Free 16 Things I Thought Were True by Janet Gurtler

Canada.”
    Of course he did.
    God. This must explain my strange addiction to maple syrup.
    â€œI’ll be back in a minute,” I manage, and then I rush out of the room. As soon as my toes touch the floor in the hallway, tears burst out of my eyes. The boys are close. Josh is holding a baggie filled with ice chips. My face must look bad, because they both rush to me as I bend over to catch my breath.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” Jake says and pats on my back. “Is Mom okay?”
    I lift my head, unable to speak. It’s stupid, but it’s the fact that he lives in Canada that slays me. He lives in a different country.
    The boys run past me into her room. I start walking. My feet move quickly, until I’m running. Everything I’ve been holding is fighting to come out. The operation is over. Mom is okay. My dad is alive and his name is Bob White. And the thing that tilts me over the edge is that he doesn’t even live in America, that he’s Canadian.
    And now, I’m a mess.
    I jump on the elevator to the main floor, ignoring the smiles of an old man in a hospital gown pushing around an oxygen tank he’s hooked up to. I don’t have room in my heart for other people or their troubles. When the elevator door opens, I walk out quickly, avoiding people’s eyes until I’m outside the hospital on the sidewalk.
    It’s dark outside, and I’m surprised the sun is down, though when I think of it, I can’t tell when the day started and when it ended. I pull my phone from my pocket, turn it on, and walk to the path that leads behind the hospital. My phone beeps in quick succession, letting me know there are new messages. I ignore them and walk to a nearby bench and plunk my butt down. My heart beats triple time as I click on the Google icon. I type in Bob White + Victoria BC, take a breath, and press search. The connection is slow.
    Finally the search brings up a few links. I scan down. One is a pharmacy website, another advertises a paint shop. I sift through pop-ups and see images of people attached to the name Bob White. There’s an artist, a businessmen, even a politician. I wonder which one of them is dear old Dad. I’m furious I can’t tell by looking.
    I scroll up and down, clicking on links but nothing jumps out at me, nothing screams, This is your father, Morgan McLean. You’ve come to the right place. Please call this number to speak with the man who made you.
    I’m disappointed. I’m angry. I want to eat carbs. How am I ever going to find him?
    I tap my way out of Google, to the Twitter icon, and click on it. I think about tweeting my dad’s name, telling my followers about him—asking for help tracking him down online. But no. I want to do this organically. I don’t want anyone or anything to warn him that I’m onto him now. I want to go find him with the element of surprise on my side.
    I scroll down, but my heart isn’t in any of the things my friends are tweeting. I can’t concentrate, and I’m close to typing a tweet to express my distress, something I vowed never to do. My online image is peppy. I don’t want to drag people down.
    I click out of Twitter and go to my phone. I stare at Adam’s contact number, and then for the first time in my life, initiate a call with a boy. One that has nothing to do with work. Or school.
    When Adam’s voice mail picks up, I hang up without leaving a message. He has to have caller ID. He’ll know it was me. If he wants to call me back, he will.
    My phone beeps, letting me know a new text came in. I glance at it and frown. It’s from my mom’s phone. But how could she possibly send a text? She must have gotten Jake to do it. Or Josh. I glance at the message.
    It’s a picture of a man. I enlarge the image and look closer. It’s a picture from a newspaper article. He’s wearing a golf cap, but it’s clear what he looks