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“So, I know you didn’t make the drive out here just to see your old man. What’s going on?”
I grimace. “Twist that guilt knife, won’t you?” I mean, he works in Manhattan, I work in Manhattan ... he could call me. He’s just pissed that I’m still playing hockey, and acting like a petulant toddler who’s not used to being told no.
He gives me a wry grin. “That’s a father’s job, isn’t it?”
“And you do it so very well. All right, here’s the deal. My mother’s in town, and she kept texting me until I blocked her, and then she tried to reach me through a friend, and when that didn’t work, she showed up at a public event I was attending.”
He narrows his eyes.
“Has she tried to reach you?” I ask him.
“No, but the last time she tried to call, I threatened to have her served with a restraining order. You always go too easy on her.” He shakes his head, his brow furrowing, and runs his fingers through his thick, dark hair. He’s gray at the temples, and now that I’m here, I see that his hair has more gray in it too.
“I know,” I sigh. “And it’s coming back to bite me in the ass.” Just like a rabbit-shaped bush.
“Well, how can I help? What would you like me to do?”
“Nothing right now. I just wanted to let you know, in case things get ugly. I’m meeting her in a couple of days at a café on Broadway—”
“Mistake,” my father interrupts.
“Maybe. I just want to find out why she’s so persistently trying to get in touch with me. I mean, she knows I’m not going to give her any cash ...”
My voice trails off.
My father heaves a deep sigh, and pity shines in his eyes.
“What?” I ask him.
He shakes his head. “I think that there’s a part of you that’s hoping she wants a real relationship with her son. And I’m sorry. That’s just not part of her makeup. She does not have a maternal bone in her body, which is not in any way your fault.”
He’s said that to me a million times. How much I actually believe it, I don’t know. I mean, intellectually, of course, I know that my mother is just a selfish human being and that normal mothers love their children and that there is nothing that I did as a small partially developed human that was so terrible as to drive her away.
But any person who’s been abandoned by a parent will tell you that it sows lifelong seeds of self-doubt.
“I know,” I agree unhappily. The worst part of it is, on some level—a very, very low level, like subterranean—yes, I guess I do kind of hope that my mother has turned into a completely different person, one who genuinely regrets what she did, one who wants a relationship with her only child.
But if that were the case, she wouldn’t have lied through her pretty white teeth at the hospital, trying to blame my father for her abandonment.
“Anyway, my publicist helped me to put together a statement in case she pulls something like going to the press and crying about how her rich son won’t give her two beans and she’s panhandling for soup, or whatever.”
“Sounds like something she’d do.” My father nods. “In fact, I’m surprised she hasn’t gone the press route yet. Wait, publicist? You have a publicist? When did you get one, and why?”
I groan aloud. I didn’t voluntarily get a publicist, of course, but I agreed to it to save my hockey career.
“I’m not talking about it, because it has to do with hockey, and you never want to hear about my profession.”
“Yes, I’ve made that perfectly clear for years. And yet you refuse to listen.”
Heat rises inside me. Why can’t the man appreciate how lucky I am to get to pursue my passion and make a great living doing what I love? “Well, I’m not a kid that you can push around anymore.”
“When have I ever pushed you around?” my father grumbles. “I’d love to, but you’re too damned big. I should get myself a taser.”
I burst into laughter. He gives me a grumpy half-smile.
“Hockey is my passion, Dad. I’ve always loved it. I was always great at it, and honestly, it feels really good to be great at what I love. I love being on the ice, I love the rush I feel, I just ... when I’m on the ice, it transports me. I can’t explain it, I guess. Don’t you ever get that pure feeling of adrenaline rush when you’re ...”
“Playing golf? Can’t say I do. I do like the drinks cart, though. And the cart girls.” He grins at me. I laugh.
