Before We Wore Black

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Behind me, clouds boiled darkly, scarred here and there by jagged patches of light, constantly shifting by the whims of the wind. A storm was approaching, bearing the dregs of the past and heralding in an undreamed future. The wind hurled tiny needles of refreshing rain into my face as I hurried on to meet Elke at the bus stop, from where we would be ferried to the train. That part of the plan proved fruitless, as the storm had other plans, and I found myself flashing back to another time. . .

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It was a stormy May morning in 1985, and my wife at the time had just gone into labor. I couldn't help but smile to myself as we drove the Cutlass to the hospital, directly into the approaching storm. From what I'd been told, it was a day not unlike the morning I entered into the world some thirty years earlier. Margeaux would enter the world with a dramatic flourish, after all. . .

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The light rail train moved almost silently, shielding us from the storm without as we made our way through the concrete corridors of Dallas. The train was crowded, packed with an odd combination of weary office workers still strapped to laptops, street hustlers just beginning their workday, and assorted laborers, vagabond tourists and sullen city dwellers. Nobody talks much on those afternoon commutes. Elke and I were no different. We sat across from each other, exchanging nervous smiles and clasping each other's hand. I couldn't know what thoughts were racing through her head at this point. The daughter I'd been trying to find for 18 years was waiting just a few stops down the line. . .

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There was no happier man in the history of the universe than me when I first held Margeaux. I was in the delivery room when she emerged, and except for the doctor and the nurse, I was the first one to hold her. Imagine an ocean flowing over you, drowning you in the unknown, suffocating you, then releasing you you into a universe you could never have imagined, where an infinite future beckons. Imagine all that happening in a moment of touch, and you have a vague idea of how I felt when I first held my daughter. . .

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Light rail trains don't lurch to a stop--they glide imperceptibly to their destination, and if you're not paying attention, you'll float right by. The storm had subsided, but the gray skies against the skyscrapers of downtown Dallas--a hodgepodge of gargoyles, urban statuary and pale blue glass towers--only enhanced my odd sense of noir-ish ennui. I should have been nervous--I'd only reconnected with Margeaux two weeks earlier, and we'd only spoken via phone. It all happened so quickly that I didn't even have a current photo of her. She told me she was a bit on the goth side, and that she would be wearing black. That couldn't be too difficult--Elke and I would most likely be wearing black, also. After all, it simplifies laundry. . .

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We laughed a lot during those first few years-- at least, that's what the photos indicate. They're all full of bright colors and smiles, typical of happy dreams. The marriage was going south even then, though. The divorce was messy, I was blindsided, and despite court orders, Margeaux vanished from my life for a while, gone to parts unknown. I never gave up hope, though, and neither did she. . .

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The wind whipped in all directions as Elke and I raced to the Greyhound bus station. The storm had put us behind schedule for what would be the singlemost momentous event of our lives. She was rushing headlong into stepmotherhood, I was about to meet my baby daughter all grown up, and somewhere in that bus station was Margeaux, who I just knew had to be wondering what the hell she's gotten herself into. . .

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Enough flashbacks raced through my head to fill several books. I wondered what flashbacks Margeaux had on her bus trip. And I wondered what was going through Elke's head. . .

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Once again, storms turned out to be a salvation--Margeaux had come in from West Texas, and ridden the storm all the way. Some things never change. Elke and I, somewhat bedraggled but nonetheless for wear, were waiting as the bus pulled into the station. It was a cacophany in the Greyhound station, but we made our way to what had to be the bus from West Texas. Elke saw her first--"That's Margeaux!" she shouted, even though she'd never seen her before. (She said later it was the lips.) I looked up, dumfounded. . .

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Beauty, I know, is subjective. But when Margeaux first emerged from the Greyhound, time stopped for me. Her hair was raven black now,and draped over her shoulders, accentuated by twin ponytails, but I flashed back to her auburn tresses when she was three. Her eyes were accented with black eyeliner, making them even larger than when she was a baby. She was wearing a black jacket and indigo jeans, and I couldn't help but chuckle-- it was hardly goth. . .

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Margeaux and I had already made a pact we wouldn't cry when we met--and we didn't. But when we hugged, eighteen years of uncertainty were washed away in a nanosecond. She had heard tales of me, most of which ended in my demise. And I, considering her age wondered if she had been shipped off to Iraq, among other outcomes. Neither of us ever gave up, though.

She found some of my Blogcritics writings, and wondered if that guy might be her father. I searched for her, and thanks to the unique spelling of her name, found her in a martial arts forum. The hunt, as it were, was on..

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I had just come back from lunch when a co-worker told me I had a call. "Your daughter's on the line," he said. I took the call upstairs. The voice on the other end was faltering, nervous. "I think I'm your daughter," she said. . ..

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That was two weeks earlier. Now, I was hoisting her luggage as we made our way home. We didn't talk a lot-- there would be plenty of time for that once we unpacked. For now, the smiles were enough. We'd brought three umbrellas--Margeaux chose the black one.

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It didn't really matter. The storms had passed to the east, and the future lay ahead.