When I’m Twenty-Five
When I’m Twenty-Five
This bizarre life and career I’ve wandered into is so unexpected, and it never would have occurred to me that I’d be making wild money each month just for posting stuff that I liked.
Yes, my socials are almost all about restaurants, but I occasionally share other stuff I love, like travel spots and such.
I’ve been watching the live cams from the San Diego Zoo and other places and posting about my obsession with these bears for years in between my food stuff, along with reading all I can about these beautiful animals, so this trip is truly a dream come true.
Patrick and I are meeting up for the Natural Habitat Adventures polar bear tour this week.
It was hard not to book this trip without losing my mind, but I get to visit my admired animals with my best friend.
Yes, it’s stupidly costly, but I know it’s going to be worth every penny.
I cannot think of anyone who would enjoy this trip more than me, so Patrick is my obvious guest of choice.
But I have to check in with his wife before I ask him to be my companion.
She is understanding enough to not flinch at our traveling together, knowing that we are family—brother and sister, basically.
Katrina: Lordy, I love my husband, but he can be a lot. You have my full support to take him off of my hands for a bit. Go and enjoy those bears. Send pics and videos, but keep him there for the full trip, ’kay?
Me: Am I going to regret this? I’ll blame you…
Patrick might not be a bear fanatic the way that I am, but he appreciates my interest, and loves me enough to meet up at the Winnipeg Airport and start this adventure.
“To the polar bears,” he says as he raises his glass of champagne as our flight takes off to Churchill.
“To the horrifyingly small chartered plane,” I toast back.
“To the champagne they offer!”
But thankfully, we fly and land without incident, and we’re picked up by a driver, who brings us to a hotel that is out of a storybook.
“Is this a castle?” I ask the driver. I’m joking, but also not joking because this hotel truly does look like a castle.
“Not officially,” he says. He unloads our bags and helps us check in.
We are escorted to our adjoining rooms, and it’s hard to know where to look because they are obscene in the best way.
The main room and its crazy-comfy couches and stylish coffee and end tables, which are topped with artistic, clearly handmade sculptures.
Local art on the walls. I’m sort of taken aback in a great way.
The fireplace is ready to be lit, and before I can say anything, our hotel guy sets it aflame.
“Anything else, ma’am?” he asks.
I’m sort of frozen for a moment before I tell him no. Thank goodness I remembered to carry cash, as that’s not much of a thing anymore. Can we even tip with apps? I’ll have to ask Megan Madonna.
I sigh when I see the balcony, and it takes some muscle to open the large folding glass doors, but it’s even beyond my expectations.
I jump back from the cold for a second, but then I lean in and balance against the railing to take in the night view.
I spin to see the bedroom with the wildly puffy bedding, engraved iron headboards, and what are clearly hand-knitted blankets. I obviously start filming it all.
“Did you see the bathroom?” Patrick barrels into my room. “That tub? Like, I don’t even like baths, but I’m taking a damn bath!”
I smile. “Take the damn bath.”
He rips off his shirt and smiles gleefully as he jogs back to his suite. “Doing it now!”
When I land in bed later, I fall into such a deep, relaxing sleep, one I’ve needed so much.
Both of us sleep for hours. We’ll need to be rested for the days ahead. This polar bear adventure is something I never thought I’d ever experience, and I’m going to make the most of it.
The smell of coffee wakes me, and Patrick is barely a foot away on the bed, waving a ceramic mug under my nose.
“Oh, hello, lovely lady! Are you ready for French toast?”
“I don’t like French toast,” I grumble.
“I know you don’t. You think it’s heavy and stupidly sweet, which is why I got you a loaded omelet with cheddar, ham, sausage, green peppers, onions, spinach, and tomato.
” Before I can say anything, he adds, “Yes, shut up. It’s topped with hollandaise.
And there’s also a side of hollandaise because you need more. It’ll be here at any minute.”
If he wasn’t my platonic best friend, I’d marry him.
My phone sounds.
Oh fuck.
It’s a text from my father. Of course he has to interrupt this trip with his bullshit.
Our food arrives, and although I’m devouring my omelet and coffee, Patrick can see that something is off with me.
“Spill, kiddo.”
I feel horrible that I’m not able to hide anything from him, but I fess up after I’d cringed from that alert.
“My father texted me. Wants me to call him. There is a property he wants, and he is giving me the opportunity to purchase it with him making the monthly payments. ‘Free land,’ he calls it. So typical. He has always been obsessed with accumulating land with all these big plans of developing this and that. Always a scheme to make some obscene profit. He had some success for many years. Until he didn’t.
Then nothing happened. Land just sitting there.
He was maxed out at the bank—no more financing, no more extensions.
Yet he continued to travel and somehow make money.
Cash. My mom and I never asked questions. ”
“And this morning, he wants what exactly?”
“The house he grew up in is for sale, along with the surrounding land. He makes it sound like he is offering a way to invest in some stupid shit. Like, I’ll make a down payment for the purchase, and the loan will be in my name—so it will be my land—but he will make the monthly payments.
Which he won’t. Like I’m too stupid to know that.
When I tell him no, he will get angry and yell at me like I’m an ungrateful child. ”
My dad was intelligent and successful. A degree in engineering.
I have no clue how he made such a fortune and then managed to lose it all.
But I don’t care anymore. I understood when my mom divorced him.
I began to understand that she’d spent my entire life in survival mode.
Trying to keep up appearances and continue the illusion until I was able to escape the insanity.
It was her way of taking care of me. But that is hard to remember.
The resentment over the absence of nurturing and affection is still powerful.
While she was barely a mother, maybe—I realize now—staying with my father was the one thing she did to protect me. She waited until after I was out of the house to leave him because she never wanted to leave me alone with him. She was afraid his anger could become too much. Physical maybe.
My phone rings. My dad is calling.
“Don’t pick up,” Patrick warns as I start to move. “Diana, seriously, don’t pick up.”
So, I don’t. But I do listen to the voicemail.
“Hey, kid! You got my text? I’m doing you a favor by basically giving you this free land. You get that, right? It’s a family home. One you should save.”
Maybe I should buy it. And I can afford it.
Yet, I silently scream over this gross ask. Fuck you! Fuck you!
Instead of replying, I just block him. It never occurred to me to do so, but it’s such a damn relief.
Patrick swings on his leather biker jacket. “Diana, I don’t know everything, but I have a feeling that maybe you hate your parents.”
He’s not wrong.
“Rightfully so,” he continues. “Is there some kind of legacy land that’s worth keeping? Doesn’t sound like it.”
“There’s not. And I do hate them.”
What an awful admission. But it’s true, and sad, and real. I am so tired and so fed up, yet I smile with relief because I have my best friend with me as I finally acknowledge what I’ve never wanted to. What’s so gross, and awful, and sad. But what’s always been there.
“My father has clearly never had any emotional investment in me. Nor would he have had any in any child. It’s a good realization to have.
I have no interest in communicating with him at all.
I’m at peace with being done with him. I’m at peace with my chaos.
My weird trauma.” I want to cry with relief over this admission.
My familiar disasters have been true for so many years, and while I couldn’t identify them until now, they’ve been settling into my system for ages. They are a part of me that I unknowingly sculpted into my being.
“Patrick?” I smile. “It’s a good day now. Really. Because I am here with you in this spectacular place.”
“It is a good day,” he agrees.
“I just want to see the polar bears. Can we do that?” I ask.
“We can. Small flight tomorrow night to Churchill, but we may even see bears when we land.”
“Fine.” I feign sulking because I know the itinerary like the back of my hand. “Days three and four are on the Polar Rovers.” I manage to stop myself from jumping up and down on the couch like a child. “Like, we’re going to be nose to nose with them.”
And sure as shit, that’s what happens. It’s hard not to tear up when our Rover stops near the loveliest creatures I’ve ever seen. The other passengers gasp as much as I do.
God, these bears are gorgeous.
I can hardly breath in the mostly wonderful way. “Did you know their fur is not actually white? Every single hair is hollow, each bouncing light and looking frosted.”
“I did not know that.” Patrick sets his hand on my back to steady me.
This ride on the Rover could never be long enough, and I’m entranced by the bears, touching my hand to the window so often, although I know it’s stupid and impossible to touch these loves. The bears are majestic and walk so stoically.
“We’re doing this ride again tomorrow,” Patrick reminds me.
I sigh and keep peering out the window. “I know. I just want more.”
There was a very costly trip upgrade that would have put us in some kind of lodge right next to the bears for a few days. Next time.
Patrick taps me and pulls me from the window.
“Oh, and by the way?” Patrick’s smile is like none I’ve ever seen. “Katrina is pregnant.”
His words are the only ones that could pull me away from the view.
“Patrick, what?” I grab him by his puffy winter coat. “Really?”
“Really.” He grins broadly. “It wasn’t exactly planned.
We were thinking five years from now or whatever.
We’re maybe kinda young, but so what?” He then walks around the Rover for a moment as I collect my breath.
“Jesus, Diana, that white bear is practically pressing his face up against our window!”
I throw my arms around him, overjoyed. “This is truly the best frickin’ day of my life.”
“She’s fourteen weeks in, so it feels okay to finally say it out loud.” Then he pauses to take a breath and glance out at our view.
We snap photos because it really isn’t a moment to forget.
Neither is Patrick’s announcement. The photo I take of him smiling next to a bear’s face is one for the archives.
He’s barely pulled up the image on his phone before I grab it out of his hands.
“Want to see the ultrasound picture?”
“Yes, dummy, I do!”
And there is a picture of a little baby. I’m going to treasure this forever. Probably blow it up and order a giant print from Shutterfly.
He’s going to be the best dad.