Modo

I race back from the copy machine, but I am not quick enough- the answering machine picks up my slack as it begins its signature “Leave a message after the tone...”

“Hi there June, this is Tracy from Smith & Green funeral home. We are so sorry to bother you at work, it was the only public number of yours we could find. We regret to inform you that your father has passed. We do need to meet with you soon so that we can discuss his will and assets. Thank you dear, call us back.”

A ghostly silence takes over as my coworkers remember how to act normal, recovering from their goldfish state. Mouths open, mouths closed. It’s like the air has been sucked out of the room. I quickly make an announcement so that the office can return to its functioning state and keep me out of the center view. “Guys, thank you. Thank you, but I did not know the man. It’s fine, return to work”. I quickly excuse myself, calling my mom.

“Mom, what the hell?!”, I scream into the phone, tucking myself into the bathroom.

“What did I do now?! Watch your language young lady!” she instantly scolds me.

“I thought dad was dead. I thought you said he passed when I was two, from that boating accident?” I question, immediately hoping that Tracy had the wrong number.

“Well….yeah, about that honey…” she led off.

I hit ‘end’ quicker than I could think. I had a dad. I had a dad this whole time, and she hid him from me. Why? Why would she do that, and how could she do that. Deciding to deal with her later, I dial back the number left on my machine.

“Hi Tracy, this is June calling you back”.

“June, I am so glad we caught you, there has been a bit of a snag with the paperwork! Can you come down to our office today before 5 p.m.?”

I head towards Smith & Green funeral home. The golden double doors were laden with lions and other gold flourishes, and bigger than any doors I had ever seen before. I was met with the smell of bleach and lavender. It was sterile, but homey.

“Hiya, are you June?” a voice quipped out of nowhere.

“Ye-yeah, that’s me.” My voice coming out quieter than I hoped. I cleared my throat trying again, “I am looking for Tracy”.

“Yes we have been expecting you. Come, lets sit in my office.” She led me through another set of golden double doors, entering a large spacious office with lots of natural light. “Sit, sit”, she cooed.

I sat hesitantly, waiting for an explanation, trying not to fidget in my seat.

“So, the paperwork is almost all settled, we just had a small hiccup with the processing, as we need your signature in order to deposit it into your bank account.” Tracy started.

“Bank account? My signature?” My voice laced with confusion and hesitancy. Tracy quickly caught on, laughing as she threw her hands in the air.

With small flip of her wrists, she started, “Oh honey, it’s no big deal. We just can’t deposit that large of an amount without prior authorization. It really is no big deal”. The smile on her face not reaching her eyes and she tried to read me.

“What money? Do I owe money to you, or was he in some type of debt? I can’t help right now; it really isn’t a good time. I’m overdue and over drafted-“ the words tripping out of my mouth as the panic begins to rise. I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck begin to rise, the way the do when I know I am going to puke.

She quickly cuts me off, “Oh honey no! No! You have it all wrong. Your father left you money. $20,000 to be exact. I know it isn’t much, but it is what he had set aside for you at the time of his death. We just need your signature in order to deposit it into your account!”.

I walked out of the office after signing paperwork, $20,000 richer, and holding a little black notebook. Tracy said that it had been delivered along with his body, the will stating that it was to be given to me in case of his early death. My hand traced over the engraving on the outside, as if I had owned the book my whole life and engraved it myself. I went home and locked myself in my bedroom, curling under my covers, needing so desperately to escape from the day I had. I opened the book, and heavy tears instantly rained down on the inked page. My birthdate. My weight. 07/24/1998, 8 pounds and 4 ounces of pure joy. 19 inches long, with midnight black hair and hazel eyes. A picture of this stranger holding me in the hospital is taped to the page, his twinkling eyes and dark hair identical to the infant he’s holding. I trace the picture, outlining his face and longing for the man that he could have been in my life. I flip through the pages each page a diary of when he thought of me.

Page after page I flipped through and saw that I had a father that cared for me and loved me. He was a teacher that travelled the world living with and learning from desolate tribes long forgotten in the modern world. Stick drawings and clay substances had been forged into some of the pages. Other pages had leaves and flowers pressed between the pages, with only notes of “Atacama”, or “Namibia”. My father helped develop and share culture with these indigenous tribes, opening up a platform that allowed them to together communicate, share ideas, and expand their knowledge and creativity. He understood that to write and communicate was to express human civilization, and that the act of writing was both deeply powerful, and universal, even to desolate indigenous tribes who learned little of the outside world. The book was only half full.

I knew what I had to do. I was going to finish my dads’ journey, by beginning my own. I posted my house for sale and bought a one-way ticket to New Zealand. To visit indigenous Maori tribes there seemed as good a place to start as any. I had a new purpose in life, and I knew that to create a platform of freedom and creativity among strangers was how I wanted to spend my life. Giving my bags a once over at the airport, I looked at the book on last time. My thumbs habitually skimmed over the engraving, Modo&Modo, before stuffing it into my carry-on. I board the plane and am sat next to a small toddler and his mum. The little lad is crying before we even take off, and I have instantly have an idea. I pull out my notebook and begin a game of tic-tac-toe.