounced her on my stomach while everyone remarked over our strong resemblance. Cousin Fenton was there as well, and enjoyed telling everyone he was the first relative to meet me at the State House.

Our first holiday together as a family could have been so awkward, but instead I felt so at ease. It had been such a wild journey since the first family dinner for the cameras. Back then we
called
each other family, but now we were
becoming
a real family.

The Sundlun family Thanksgiving tradition continues to this day, only now that my father is gone, we celebrate at my house. The quarters are a bit more cramped than my father’s lavish farm, but we love overflowing on couches for one weekend a year to celebrate our family. We put my father’s picture out and repeat his favorite sayings, like “Lead, follow, or get out of the way,” when we’re trying to get everyone seated. I always serve my father’s favorite drink, hot apple cider—and we go through gallons of it.

When we go around the table to give thanks, family is always first on our gratitude list. No one could have predicted twenty years ago that this story would end with dinner being served at my table. I am forever grateful I made the choice to follow that small voice deep inside that urged me to keep the faith—that my father would come around. If I hadn’t, just think of we all that we would have missed. Because of my choice to have faith and forgive, my children have the kind of family I so badly wanted growing up.

Leaving the farm after my first Thanksgiving, we all promised to stay in touch with Sunday calls until we met again for a winter vacation at my father’s home in Jamaica.

As promised, I spent a nice Christmas with Mom, then headed off to Montego Bay for a Sundlun family vacation at my father’s villa in Round Hill, a fancy resort where Ralph Lauren and other celebrities were known to take their holidays. This was home number three, and just as spectacular as the rest—which, of course, left me breathless. He had bought the home after the government shut down travel to Cuba, where he used to take his holidays. Looking around the five bedroom villa that sat on a hill surrounded by tropical flowers, I decided my father had made a terrific decision.

The only thing he insisted upon is that we all have breakfast together before setting out to enjoy our days, which wasn’t that tall an order since I eagerly bounced out of bed to get those yummy fried banana pancakes the staff made for us each morning.

During the day, I basked in the sun and enjoyed playing with Fifi in the ocean. At night we dined on jerk chicken and other island favorites while my father held court at the dinner table. It was fun to see him in a relaxed setting, because I got to see a different side of him. He traded in his double breasted suits and black ties for brightly colored pants and unbuttoned shirts. The change of clothes seemed to melt away the tough exterior, and I saw that he actually did know how to let his hair down. One night, we were having such a good time, and my father impulsively held out his hand to me. “You want to dance?”

“Well, of course,” I said taking his hand, but feeling a bit nervous, since I’d never danced with him before. He twirled me around to the beat of the steel drum band and, once again, I felt the urge to pinch myself. How could life be this good?

I went back to school and noticed an interesting shift. A boy named Doug had shown up in my life. What felt strange was that he wasn’t like the bad boys I had dated in high school. Doug was smart, grounded, and came from a good family. He was someone I could take home to meet my father, and I couldn’t help but wonder if these deposits of fatherly love changed me to the point where I was now attracting a better kind of guy. I finally felt worthy of demanding more from the men in my life, and it appeared to be showing up in every area of my life. I know now that poor male relationships are a classic symptom in fatherless girls because we often subconsciously recreate the feeling of abandonment, since that is all we have ever known. The entry of my father into my life, even though I was an adult, wasn’t too late to have a profound effect on my future relationships. It’s the very reason why I believe it’s never too late to heal.

As my freshman year came to a close we were approaching what would be our first real Father’s Day together. The year before I’d known my father less than a week, and had given him a basic card. This time it meant something. A lot, in fact. So I wanted to get him something special, something that would show him I knew he was trying hard. In the past year of getting to know my father, I had avoided calling him anything, since it didn’t feel right to call him Dad yet.

One of the state troopers, Al Pontarelli, kept teasing me. “When are you going to start calling him Dad?”

“In time. He has to earn it.”

The truth was, I thought my father had proven himself throughout this transformational year of firsts, and I wanted to call him Dad, but I couldn’t make the word come out yet. It felt like it should be a special occasion, so I decided get him something to mark the significant transition After a trip to the mall, I settled upon a mahogany memory box. I knew my father loved to save things, and I thought it would be a perfect safety deposit box for our future mementos. I went to the Things Remembered store to engrave a golden metal plaque with the name DAD in all capital letters and the date June 20, 1994 under it. I was moving back to Rhode Island for the summer again and decided I would give it to him on Father’s Day in person. When I handed him the heavy gift to open, he ripped the wrapping paper off and removed the glossy mahogany box from the packaging.

I was touched at how he ran his fingers over the plaque, tracing the letters. “This is beautiful, Kara.”

“It’s a memory box for special things, like my Father’s Day cards.”

“Very nice, very, very nice,” he said, seemingly unsure of exactly what to say. This was a man unused to showing his feelings, and I seemed to force the issue at every turn. . “Mrs. Schuster, come look at what Kara got me for Father’s Day.”

I began noticing that it was easier for him to show his feelings in the third person.

“Isn’t that nice?” he said, again running his finger over the engraving.

“Oh wow, Governor, it’s beautiful, and very special,” she answered looking at me with a knowing that this was a big deal.

“I’m glad you like it…Dad.” I felt my face grow warm. We hugged, and I could feel his gratitude in my own heart. Even though he didn’t say much, I watched his eyes widen looking at the word
Dad
.

“Thank you, Kara, this is such a wonderful gift. Really—thank you very much.”

After holding the box on his lap for a long time, he carefully placed it in a prominent place on the coffee table in his study. We finished our Father’s Day with some of our favorite Oreos and milk, and I snuggled in the nook of his arm, soaking up the warmth and safety I always felt when having cookies with Dad. I was the only one of his children in town to share the day, and I was happy to be the one to honor him for becoming the great father it seemed he wanted to be.

After I gave my father the “Dad” box, I was excited to see Trooper Al Pontarelli so I could call my father Dad in front of him. When he came to pick up my father for work, I showed him the box, now a solid symbol of the new phase in our relationship.

“Good girl,” he said.

Dad got a big redo on fatherhood with me. He had made mistakes by not always making things special for my brothers, but with each special occasion, I was teaching him how to show his heart. As I taught him how I needed to be loved, he learned how to show love to my brothers, too. As the years went on, I think he tried to make up for his mistakes with them by showing up for Tracy’s races, doing a business deal with Stuart, or taking Hunter, Peter’s son, to see a B-17 when it came to town. I learned he was just as hard on himself as anyone else could be, and he needed to feel unconditional love before he felt safe enough to open his heart. Somehow, my key worked. I’d unlocked a part of him that he’d needed to find, all the while discovering my true identity in the process.

  
14
Chip Off the New Block

Not only did I start calling my father Dad, but we started treating each other more like family as the glue of our relationship started to harden. Our newfound acceptance of each other made my second summer in Newport much calmer. The story of us reuniting was old news. Now the focus was on his bid for reelection.

His campaign for a third term was in full swing, and it was an uphill battle. He had promised the voters he would only seek two terms, but had changed his mind when his first term was consumed by the banking crisis that crippled the state. He felt he needed more time to accomplish his goals. At seventy-five, he was the nation’s oldest governor, and under his tenure the governor’s term was changed from two years to four, which meant he would have left office at age seventy-nine. Many thought that was just too old. Others didn’t like the whiplash-like changes he brought about, like building a new expensive airport terminal, and revitalizing the city of Providence with big development projects. Today, the public has embraced those changes, and even named the airport terminal after my dad, along with a plaque inside thanking him for swimming against the tides of political opposition.

Back then though, the polls didn’t look good, and his advisors didn’t think he should run again. But there was no changing his mind. My friend, Dayna, came out to visit again, and we helped by making calls to prospective voters to get the word out. When my father stopped by and asked how it was going, I didn’t want to tell him that two people had hung up on me when I mentioned his name. I didn’t want to upset him, and I was having a great time going to debate preps and being by his side at campaign events.

One of those events is the V-J Day celebration. Rhode Island is the only state to celebrate Victory Over Japan Day as a state holiday in August, and everyone goes to the beach. So Dad and I headed to back to Narragansett for some hand shaking on the sand. I encouraged him to lose his blazer so he could fit in with the folks basking in the sun. I also dusted a little of my bronzing powder on his face.

“Wait…what’s that?”

“It’ll make you look less tired and more youthful,” I said.

“Is that so,” he answered, rolling his eyes.

As we trudged in our street clothes through the hot sand, we were stopped by the legendary political reporter, M. Charles Bakst, who’d carried on a love-hate relationship with my father in the paper. “Governor, did you go on vacation recently?”

“No, Charlie, I most certainly did not,” my father shot back.

“You look like you have a good tan.”

My father gave me a look, and I knew to keep quiet. It wouldn’t go over well if I chimed in to say that I’d put my makeup on him. Obviously, my idea of helping him look rested didn’t go over well. When Charlie was done with his badgering, Dad and I finished our hand shaking on the sand and made it back to the car. Once the doors were shut we cracked up as I told the trooper how I had just accidentally made my father look like a lazy sun worshipper with my favorite beauty fixer. Regardless of the tough polls, Dad and I were having a blast, and his approval ratings with me were sky high.

My boyfriend, Doug, came out to visit, and I felt my old nerves cropping up again, since this would be the first time I’d brought a guy home to meet Dad. I really wanted him to approve. If he didn’t, well, I knew Doug might not last much longer. At that point in my life, everything orbited around my father. Since I’d missed out on the whole “Daddy’s little girl,” I was playing the part now.

Doug arrived, and I was relieved to see he was wearing a collared shirt, since I knew Dad would be judging. Whew, crisis #1 averted.

“Governor, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Doug, and I wanted to thank you for having me to your beautiful home.”

So far so good, he’s using his manners. Ding!

“Nice to see you. Kara has spoken highly of you.” A sudden thought popped into his head. “Listen, why don’t you come to my debate preps tonight.”

Yes! Doug had passed the sniff test.

“I’d love to,” Doug answered, glancing at me with a smile.

Everything was going so well until my father let Doug drive home that night. They arrived at the toll booth at the Newport Bridge in the rain and Doug tried to toss the token in the basket, but missed. He had to get out of the car, find the token on the ground, and try again, all while my father was impatiently waiting and watching. I felt terrible for him, but also worried my athlete father would somehow hold this klutzy move against him.

He finally managed to get the job done, but for some reason my father kept calling him Chuck the rest of the weekend. He just couldn’t get his name right, and as nice as Doug was, the relationship eventually fizzled. We weren’t the best fit for each other anyway, but I realized then and there that I would need a guy who could handle my father and gain his respect.

As summer came to a close, I got ready to head back to school. This time my father was sending me back with a parting gift—his old Jeep he’d used to pull horses at the Virginia farm. He’d sold the farm to finance his campaign, and wanted me to have a car at school so I could get to my job as a waitress, and any internships I hoped to land. I wasn’t sure where I was going to park a giant Wagoneer with a salamander hood ornament, which signified his code name in the Underground (so named because salamanders walk through fire), but I was grateful, nonetheless.

“Thank you, Dad,” I said, giving him a huge hug. “This will help so much, especially when we get a foot of snow and I have to make it across campus for class.”

“You’re welcome, but I have some ground rules for your drive back to Michigan.”

“Okay.”

“I want to see the route you’re taking on the map, and you are to call me every time you enter a new state. That way, if something happens, I know which state police to call.”

“Will do, thank you.” I stifled the urge to smile.

I loved that he was being overprotective. When he showed worry, I felt his love, and I was more than happy to abide by any rules. Some young college girls may have rolled their yes, but I craved his protection. Growing up, I had done so much of the worrying, and I often felt like I needed to be an adult to help my mom. Once, when she fell on hard times, the leasing company sent a man to repossess her car, and I ran outside and begged him not to take it. It didn’t work, and he towed it away, and I felt so defeated and scared about what we would do to get around. Mom managed to make things work, as she always did, and got us another car, but the residue of worry from days like that still clogged my system. I loved having a father who could not only give me a car, but make me feel safe in it. He even gave me a cell phone, which was a luxury in 1994, and I promised to only use it in case of an emergency.

As I headed back to school, I followed my father’s orders and called at every state border, hearing his deep voice answer the phone.

“Hi, it’s me in New York.”

“Thank you. Good job, call me in the next state.”

As I headed back to school, I called almost daily to keep up with the campaign. When primary night came, I kept that cell phone by my side. The large brick-like contraption started ringing at 7:30 p.m., and I knew it was him. It was early, and that couldn’t be good. I flipped open the phone. “Hi, Dad, how’s it going?”

“We didn’t win. We lost to Myrth York.” His voice sounded heavy and defeated. “It’s okay, we fought a good fight, and that’s all we could do.”

I could tell he was crushed. Out of every job he had ever had, being governor paid him the least, but he loved it the most.

My heart fell. “Oh, Dad, I’m so sorry. You should have won.”

“Okay then, just wanted you to know,” he said, clearly needing to get off the phone.

I could tell he didn’t want to say anything more, but I wanted him to know I could feel his pain and disappointment. “Love you,” I said softly.

“Love to you as well, have a good night,” he said as he hung up. Saying I love you was still hard for him, but that would come in time.

I knew this loss would be tough on Dad because he still had so many things he wanted to accomplish. I knew the articles the next day must have stung his tough skin, reporting that he became the first incumbent Governor in the history of the state to lose in a primary. It was another extreme for Dad, elected in the largest landslide in state history and voted out for the record books, as well.

I worried about what my father would do once he left office. He’d always said that retirement is a terminal illness, but I hoped having more free time meant I’d see more of him. He was going to be seventy-five years old, and I wanted him to slow down and take care of himself so I could have him as long as possible. I was racing the clock trying to make up for lost time, so I made every effort to be with him when I was off school. We spent another glorious family vacation at my father’s house in Jamaica. While we all had lots of laughs and fun, it was also a bittersweet time because we knew the end of vacation meant that Dad wouldn’t be the governor anymore.

As he left office, I elected to follow in my father’s footsteps as a chip off the new block as a Political Science and Communications major. I needed to get some real world experience, so I started searching for summer internships, and decided I wanted to work at the White House and CNN’s Washington Bureau.

I knew I was aiming high, but I filled out the applications for the internships and began collecting letters of recommendation from my professors and some politicians I’d met through Dad. My name was still Kara Hewes, so I had a degree of anonymity.

After about two months, I got a letter from the White House saying I had been accepted to the summer internship program. I jumped up and down and ran to my phone to call my father. “Dad, I have incredible news!”

“What?”

“I am going to be an intern at the White House this summer!” There was a long pause.

“That’s great, how did that happen?”

“I applied for it,” I said, feeling very proud of myself.

“Good for you! Good for you!” It warmed my heart to hear him banging his hand on his desk in excitement.

But the thrills didn’t stop there. A few days later, I got another letter saying I had also been accepted to the CNN internship program.

Dad was equally thrilled. “I just read an article about Christiane Amanpour, and it says she is a hard worker and not a name dropper. She’s someone for you to follow.”

This was his way of telling me he was proud I’d done it all on my own. Though I had inherited a father who could open many doors, I still wanted to do the knocking myself.

“Nice work, I’m going to call up my ex-wives who live in Washington, Joy and Pammy, so we can get you some help down there.”

“Really? Okay thanks, Dad, that sounds great. But are you sure they would want to meet me?” It seemed strange that he thought it was okay to call up his ex-wives, especially Joy, since she was the one he cheated on with my mother. Why would she want to show me around?

“Believe it or not, Joy and I are still dear friends—it’s no problem. She’s a former CIA agent, so you should get to know her.”

My father was full of surprises—who knew he was married to a CIA agent?

Obviously, Dad didn’t have the usual relationships one would expect with an ex-wife, and he was right; Joy said she’d be happy to have me over to dinner when I arrived in town, and even introduced me to some people she thought I should know. More predictably, Pammy never got back to him.

To this day, I remain so happy that Joy welcomed me into her home when I arrived that summer. We never talked about how I was a product of a hurtful part of her marriage. Instead, she told me stories of how she helped get Mikhail Baryshnikov out of Russia.

She also introduced me to her daughter, Cintra, who became like a big sister to me. Cintra was ten years my senior, and I idolized her. She was a tall, head-turning blonde with exquisite taste and bold personality. Like my father, she could fill a room, and she wasn’t afraid to speak her mind, even to my dad. Her father had died, and she had spent her formative years under my father’s roof. When she took me out on the town in DC, she regaled me with stories about growing up with him. It gave me a window into what I had missed, even if it wasn’t all pretty. My father was tough and not around a lot and, like me, she felt like she did a lot of growing up on her own. But we also shared a love for him and the same ability to see the good in him.

And I was about to witness some of that good when Dad surprised me, yet again.

As if calling his ex-wives wasn’t shocking enough, Dad really pulled the rabbit out of the hat when he called me unexpectedly. As usual, his tone was brief and to the point. “Do you want a blue car or a grey car?”

I was in the middle of studying for a test, so this caught me flat-footed. “What do you mean?”

“Really, what do you care so long as you get a new car, right?” He seemed to be talking to himself. “A car…you’ll need one in Washington.”

“Blue,” I replied, matching his brevity.

Click.

Summer arrived a few weeks later, and I arrived at Dad’s house for a quick visit before going to DC. He took me to the Herb Chambers car dealership, and inside was a blue Mazda with a red bow on it. I nearly cried. This was another turning point for me, and I stopped to think about all I’d wished for—the dream of finding Dad—and here I was, watching my father’s wide grin splash across his face while I drove out of the car dealership. Even though he was still uncertain about what life after the governorship would be like, he was excited to help me begin my budding career—and in the same place he started his, no less. It seemed ironic—or was it DNA?—that thirty-some years after he served with President Kennedy, I would go to work for another president, even if I was just answering phones and doing data entry. Nonetheless, Dad was so proud, and told everyone he knew that his daughter was going to be a White House intern. I was also proud to be one of only 225 interns selected from a pool of thousands of applicants from across the country. Little did I know that we would be the class most known for one now-infamous intern, Monica Lewinsky.