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I nod. “I know. I used to think she didn’t want to meet anyone because of me. But when I asked her, she told me she was happy being single and that another man would just complicate her life.”
My father shakes his head, his eyes lowered. “I asked her to marry me.”
“Really?” I don’t know why I never knew this.
He nods slowly, his smile gone. “When we found out she was pregnant, then again after you were born, and every couple of years after that until you were about ten.” He looks down at his still-untouched fish and chips. I’m not sure what’s bothering him. It’s not like him not to dig into his favorite food.
“I didn’t know.” I reach my hand out to rest it on his. “She was always so upset when you left. It would take her weeks to bounce back to normal.”
He looks up at me. “Really? She never told me that.”
I shrug in confusion. I don’t understand my parents’ relationship, and it seems like my father doesn’t either.
“Pabbi, why did you keep asking her after she said no the first time?”
His shoulders draw up, then drop down again. “I love her. Always have. She’s the one person in the world who truly knows me, and that’s special. I used to dream of us being a real family, even though I knew it was never going to be possible. At least not the way I would have wanted. Your mother and I have often talked about it. If we’d married young, we probably wouldn’t have lasted. I’ll be the first to admit I’m a selfish bastard. Our friendship would have been lost, and we needed to be in each other’s life more than we needed to be married.”
My heart breaks for him. I know traveling the world was often lonely because he’d call my mother and talk to her for hours.
My father turns his hand over, and I take a proper hold of it. The callused fingers from years of playing guitar are rough but also warm and comforting.
“I think you’re the least selfish person I know when it comes to Mum and me. I love you, Pabbi.”
“Love you too.” He draws in a deep breath, and it shudders out.
“This moment isn’t going to be a new bestselling song, is it?” I ask, making an effort to lighten the atmosphere.
He chokes out a laugh. “Not a bad idea.” He has written a couple of songs about us over the years, and each time, it fills my heart when I hear them played. Which—in the case of my favorite song and one of the band’s best-selling—is frequent.
Lunch with my father is an enjoyable treat, but sadly, over too soon. His visits will never feel long enough.
He filled me in on the recent album he worked on in Los Angeles, a debut he is producing for an American band, and one he just finished for a globally recognized female singer. Apparently, she was a real diva.
To the world, my father is a famous producer and an aging, sometimes-touring rock star. But to me, he is just Pabbi, and I love him. I only wish we could spend more time together like this.
“I guess I should be getting back to your mother. I promised we’d spend the afternoon together, and you know how she hates being stuck indoors when the weather is so nice out.”
“Oh yes. She’s already bored, and it’s only been a couple of days. Those poor nurses trying to keep her in one place.”
He laughs. “She tried to convince me to help her get out of the bed this morning. I’ve done some crazy, wild things in my time, but I refused to do that. I had to tell the nurses to keep a close eye on her in case she tries to do it on her own.”
“That woman,” I declare with an exaggerated eye roll.
His deep, rumbling chuckle echoes around the alcove. “She’s one of a kind. Just like our beautiful, talented daughter.”
“Thanks, Pabbi.”
One day I hope to find that same kind of love my parents share, someone who truly knows me. The only difference is that I want my life partner to be beside me when I go to sleep at night and our bodies entwined when we wake in the morning.
He stands, pulling a cap from his coat pocket and tugging it low over his face. His disguise of sorts. I rise to give him a hug.
“Elska big lika,” he says, he says, squeezing me tighter, and I feel the embrace all the way to my heart.
“I love you too,” I reply, releasing him. The ache in my chest after another goodbye is sadly familiar as I watch him leave.
Embla slides onto the bench seat beside me, her arm winding around my shoulders. My head, too heavy to hold upright, falls to rest on hers, and I shed a few tears. We don’t speak; there’s no need. She knows I hate saying goodbye to my father, not knowing when I’ll see him again.
***
