“Oh, honey," she gives me a gentle squeeze, "I hope that will be good for you.”
I nod. I have no clue what I’ll even say to her mom – my biological grandmother.
I’d taken a week to process the news of my possible birth parents, and then finally moved forward with getting paternity testing done on Jackson Roe and myself. When the results came back as a positive match, I finally googled Brandy’s name, only to find an obituary from fifteen years ago indicating that she’d died at just thirty-nine years old and was buried outside the city at the church she attended during her younger years with her parents.
When I’d contacted the church for more information, I’d been redirected to her only living relative, her mother, my biological grandmother, Catherine.
We’d arranged a meeting at her home in West Hollywood for today around noon and I was both anxiously dreading it while also excited and hopeful for some answers behind the woman who gave birth to me twenty-six years ago.
“I’m going to go take my coffee on the terrace.”
Ms. Golden nods knowingly with a smile.
It’d been a tradition for the past month I’d spent here on and off to have my coffee and breakfast burrito on the terrace while watching the sunrise with Mr. Roe.
It still felt odd to think about ever calling him dad. To me, he wasn’t my dad. My dad was back in Lonestar Junction, probably playing pickleball with Dallas right now and shooting whiskey while helping him clear out Golden farm and prepare for the fall crops he had planned. Clyde Hart was the only father I’d ever known who had supported and loved me throughout my entire life while encouraging me to pursue my dreams.
Yet, I understood that Jackson Roe had never had the opportunity to be a father to me. I wanted to honor that reality while still taking the chance to get to know him better. And these early morning coffee sessions had proven to do just that. And surprisingly, it turned out, Jackson Roe and I have a lot more in common than I’d ever anticipated.
“Ah, good morning, Paloma,” he says smiling, "it's going to be another beautiful day in sunny California."
Other than Dallas, Jackson was the only other person who ever called me Paloma anymore. When I’d deftly declared to my family at just fourteen years old that I’d only answer to Dove going forward, even my parents, who’d chosen the beautiful name for me after adopting me, respected my wishes to go by Dove.
But there was something tender in hearing my given name from my biological father’s lips.
“Where are you headed today? Back on tour?”
I shake my head as I stretch my arms overhead and then slip into a seat next to him. “I'm going to visit Brandy’s mother in west Hollywood.”
“Now that sounds interesting.”
I smile, “I hope it’s good. I’m nervous to learn more about her. This time we’ve spent together has showed me that I’d always thought my creativity and love for performing came from her and her career, but now I’m starting to realize I got a lot of that from you, too.”
He smiles and nods, “Yes, Brandy was a natural performer. Never afraid to take the stage. Always bold and confident. I’d like to think you've got a bit of both of us in you.”
“Do you have any idea why?” I ask, biting my lip, a question I’ve been holding off on asking Jackson for the past month of my sporadic visits to their home in the midst of concerts and flying around the country. “Why she might have decided not to tell you about me? T feels a bit unfair to you.”
His eyes look out over the ocean beyond the horizon while he shakes his head. “Brandy was complicated in many ways. An only child to two parents who were quite critical of her career choice to work in film. I don't think she kept in touch with them throughout her twenties which means she probably didn't have much support.” He rubs his jaw, “As I recall it, she didn’t have any support from family or friends for that matter. Beyond that, I didn’t know much about her personal life. I can only assume that the pregnancy was a shock to her.”
I nod again, I’d prepared myself for that all last night when I’d laid in bed, not sleeping. Truthfully, I’d been preparing myself for this conversation since I was a child, and my parents took the time to explain to me sensitively the special way that I'd becomea part of the Hart family.
“Unfortunately, you may never get the full answers you're seeking since she's no longer here to tell you herself, Paloma. And for that I’m so sorry. Truly.”
I nod again. Knowing it isn’t his fault that he didn’t that that I'd existed, or that Brandy was gone.
“Well, I better go get ready. Have to stop by the studio first to talk to my manager before I head over there.”
He smiles again, “Have you heard from that son of mine lately? Ms. Golden wants to go down to visit him soon in Texas.”
“I got a letter from him yesterday. He said he’s planting his fall harvest now. You should spend Thanksgiving with us there this year.”
Jackson nods, “We’d love that.”
A few hours later, I've wrapped up at the studio and am heading across town to Catherine's home in West Hollywood. Her quaint house, nestled in a middle-class neighborhood, features charming trim, and brightly painted pink shutters, typical of the eclectic, personality-filled homes in Los Angeles. I park my rental car, walk to the front door, and knock gently, nervously fidgeting with the plain black dress I’d chosen for this meeting with my birth mother's only living relative and overthinking every single detail.
“Hello?” a slightly, older woman with kind, brown eyes and vibrant blonde hair opens the door. She must be in her early 60s now, but other than the way her eyes slightly tilt up at the corners, giving her a slight doe-like impression, I don’t see any resemblance to myself in her.
“Hi, Catherine, I’m Paloma Hart.”
