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Despite the fact that I can’t count the number of nights that I cried myself to sleep wondering why he didn’t care.
I’m still having trouble processing this. Why would anyone get involved with a person in the first place when they’re so sure it’s doomed to fail? Why get married and bring a human being into the world with them?
And, if you’re going to do it, why not at least try to make it work? I mean, I know that getting pregnant with me was an accident, but still.
My dad swaps the can for his plate and, setting it on his lap, begins cutting into his chicken. “So, how are things at home?”
“Uh . . . Fine. Good.” I stumble over my words, startled by how quickly my father has steered the conversation out of the trenches of the past to safe, smooth territory.
“Your mom? Your stepdad? What’s his name again?”
“Simon.”
He nods to himself. “What is he again? A doctor?”
“Psychiatrist.” I push around a piece of chicken with my fork, not hungry anymore. Finally I force myself to take a bite, and silently marvel at how tender and juicy it is.
“I knew it was something like that. Smart guy.”
“Super smart. And patient. It’s annoying sometimes, how patient he is.”
Dad’s face cracks a smile. One that fades quickly. “But he’s been good to you and your mom?”
“He’s been the best.” He’s been a real father to me.
And he would remind me to quiet that voice that fuels this lingering bitterness right about now, and remember why I came to Alaska.
But does he know about these phone calls that happened so long ago? He pays the bills. I’ve seen him combing through statements. Would he have figured out that it wasn’t me calling Alaska, but my mother?
My anger with her flares suddenly. Does she realize how good Simon is to her? That she might not deserve him?
My dad chews unhurriedly. Mom said he’s a slow eater. I wonder if that’s the case now, or if he’s using it as an excuse to avoid further conversation.
Eventually, he swallows. “So, tell me what you’ve been up to since we last talked.”
“You want to know about the last twelve years of my life?” I don’t mean it to come out sounding snarky.
He shrugs. “Unless you’ve got big plans tonight.”
“No, I can’t say I do.” Smoothing on a face mask and killing hours on social media until I fall asleep.
“Well then, I guess we’ve got time . . .” He lifts his can in the air and winks. “And Jonah’s beer.”
“Why are you smiling like that?”
My dad shakes his head, his smile growing wider. He’s long since finished his dinner and is leaning against a porch post about ten feet away from me, a cigarette burning between his fingers. “Nothing. It’s just, listening to you talk, it reminds me of all those phone calls over the years.”
I grin sheepishly. “You mean when I wouldn’t shut up?”
He chuckles. “Sometimes you’d be on such a roll that I’d have to put the phone down and walk away if I needed a restroom break. I’d come back a minute later and you’d still be talking away, none the wiser.”
“Are you saying you need to use the bathroom now?”
He eases open the porch screen door and empties the last dribs of his beer on the grass. We’ve shared two cans apiece, the remnants of Jonah’s six-pack that my dad brought back with him. “Actually, I think I’m going to hit the hay. I’m wiped.”
Tension eases back into my spine. I’d lost it for a time there—busy filling my dad in on my degree, my job, my recent layoff, Diana and the website, even Corey, who I’d given no thought to since leaving Toronto. Somewhere along the line, I forgot about reality. Now it comes back with a vengeance.
Is he tired because he’s had a long day?
