Never Knowing

she’d written and Web sites that had photos of Karen Christianson. One commenter actually Photoshopped her picture to make it look like the Campsite Killer was standing behind her with a bloody rope in one hand and his other on his penis. They talked about Julia’s looks, complimenting the Campsite Killer’s taste. One jerk said he wondered if I was as twisted as my father. Another compared me to Ted Bundy’s daughter, saying they should hunt these “bitches” down before they could spread the disease. I read every vile comment, sick with shame and fear. I felt ripped open, exposed to the world.

I clicked from site to site as fast as I could — the majority of hits were coming from true crime blogs and a couple of Web sites devoted to serial killers, including the one I’d already found on the Campsite Killer. The more legitimate sites were careful to just say that Karen was “rumored” to have a daughter. It was the commenters, always anonymous, who added my name and that I lived in Nanaimo. Then I noticed a University of Victoria Student Forum was one of the hits. My stomach in knots, I clicked on the link but couldn’t get in without a student ID number.

A wave of panic came over me. What do I do now? How do I stop this? The cordless beside me rang and I jumped.

Lauren said, “I have to tell you something.”

“Is it about the Internet buzz?”

“You’re online?”

I stared at the screen. “It’s everywhere.”

Lauren was quiet for a moment, then said, “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t have a clue. But I think I should talk to Julia.”

“Do you really—”

“If she hasn’t heard, I should warn her. And if she has, she’s going to think I told everyone. But if I call to explain, she’ll probably just hang up on me.” I groaned. “I’ve got to go. I need to figure out what to do.”

Lauren’s voice was gentle. “Okay, hon. Call if you need me.”

After I hung up the phone, I collapsed onto the couch. Moose joined me, grunting and snuffling into my neck. My mind spun in a million panicky directions. The whole world is going to know the truth about my father. The Campsite Killer could find Julia — and me. Evan’s business could be ruined. My business could be ruined. Ally’s going to be teased at school.

The phone rang. I checked the call display. Private number.

Julia?

I answered on the third ring.

“Hello?”

A male voice said, “Is this Sara Gallagher?”

“Who’s speaking?”

“I’m your father.”

“Who is this?”

“I’m your real father.” His voice sped up. “I read about it on the Internet.”

A jolt of fear ran through me. Then I realized the voice was too young.

“I don’t know who you really are or what you read, but—”

“Are you hot like your mommy?” I heard laughter in the background, then another young-sounding voice called out, “Ask her if she likes it rough too.”

“Listen, you little—”

He hung up the phone.

I phoned Evan right away, but his cell went straight to voice mail. I thought about calling Lauren, but she’d be scared for me — hell, I was scared, which made me even angrier. Some teenagers were calling me and pretending to be my father just for kicks. What if Ally had picked up the phone? I was pacing around, fuming, when the phone rang again. I was hoping it was Evan, but it was Ally’s teacher.

“Sara, do you have time to talk when you pick Ally up today?”

“What’s going on?”

“Ally had a … disagreement with a classmate who tried to use some of her paints and I’d like to discuss it with you.” Great, just what I needed right now.

“I’ll talk to her about sharing, but maybe we can meet another time—”

“Ally pushed the girl — hard enough to make her fall.”

That’s when I called you. There is no way I can meet Ally’s teacher without talking to you first. I need to wrap my head around the fact that everything’s blown wide open. I can’t shake those sick comments, that awful phone call. And I know her teacher’s going to suggest that Ally meet with the school counselor again to learn how to handle her issues. She’s had problems before — yelling at other children, arguing with her teacher — but that’s just when she feels rushed. Her teacher also said Ally has difficulty transitioning from one subject to the next, and that’s when she stresses out the most. I tried to explain there’s nothing wrong with her — she just doesn’t like change. But her teacher kept asking if there were any problems at home. Let’s just hope she hasn’t heard about the Campsite Killer being my father.

I hate it when I get this upset, hate how my body reacts. My throat and chest get so tight I can barely breathe, my heart rate skyrockets, my face feels hot, I start sweating, and my calves ache with unused adrenaline. It feels like a bomb exploded inside my head, and my thoughts are flying everywhere.

We used to talk about how my anxiety was caused from growing up adopted and having a distant father: my subconscious was afraid I’d be abandoned again, so I never felt safe. But I think it’s more than that. When I was pregnant with Ally I read that you need to be calm or your baby will pick up on your negative energy. I spent nine months inside a woman who was constantly terrified. Her anxiety flowed into my blood, into my molecules. I was born in fear.

SESSION FIVE

When I first started therapy and was trying to avoid talking about my childhood you said, “To build up a future you have to know the past.” Then you told me it was a quote from Otto Frank, Anne Frank’s father, and that you’d toured her house in Amsterdam. I remember sitting here — you’d gone to get us a coffee — looking around at the photos on your wall, the art you brought back from your trips, the carvings and statues you collected, the books you wrote, thinking you were the coolest woman I knew.

I’d never met anyone like you before, the way you dressed, all artsy elegance, sort of a bohemian intellectual, a sweater shawl tossed over your shoulders, your hair cut in all those crazy chunks of gray, like you not only embraced your age — you were proud of it. The way you pulled your glasses off when you leaned in to ask me something, your finger tapping on your crooked mug — which you made in pottery class because you were bored and you told me it was important to never stop learning. I studied every move, drank it all in, and thought, This is a woman who isn’t afraid of anything. This is who I want to be.

That’s why I was so surprised when you told me you were also from a dysfunctional family and that your father had been an alcoholic. What I admired most was that you didn’t have any resentment or anger — you’d dealt with your crap and moved on. You’d built up a future. I left here feeling so hopeful that day, like anything was possible. But then later I thought about what you said— about knowing your past — and it hit me that I’d never be