Twelve
“I’ll get out of this dinner and come over.” Jerome is being the perfect boyfriend. I phoned him once the tears had stopped,
told him what had happened. He is in the middle of a work dinner, and even though I don’t need him to come over, I love that
he has offered; that he means it.
“I’m fine.” But I’m not. My father snapping at me feeds into everything I most fear about myself: that I am nothing, less
than the dirt on the sole of my father’s sneakers, that I have merely done a decent job of pulling the wool over people’s
eyes; my Harvard degree, my friendships, my business acumen are all luck, or perhaps nepotism. If people knew the real me,
they would know I don’t deserve any of it.
I can’t talk to Lucy about this. It makes her furious. For a while, she went through a phase of forwarding me every article
she could find about impostor syndrome.
Impostor syndrome is a psychological term that refers to a pattern of behavior where people refuse to take credit for their
accomplishments, instead living with a persistent fear that everyone is about to discover they are a fraud.
They put their achievements down to luck or good timing. Or to having Marty Cooke as their father.
Wait. That’s just me.
No matter how many times Lucy berates me, how many articles she sends, how often she tells me I am brilliant and worthy, I
don’t believe her. I can’t believe her. I wish I knew how.
I hesitate when I get out of the Uber outside my place, forcing myself to breathe slowly, feeling the breeze on my bare arm,
smelling pine trees and summer nights, which calms me down.
I need to talk to someone wise, someone who knows how to comfort me. I phone Nasreen, forgetting that it might be the middle
of the night in India, that she will be fast asleep.
I realize the time difference just as she picks up the phone, and am instantly mortified.
“Oh God, Nasreen. I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize the time.”
“Missy? What’s the matter?” There is panic in her voice. “Are you okay? Has something happened?”
I relate the story, and Nasreen listens silently, waiting until I am done.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” she says, “but your father is truly a fucking prick. Not always. I know you love him, and
he can be great, but, Jesus, Missy. What an asshole thing to say. Who does he think you are, his fucking unpaid babysitter?”
I love Nasreen for her vicarious rage, even though I am tempted to immediately defend my father. Nasreen cuts me off.
“Listen, Babycakes. You did the right thing. You left. It’s his damn loss, but you can’t let him speak to you like that. I
don’t care if he is Marty fucking Cooke. You go find him tomorrow and tell him you won’t tolerate it.”
“Okay,” I mumble, knowing I will be doing no such thing.
“You know how loved you are, right? By all of us, including your asshole father.”
“Occasionally asshole father.”
“Often asshole father.”
“I know.”
I hear her yawning. “Can I go back to sleep now?”
“Yes. Thank you. I’m so sorry I woke you up.”
“That’s okay. Love you, Babycakes.”
“Love you too.”
Nasreen made me feel a little better, enough to call Jerome back and tell him what happened in more detail. I am not entirely
honest: As I tell him I pretend to be rolling my eyes on the end of the phone, as if it is nothing more than an irritation
to have to put up with my father’s quirks and idiosyncrasies; not a hint that I might have been destroyed by a handful of
his misplaced, angry words.
“You know he doesn’t mean it. You know how volatile he is. He will have forgotten about it by now. But I’m worried about you.”
I put Jerome’s mind at rest. “I’m going to run a hot bath and meditate. I’m tired and really need an early night. But I love
that you offered to leave all your business associates hanging to come and look after the emotional state of your girlfriend.”
“That’s what I’m here for.” He smiles down the phone. I picture his strong arms, how safe I feel wrapped up in them, and am
finally able to smile myself.
“Are you sure?” he says.
“Sure.”
“Okay, sweetie. Love you.”
“Love you,” I echo, ending the call. Love you, I think. It has less impact than I love you. It is how we always end our phone calls, and has become habit. Jerome told me he loved me after three months, and I said
it back because I didn’t know what else to say.
Thank you? I know? Do you really? I think I love him, but worry that I don’t really know what love is.
I like being with Jerome, but I am not heartsick when I am not with him.
Does that mean I don’t love him? I believe he loves me, until I wonder whether he would feel the same way if I wasn’t Marty Cooke’s daughter.
I try and tell myself that being Marty’s daughter is part and parcel of who I am, but I have my doubts.
It’s impostor syndrome, I tell myself. Of course he loves you. And I love him in as much as I am capable of loving someone. Which is something else I worry about; that I
don’t know how to love.
I leave the window down, the wind whipping my hair across my face as I continue driving back home. I turn the music up, hoping
some classic Prince will restore my mood, which it does until I turn the corner and see, outside my house, my father’s Porsche
Cayman parked on the street.
He looks up and sees me, and I know, instantly, two things: He is sorry, and he will not apologize. My father will never say
sorry. His apology is showing up and offering me something I cannot refuse: his company.
I pull into the driveway and park, then go over to my father’s car.
He slides the window down. “Hey, Peanut.” It is as if the earlier events never happened. “Want to go get some ice cream?”
Twenty minutes later we are sitting on the bench outside his favorite ice cream store. Both of us have our legs stretched
out, crossed at the ankle, making our ice creams last as long as possible, mine a cone with vanilla and caramel sauce, his
a large tub filled with chocolate and vanilla soft serve. He takes huge spoonfuls, gulping them down in the same way he gulps
down life, while I lick slowly and carefully, using my tongue to twist my cone into a fine point.
“I heard you did a great job today. Clara was saying you’re one of the greatest assets we have at ipryy. She was suggesting
you speak at IBM Think in February.”
I shudder. “Thank you for the compliment. It’s lovely to hear Clara has that much faith in me, but you know how I feel about public speaking.”
My father shakes his head. “It’s not just Clara. I agree with her. As for how you feel about standing up in public, that’s
exactly why you should do it. Remember that book, feel the fear and do it anyway? I could throw a million pithy lines at you.
There’s nothing to fear but fear itself. Get out there and do it.”
I roll my eyes good-naturedly, thrilled that we have regained our equilibrium, that I am getting my father-daughter time,
that it’s as if tonight, his sharp words, his anger, never happened. I know he feels bad. He would not have driven straight
to my house if he didn’t regret it. This is his apology, and I have accepted it.
“I’m not good at public speaking. Leave me behind the scenes.”
He shakes his head. “No. You’re too good for that. You’re my daughter, and one day you’ll have to step out from behind the
scenes. I need you to get more comfortable in the public eye. There are coaches who can work with you. We’ll find you the
best.” He looks at me with his signature intensity, his eyes boring into mine. “I want you to do this.”
“Marty,” I groan. “Why?”
He laughs. “Because at some point I’m going to want to spend more time on the golf course.”
“You hate golf.”
“That’s true. But at some point, I have no idea when, I’m going to want to ease up a little, and if and when that happens,
I need you to be ready.”
I am aghast. “What for?” I have no idea what he’s talking about. If he means what I think he means, getting more involved
at ipryy, that would be terrifying. And exciting.
He finishes the cup and aims it at the trash can in a perfect overhead shot. It lands perfectly in the middle of the bin as my father sits back, satisfied. It always lands. He ignores what I just said.
“You need to get over your fear,” he says. “You have great ideas and you’re whip smart, but fear will hold you back from everything
you want in life. You can’t be afraid to take risks. We all fail over and over, but the trick is to keep going. That’s the
secret to success. Nobody makes it to the top without taking risks every day, and some of those risks will be disastrous,
but that’s okay. You take a step to the side and keep moving forward.”
I finish my cone and sit back.
“If you could stop being so scared, you could be great.”
An uncharacteristic flash of anger hits me. “I’m not scared.”
“Yes, you are. You’ve always been scared.”
The joy of the last hour sitting with my father instantly disappears, and I feel myself going back into my dark place. This
is what my father does: gives with one hand, while taking with the other. It’s harder still because I know he is right. I
have always been scared, and I hate that he knows this about me. I hate that I’m scared, but my false bravado hasn’t changed
anything, and I don’t know any other way to be.
“Give me a fucking break,” I find myself saying, instantly regretting it, about to apologize when my father starts to laugh.
“See? That’s what I’m talking about. You need to speak up more. Own your power.” He leans forward. “Let me tell you something:
Most people will treat you as badly as you allow them to.”
I think about what happened earlier in the evening. My father swearing at me. I think of all the times he has treated me badly,
and how I never say anything. Own my power. Now there’s a novel concept.
“Here.” He tosses me the keys to the Cayman and stands up, stretching. “Break a few rules. You’re driving. Let’s go.”
My heart starts pounding as soon as I sink into the driver’s seat. This isn’t a car, it’s like something out of a futuristic space age movie.
“Let’s take Skyline Boulevard.” My father leans back, looking surprisingly relaxed, given his scaredy-cat of a daughter is
in charge of his car.
I drive slowly through town, then hit thirty-five, aware of the sheer strength and power of this car. It feels as if it wants
to pull away from me, roar along the highway, and I am nervous about what will happen if I let it have what it wants.
“Put your foot down,” my father commands. I obey, feeling the car rumble into what it was designed for.
“Faster!” my father shouts over the engine, whooping with joy as I overtake a Bentley, weaving into the middle lane to make
my move. “Faster!”
I put my foot down as far as I dare, then further than I dare, as Marty shrieks and laughs with delight, punching the air
with his fist as I top one hundred and fifteen miles per hour. I am shocked to find that I am laughing myself, buzzed with
driving so fast, with breaking the law, with coming face-to-face with such potential danger.
My heart is beating fast when I see, in the distance, the flashing lights of a police car that has pulled someone over. I
go to slow down, relieved that I am now forced to drive like a normal person, but when I turn my head, my father frowns. “Keep
going,” he says. “The cop is busy.”
I do what he says. I always do what he says. He laughs out loud as I press my foot down, groaning a mile later when we hear
sirens, and in the mirror, flashing blue lights. Sure enough, behind us is the cop car.
“Shit.” I pull over to the side of the road, my heart pounding.
“It’s fine.” My father smiles. I imagine this has happened to him more than once.
The cop sits in his car running the plates, then saunters over. I put the window down and hand him my license, my father getting the registration out the glove compartment.
“Do you know why I stopped you?”
“Was I speeding?” I venture.
“You were doing one hundred and two miles in a sixty-five-mile-per-hour zone. Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?”
Thank God he didn’t see me five minutes ago, I think. I was doing a hundred and fifteen.
My father leans over from the passenger seat. “Are you one of Chief Marcos’s men?”
The cop nods, leaning in to get a better look at my father.
“Great guy,” says my dad. “He honored me at a dinner last year.”
“He honored you?” The cop looks at my father as if trying to place him, trying to figure out why the name is familiar.
“Yes. My company, ipryy, gave to the Police Athletic League, and I was fortunate enough to be invited to the annual dinner,
and—” my father shrugs, as if in humility “—I was thanked. Great group of men. We’re very lucky to have you all.”
“Mr. Cooke,” the cop has realized. “I was at that dinner. I knew I recognized you. We’re the lucky ones, having you in town.
Thank you for that donation. Sir, I’m sorry for stopping you.” He tips his hat. “Have a great night.”
I’m confused. “We’re free to go?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry to have troubled you. Slow down a little, okay?”
We take off, slowly this time, and I start to laugh.
I turn and look at my father, his face lit up like a Christmas tree as he smiles.
I say nothing, but I am smiling inside. I have always understood the many perks there are to being Marty Cooke, but seeing it in action, with a cop no less, shows me just how much power there is to being wealthy and well-known.
We pull up outside my house, and my father turns to me. “So? Other than our little adventure with the police, how did that
feel?”
I match my father’s grin with my own. “Exhilarating.” Whatever fear I had about driving his car that fast is matched by elation.
We smile at each other as I am overwhelmed by a burst of affection for my father.
“I love you, Dad,” I say without thinking, instantly embarrassed. We do not say “I love you” to each other, and I have never
called him Dad in my life.
He is not a man who relishes displays of affection, or love. Startled, he looks away, as I wish I could take the words back.
I feel the flush of mortification on my cheeks, and go to open the door, to leave as quickly as possible.
“You too, Peanut,” he says suddenly, and he smiles. It’s as close as he will ever get, and it is enough.