A Different Blue(156)



thought we could keep it a secret from Dad. Bad idea. But that's another story.”

“What was it like?” I prodded.

“It was bloody awful,” he answered promptly. “And enlightening and . . . very confusing.”

I had no idea what to say to that, so I just waited, watching his thoughts play across his face.

He brooded for a moment, lost in remembering.

“When I met my birth father my first impression was that he was a bit of a bum,” he mused.

“After a few hours talking to him, walking around, seeing his neighborhood, meeting his mates,

I began to see him a little differently. We went to a pub where he liked to have a bitter after

shift, a place called Wally's, where everyone seemed to know him and like him. Bert's a copper.



“A copper?”

“A policeman. Which seemed so at odds with his personality. He is incredibly jovial and free-

spirited. I always thought coppers were the strong, silent type.”

“Maybe more like your dad?”

“Yes! Like John Wilson. Driven, hard, serious. And Bert Wheatley was anything but serious or

driven. He said he was a copper because he loved his neighborhood. He liked being with people,

and when he was a boy he'd always wanted to drive a car with lights and a siren.” Wilson

laughed and shook his head. “That's what he said! I remember thinking what a nutter he was.”

Wilson looked over at me as if I was going to scold him for his opinion. I just stayed quiet.

[page]“But I noticed other things. Bert seemed very content. And he was very fun to be with.”

Wilson laughed again, but his laughter was pained. “In those ways, he was very different from

my dad, too. John Wilson was never satisfied – rarely happy – and he wasn't exactly a pleasure

to be around most of the time.” Wilson shook his head and abruptly changed the subject.

“My birth mother's name is Jenny. She never married Bert, obviously. She married a plumber

named Gunnar Woodrow. Gunnar the plumber.” Wilson said it like Gunna the Plumma, and I tried

not to snicker. I'd gotten to the point where I didn't even notice his accent . . . most of the

time.

“She and Gunnar have five kids, and their house is like a zoo. I stayed for an hour or two,

until Gunnar got home from work, and then Jenny and I slipped out and had tea around the corner

where we could talk without the monkeys interrupting.”

“Did you like her?”

“Very much. She's lovely. Loves books and history, loves to quote poetry.”

“Sounds like you.”

Wilson nodded. “We have a great deal in common, which thrilled me, I must say. We talked about

everything. She asked me all the things mothers are interested in: what my hopes and dreams were

and whether I had a girlfriend. I told her I didn't have time for girls. I told her that history

and books were the only loves in my life so far. We talked about school, and she asked me what

my plans were for my future. I rambled off my ten year plan, involving grad school, medical

school, and working with my father. She seemed a little surprised by my career goals and said,

'But what about the loves in your life?'”

“She was worried about your love life? You were only eighteen,” I protested, ridiculously

grateful he didn't have a past like mine.

“No. She wasn't worried about my love life. She was worried about the 'loves in my life,'”

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