Chapter 31 – pippa
PIPPA
Ishove a forkful of cherry pie into my mouth, humming with satisfaction at the cloying sweetness.
Across the table, Dad laughs. “You know they serve the worst pies in the city here, don’t you?”
“Libel. Slander. Purposeful misinformation,” I sniff.
Sherry’s Diner is the best dessert purveyor in the Toronto area, if you ask me.
It’s also Dad and my special place, the restaurant we always went to for burgers and vanilla milkshakes after my Wednesday art classes.
Their dated, dingy booths and basic greasy-spoon menus haven’t been updated since before I was born.
Dad might complain relentlessly about their food, but I know he doesn’t mean it.
I’ve watched him polish off way too much pie for it to ever be true.
After last night’s fight with Ryan, I needed this—a chance to finally catch up with the uncomplicated half of my parental units, with a side of delicious pie to go with it.
“Thanks for the belated Christmas celebration, Dad.”
“I’m just glad you could fit me in before the new year.
” He reaches across the table and squeezes my hand.
With his brown beard and penchant for red flannel shirts, Dad has always reminded me of the Brawny paper towel man.
Now, there’s a little gray in his beard and more lines around his blue eyes, but he still looks ready to grab an ax and head out into the forest.
“I’m sorry I forgot your present back at home,” he says. “I feel like an idiot. It’s sitting right there on the kitchen counter.”
“That’s okay. It just gives us another reason to come back here for more pie, so you can give it to me.”
The waitress appears at the table with our check, and Dad slides her his credit card. “Can we get a refill on coffee, please?” he asks.
“Sure thing, hon.”
She bustles away, and Dad grabs his fork to get a bite of my pie. I gasp in mock outrage. “I thought you said that pie was terrible!”
He shrugs. “It’s still pie. Terrible pie is better than no pie at all.”
I pull the plate back toward me. “Uh-uh. You don’t get to insult my desert, then take as much as you want.”
“Yes, I do. I raised you, young lady. I changed your diapers.”
“You can’t just use that as an excuse to take advantage of me all the time.”
“Actually, it means I—”
He trails off as the server returns, no coffeepot in hand. Her face is red, and she can’t meet our eyes. “I’m sorry, sir, but your card was declined.”
Dad blinks. “Did you run it again?”
She blushes even deeper. “I did. I’m sorry.”
I dig into my purse for my wallet. “Must be a bank mix-up. Here, I can cover it.” The server gratefully takes the card from my hand. I turn back to Dad, expecting him to be smugly helping himself to another bite of pie. Instead, I find him frozen, his face wan.
“Please don’t tell your mother about this,” he rasps.
“Why not? Like I said, probably a banking error. Maybe something with the holiday.”
“Please, Pips, just don’t say anything. Promise.”
My brow furrows. “Why would it matter?”
“She’d think I’m back into my old habits.” Dull, rhythmic thuds drift from under the table—his foot, tapping nervously. “It was just a bad night. It’ll pick up.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dad.
What’s wrong? What happened?” I’ve never seen Dad like this.
Sure, he’s flaky about plans, irresponsible about stuff like paying bills on time.
But he doesn’t panic about it. His boss, his friends, his landlord—they all know what he’s like.
Charming, but with definite undiagnosed ADHD.
“I thought it had been long enough. I thought I could handle it—the guys all said I could,” he mutters. “I know I can handle it, if I just go back to Mondrakes and win again. Emily wouldn’t see it like that, though.”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying.” I reach over, grabbing his hand again. “What happened, Dad?”
“Nothing. Look, I should go call my bank and see if I can’t get this settled.” He pushes his way out of the booth. “We’ll meet up next week so I can give you your present, okay?”
“Dad, wait a sec, let’s finish our coffee!
” He just waves me off, only turning around halfway as he rushes to the hooks by the door where we hung our coats.
He shoves his arm through the sleeve of his parka and pushes his way out the door before he’s even finished putting it on. I gape at his retreating form.
What the hell just happened?
Pulling out my phone, I open my last text with Dad and try composing a message. My thumbs hover over the digital keyboard as I try to figure out what to say.
Can you tell me what happened?
You freaked me out earlier, and I deserve an explanation.
Let’s just pretend your card worked fine.
Sighing, I settle on the most cowardly approach.
Pippa
Call me when you can, okay?
Almost immediately, dots dance over the screen, telling me he’s typing. They stop and start again. Stop and start. Finally, they stop altogether.
I bite my lip and open a browser. When I google Mondrakes, the results pop up quickly—it’s a private casino. More of a gambling den, really, only talked about on Reddit and on socials.
My blood runs cold. Dad’s mentioned going to casinos a few times before, but always for business meetings. It made sense—he’s a contractor, and networking is a big part of that. It never would have occurred to me to worry about him having a problem.
Maybe it’s nothing. I mean, this is the man who taught me how to ride a bike and sign my name in cursive. He couldn’t have done anything really bad…could he?
I wiggle my toes in my shoes, my old grounding technique. If Dad won’t answer me, the only person I can ask is Mom—but that would feel like a betrayal.
Except…there’s one more person who could probably tell me.
It feels weird to pull up his contact, since I’ve never actually called him. I’ve never texted him, either, unless it was in a family group text. Even then, I don’t think I ever said much to him directly. I wiggle my toes again while I listen to the phone ring on the other side.
“Pippa?” When he picks up, Jack’s voice sounds uncharacteristically puzzled. “What’s going on? Is something wrong?”
“No, nothing’s wrong.” I fiddle nervously with the corners of a sugar packet. “Do you have a minute? There’s something I wanted to ask you.”
“I’m just in my office, catching up on some emails. Go ahead.”
“Do you know what happened between my parents to make them break up?”
For a few beats, he says nothing. “I thought your mother told you what happened.”
“She told me that she fell out of love with him. That it wouldn’t work. But I—I’m starting to think that’s not true.”
Why else would he have been so worried about what my Mom would think of him going to this Mondrakes place?
“Are you sure I’m the person you want to ask about this?”
“I’m sure that you’ll tell me the truth, even if it’s not what you think I want to hear.”
A brief silence. “If we do this, it’s probably best that we keep this conversation between ourselves.”
I swallow. “Okay.”
“When I met Emily, she was very much still in love with your father.”
Pressure builds behind my eyes, the beginnings of a stress headache. I squeeze them shut, trying to stave it off, but it just keeps building.
“I knew that she loved him, but I pursued her anyway,” Jack continues. “How could I let someone so warm, humble, and generous get away? It took her a while to come around to the idea of letting your father go. Eventually, though, she figured out it was the right thing.”
“What if you hadn’t?” I blurt out. “If you hadn’t pursued her, do you think my parents would have gotten back together?”
“No.” His answer is firm, but not unkind.
“Why not?”
Another silent moment. “Your mother didn’t tell you because she wanted to protect your relationship with your father.”
“What didn’t she tell me?”
Jack sighs. “Peter was addicted to gambling. His problems started long before you were born, maybe before he and Emily ever met. She didn’t know when she married him. She didn’t know when he started.”
A cold stone drops in my stomach. I guessed as much from what Dad said, but hearing it confirmed by Jack’s cool, detached voice makes it real and indisputable.
“Eventually, Emily started to notice there were stretches of time he couldn’t account for.
She found credit card bills in the trash, racking up thousands of dollars.
She confronted him, but he reassured her it was temporary—a bad decision he made on a night out with his business partner.
She hoped they could get through it, but it came to a head. ”
I don’t want to know. The truth can’t do anything but hurt me. At the same time, I know it’ll torture me if I don’t ask. “What happened?”
“I really don’t think I’m the right person to be—”
“Just tell me.”
A long sigh, and then, “Alright. One night, your mother came back from a late shift at the hospital. This was back when she was still a nurse, before she was promoted to administrator. She found you in the kitchen with a bloody paper towel on your finger. You must have been eight or so, and your father had left to go to the casino after you went to sleep. You woke up hungry and came down to get a snack. When you couldn’t find your father, you tried to make yourself a sandwich.
You cut your hand trying to slice a tomato. ”
I clutch the laminate edge of the dining table, trying to find some kind of anchor to the world.
My memory conjures up hazy shapes—Mom in our old kitchen, crying.
Mom cleaning up a cut on my hand and putting a Band-Aid on it.
Me lying in bed, a pillow over my head while I tried not to hear Mom and Dad yelling at each other.
I don’t think those are real memories of that night, just stitches of time that could line up into something real.
But one thing I do know for sure as I lift my shaky hand to the light. I still have the scar.