“Tanner. You’re here.”
I turn at the grizzled voice in the doorway. My face probably shows my surprise but it’s too late to cover my reaction. When Patrick mentioned that my father was ill, it didn’t really hit me that he would look sick. But this elderly man in a wheelchair is not what I was expecting. I don’t bother correcting my name. He can call me whatever. I don’t plan to be here enough for it to matter.
“Yes. I’m here.”
“Would you like something to drink? They have lemonade. You always did like lemonade.”
“I liked it when I was eight, Dad.” The word slips out before I can stop it and it annoys me. I don’t want to call him that. He hasn’t earned the right to that title.
His face falls slightly but he recovers, wheeling himself over to the sideboard. He selects a decanter and pours himself a drink. “Of course. You’d probably be more likely to want a scotch right about now.”
The fact that he’s right only ratchets my irritation higher.
“Actually I don’t want anything. I’m not here for a drink. You already know why I’m here. Mom needs surgery so I need the money. It’s that simple.”
“I don’t have any right to ask but I’ll ask anyway. Why does she need surgery?”
Keeping it a secret out of spite crosses my mind but who would that serve? He can’t hurt her anymore at this point. Maybe if he realizes that she’s sick and needs me, he’ll let me out of these stupid scheduled visits.
“It’s cancer. She has breast cancer.”
He tosses the drink back but before he does, I see that his hand is shaking.
“My lawyer said she was sick. But I didn’t realize it was cancer. I didn’t realize.” He wheels himself over to the window and looks out. In profile he looks almost sad. It’s unsettling to see this display of emotion. I don’t think of him as being sad or regretful.
In my mind, I am always eight years old and he is a spoiled, middle-aged man on a perpetual hunt for youth and excitement. The man before me now, this broken shell of a man, is someone that I don’t know. His pain isn’t something I want to see because it’s so much easier to remember him as a bastard who walked out on his family than to see him as a man who regrets what he did.
“I apologize for forcing you into these meetings. But it was the only way that I could get you here.”
“But why? Why was it so important for you to see each of us? And why the weekly visits?”
He doesn’t meet my eyes. “I have my reasons.”
His evasiveness pisses me off. Again, it’s him pushing us around and structuring things to his perspective. He couldn’t care less about how it affects me, Mom or Finn.
“I just wanted to see my children. I may have figured it out too late but you are my greatest accomplishments.”
Despite the heartfelt speech, I can sense that there’s a lot he isn’t telling me. There’s an ocean between us filled with half-truths and assumptions. It’s like yelling across a great distance trying to be heard. And I find I’m just too damned tired to even try anymore.
“Well, you can see me but that’s all. The papers said I had to show up. They didn’t say I had to make small talk.” I sit in one of the armchairs and glance at my watch.
Fifty-five minutes and counting …
After an uncomfortable hour staring at my shoes, I get up and leave. My father looks disappointed. I guess he thought that by forcing me to come here, that we’d eventually talk and make up. That an entire lifetime of him not being there could be erased with a pleasant afternoon.
I didn’t take my bike today and I wish I had. A hard and dirty ride is exactly what I need to purge this restless rage from my blood. My thoughts turn to Emma. She’s right, I know she is, that we need to keep our distance. But now I’m stuck in this endless limbo, wondering where she is and whether she’s okay. That way lies madness so I decide to just drive.
I end up at Finn’s place. His car is still in the same parking space. He must be leaving though since he’s agreed to the weekly visits with dear old dad as well.
“Finn? Hello?”
He appears to my left, coming from the hallway leading to the bedrooms. “Hey. What’s up?”
“Nothing. I just got back from seeing our father.”
“No wonder you look homicidal.”
I put my feet up on the coffee table. The television is on but the sound is muted. It’s one of those news commentary shows where people are always yelling at each other and trying to sound more knowledgeable about world events than they actually are.
“I met our brothers. That was interesting.” Finn sits on the couch next to me. He looks better. More alert. His eyes don’t have the bleary quality they get when he’s taking the pain pills.
“You did? When?”
“Right after you sent me the information. I drove over to their shop and we hung out for a minute. I would have gone with you that day if you’d told me.”
I shake my head. “I wasn’t sure if they’d be open to us. I was just feeling things out.”
“They were cool. I have to admit it was weird to see that one that looks like you. Gabe.”
I grunt in response. Finn narrows his eyes. “You’re not listening to anything I’m saying. Why are you really here?”
“I have no idea.”
“Where’s Emma?”
I turn at the grizzled voice in the doorway. My face probably shows my surprise but it’s too late to cover my reaction. When Patrick mentioned that my father was ill, it didn’t really hit me that he would look sick. But this elderly man in a wheelchair is not what I was expecting. I don’t bother correcting my name. He can call me whatever. I don’t plan to be here enough for it to matter.
“Yes. I’m here.”
“Would you like something to drink? They have lemonade. You always did like lemonade.”
“I liked it when I was eight, Dad.” The word slips out before I can stop it and it annoys me. I don’t want to call him that. He hasn’t earned the right to that title.
His face falls slightly but he recovers, wheeling himself over to the sideboard. He selects a decanter and pours himself a drink. “Of course. You’d probably be more likely to want a scotch right about now.”
The fact that he’s right only ratchets my irritation higher.
“Actually I don’t want anything. I’m not here for a drink. You already know why I’m here. Mom needs surgery so I need the money. It’s that simple.”
“I don’t have any right to ask but I’ll ask anyway. Why does she need surgery?”
Keeping it a secret out of spite crosses my mind but who would that serve? He can’t hurt her anymore at this point. Maybe if he realizes that she’s sick and needs me, he’ll let me out of these stupid scheduled visits.
“It’s cancer. She has breast cancer.”
He tosses the drink back but before he does, I see that his hand is shaking.
“My lawyer said she was sick. But I didn’t realize it was cancer. I didn’t realize.” He wheels himself over to the window and looks out. In profile he looks almost sad. It’s unsettling to see this display of emotion. I don’t think of him as being sad or regretful.
In my mind, I am always eight years old and he is a spoiled, middle-aged man on a perpetual hunt for youth and excitement. The man before me now, this broken shell of a man, is someone that I don’t know. His pain isn’t something I want to see because it’s so much easier to remember him as a bastard who walked out on his family than to see him as a man who regrets what he did.
“I apologize for forcing you into these meetings. But it was the only way that I could get you here.”
“But why? Why was it so important for you to see each of us? And why the weekly visits?”
He doesn’t meet my eyes. “I have my reasons.”
His evasiveness pisses me off. Again, it’s him pushing us around and structuring things to his perspective. He couldn’t care less about how it affects me, Mom or Finn.
“I just wanted to see my children. I may have figured it out too late but you are my greatest accomplishments.”
Despite the heartfelt speech, I can sense that there’s a lot he isn’t telling me. There’s an ocean between us filled with half-truths and assumptions. It’s like yelling across a great distance trying to be heard. And I find I’m just too damned tired to even try anymore.
“Well, you can see me but that’s all. The papers said I had to show up. They didn’t say I had to make small talk.” I sit in one of the armchairs and glance at my watch.
Fifty-five minutes and counting …
After an uncomfortable hour staring at my shoes, I get up and leave. My father looks disappointed. I guess he thought that by forcing me to come here, that we’d eventually talk and make up. That an entire lifetime of him not being there could be erased with a pleasant afternoon.
I didn’t take my bike today and I wish I had. A hard and dirty ride is exactly what I need to purge this restless rage from my blood. My thoughts turn to Emma. She’s right, I know she is, that we need to keep our distance. But now I’m stuck in this endless limbo, wondering where she is and whether she’s okay. That way lies madness so I decide to just drive.
I end up at Finn’s place. His car is still in the same parking space. He must be leaving though since he’s agreed to the weekly visits with dear old dad as well.
“Finn? Hello?”
He appears to my left, coming from the hallway leading to the bedrooms. “Hey. What’s up?”
“Nothing. I just got back from seeing our father.”
“No wonder you look homicidal.”
I put my feet up on the coffee table. The television is on but the sound is muted. It’s one of those news commentary shows where people are always yelling at each other and trying to sound more knowledgeable about world events than they actually are.
“I met our brothers. That was interesting.” Finn sits on the couch next to me. He looks better. More alert. His eyes don’t have the bleary quality they get when he’s taking the pain pills.
“You did? When?”
“Right after you sent me the information. I drove over to their shop and we hung out for a minute. I would have gone with you that day if you’d told me.”
I shake my head. “I wasn’t sure if they’d be open to us. I was just feeling things out.”
“They were cool. I have to admit it was weird to see that one that looks like you. Gabe.”
I grunt in response. Finn narrows his eyes. “You’re not listening to anything I’m saying. Why are you really here?”
“I have no idea.”
“Where’s Emma?”
