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It wasn’t his usual look. He was always charming, cracking jokes. His normal behavior was more suitable for a teenager than a fifty-year-old divorced architect, but at least it answered the one-million-dollar question: what did his numerous twenty-year-old girlfriends find in him?
Answer: Richard Hartley was as fun as a frat boy and had the wallet of a… well, a fifty-year-old architect.
I assumed this was the reason his young PA fell for him after their brief affair while my parents were still married. One day she came knocking on our door to inform my mother she was sleeping with dad and to make a scene, both of which lead to their divorce six months later.
My father squinted and cleared his throat. He looked frustrated.
“We have to talk.”
Was he holding me responsible for not telling him about mom? I braced myself for the blow. He rubbed his cheek.
“Your mother is in rehab.”
Pause.
“She caused the fire.”
Pause.
“Well, not on purpose,” he reached for my hand. I let him squeeze it. My heart was sinking into a huge pond of guilt. “She swears it was an accident. I can’t image how hard it must have been for you. To watch her fall apart like that and to have no clue what to do to help her.”
There were two problems with that statement. I knew exactly what I had to do, I just didn’t want to do it. And I definitely thought she didn’t deserve any help. Not from me anyway. But I knew better and kept these thoughts to myself.
“Where is she?” I asked, avoiding the conversation he obviously wanted us to have.
“She’s close. There is a great center in Nevada. I drove her there and settled her in.”
“How did you know?” I asked.
“Doctors figured it out. She cried the whole drive to the center. She can’t believe you almost died because of her.”
Oh wow. Mother of the year.
“I don’t want to rush you,” he continued. “We could talk about this if you need to, but we have a bigger problem,” my father said hesitantly.
I forced myself to stay calm.
“Our house burnt down, we could have been dead. How is there a bigger problem?”
“I know. I know,” he sighed and held his head between his palms. “God, I know. I can’t even imagine getting that call. It was nerve-wrecking when I knew you were safe.”
“What’s the big problem then?” I cut his drama performance short. I had to know what was wrong.
“The program your mother will have to complete is… long,” he watched me like I was about to burst, which I was, mostly because I already sensed where this was going.
“I’m not moving,” I said nonchalantly.
“Clem…”
“I.Am.Not.Moving.”
“I think it’s the healthiest option for you. I already talked with a great therapist in Seattle. You could start seeing him this week.”
“A therapist now?” a dark chuckle escaped my lips. “No.”
“Clem,” he warned.
“Dad,” I mimicked his voice.
