The Man In the Photograph

August 15, 2010

ERIC

I signed in to Facebook for the first time in about a week. So far my campaign to find my family had been fruitless. My caseworker agreed it was a good idea to get the photo circulating. I reshared it from time to time, hoping that someone out there might recognize me. This time, as soon as I logged in, I had a message pop up. It was from someone named Genesis Northman. The name didn't ring any bells for me whatsoever, but I accepted it all the same.

At least it wasn't a guy from India trying to make sex with me. It was a little disturbing how frequently those messages came across. I wouldn't have thought I was their type, but different strokes for different folks.

After accepting the message, what Genesis had typed came up.

Hello Mr. Wilson,

My name is Genesis Northman. In September of 1992 my dad left for a business trip to San Francisco. He was supposed to be going to a boating convention there. He never made it to check in. He didn't even make it to his hotel. We never heard from him again. My mother and I have been searching for him since then. We have never given up hope of finding him alive, but we have prepared ourselves for the very real possibility that he could be dead. There has been no use of his social security number in the last almost eighteen years.

We have had my DNA tested so that the results could be sent around the country to see if they match any of the John Does in morgues. So far, there has not been a match. Then today, I was scrolling through my newsfeed and I saw the photo you posted from January of 1985. You and a bald, chubby baby lying on a couch together. My mother about fainted when she saw it.

That baby was me, Mr. Wilson, and the man in that photo was you. But your name is not Scott Wilson. We know you as Eric Northman. Your post says you have been searching for your family since October of 1992.

Here we are, Mr. Wilson. We would love to hear from you.

Sincerely,

Your daughter Genesis & your wife, Sookie

I read the message again. Then a third time.

Then I cried. Actually, I was crying before that but the dams broke after the third read through. I had a family. People had been looking for me. For all this time, I wasn't forgotten. I belonged to someone. With someone.

A wife.

A daughter.

The relief was... it was amazing.

I knew my name. For the first time in almost twenty years, I knew my name. Scott Wilson seemed like a good, solid name but it never really felt like it was me. Eric Northman. I let the name roll around in my brain to see if it triggered anything. It didn't, but it didn't matter.

What mattered was being able to get my hands to stop shaking enough to type a response to the baby I had been thinking about every day since I woke up in October of 1992.

Dear Genesis,

You have no idea how happy I am to hear from you. In October of 1992 I walked up to a fire station in Pontiac, Illinois with no recollection of who I was or how I got there. One minute everything was black and the next I was lying on the side of the highway with just a small duffle bag and no clues as to who I was or where I came from. Doctors say that I have retrograde amnesia but there was no evidence to suggest I suffered any sort of head trauma. Psychiatrists argue that I have been in a fugue state, that something traumatic must have happened to lock away my past. I don't know which side is correct, but I have been living a shell of a life for the last eighteen years, hoping that maybe someday someone would see this photo and know who I am.