Chapter Ten #3
But not her, never her, and I make a mental side note to call her
before she starts employing her personal brand of expert Jewish
guilt and I have to hear about my terrible neglect for the next
month. My watch tells me it's only one o'clock now, which means
unless my father is planning on walking up to Harlem, he can't be
more than a few blocks from his destination.
He's halfway down the
crosswalk before the light even changes and I have to break into a
jog not to lose sight of him. I cross in the middle of Fifty Eighth
and watch as he passes the glass encased entrance to the Apple
Store. The lunchtime crowds are remarkably dense, the air thick
with the smell of hot pretzels and horse manure from the hansom
cabs that line Central Park South, and I skirt around FAO Schwartz
and through the plaza rather than the main sidewalk.
It's then that I realize
where he's headed, and I'm surprised that it's taken until he was
nearly there for me to recognize the obvious. He pauses outside of
Harry Cipriani, the upscale Italian restaurant he's always
frequented and where he's taken us all to countless lunches and
dinners. In fact, it used to feel kind of like our place—our
family's, mine and my father's, his and my mother's. And even
though I know it's just a restaurant, enjoyed by many and
conveniently located near his office, it still feels like a
betrayal.
He takes a quick moment to
compose himself, combing his fingers through his hair again and
regulating his breathing. But he can't be more than a few minutes
late, and it doesn't account for his agitation.
My curiosity shifts to
something deeper—a need for information that rivals paranoia and a
contemptuous desire to confirm this sense of betrayal. I can't even
fathom who he could possibly be meeting that would warrant such
emotions, but I want to catch him doing something wrong. I want to
prove to myself that he's still a bastard, despite the supposed
strides he's made toward being a decent man in the past five years.
I want to give myself this chance to slam that door shut, an excuse
not to have to examine these unsettling possibilities any
further.
I feel off balance. As if
my foundation has shifted, and now I can't quite catch my footing.
My hatred for my father is such a deeply rooted part of my identity
that I'm not even sure who I am without it.
In the past few months
I've already been shaken to my core and turned inside out by a girl
who forced me to reject everything I've ever believed—or didn't
believe—about love. And now, the mere possibility that Mitch Caplan
is not who I so fervently believed him to be, the inkling of a
chance that I might have a father worth knowing… it's tilting my
world so far off of its axis that I fear I may just slide right
off.
So I find myself silently
praying that I was right all along—that I will somehow prove to
myself, inexplicably, that he's the asshole I always knew him to
be. Because it would be so much easier to right the world I know
than to have to navigate my way through a new, unfamiliar
landscape.
When he finally enters the
restaurant, I rush to the northeast corner of Fifty Ninth and Fifth
and press my back to the window, leaning casually against it. I
turn subtly toward the restaurant and scan the bar and dining room.
I spot him almost instantly and anger rises like a tide in my
belly, though in the back of my mind I know it isn't
rational.
His back is to me, and it
mostly shields my view of the woman who faces him, but there's no
question that this lunch is, in fact, a date. Her manicured hands
are clasped around his waist, and he appears to be holding her face
in his hands. Wisps of blonde hair peek out from my blocked view,
as do thin, shapely legs below the hemline of her skirt.
He certainly does have a
type, and the thought makes me even more resentful. Does he think
he can just replace my mother by finding some woman with a similar
build and hair color?
I almost leave. After all,
I've confirmed what I came to find out, and though it isn't the
scandal that will allow me to unequivocally condemn him, it's
enough to give me an excuse to ignore his speech about undying
love, and at least remain doubtful of everything else he's told me
today. Because whatever lines he spewed about loving my mother
every day since their teens, he certainly seems over her
now.
Whoever this woman is,
whatever their relationship, I can read body language enough to
know it isn't remotely casual. Their stance is romantic,
affectionate, and if you consider the way they're standing with my
father's anxiousness over being three minutes late to a stupid
fucking lunch date, I would even venture so far as to guess my
father may very well love this
woman.
The ma?tre d' taps him on
his shoulder and I look away before he turns in my direction. In my
peripheral I see them all embrace like old friends, exchanging
handshakes with my father and a kiss on the cheek with his date. I
face Central Park as they pass through the dining room, but before
I leave, I turn back to get one good look at this woman who's
replacing my mother in his life.
And I stop
breathing.
My father's fingers are
laced with her finely manicured hand as he leads her to their
table, and before I even see her face, I realize my
mistake.
This woman isn't replacing
my mother. This woman is
my mother.
I stand there, gaping, too
stunned to concern myself with my covert operation. My father pulls
out her chair, allowing her to sit before taking his place not
across from her, but beside her, and scooting his chair closer to
hers. The way lovers would sit. I realize I have no need to try and
remain hidden—they are far too caught up in one another to notice
anyone else, least of all their son stalking them from outside the
restaurant.
I can see my father
perfectly, and my mother's profile, her lips stretched wide in a
contented smile. My father says something and she laughs, and my
father's pleasure at her joy is palpable. He looks at her like he
used to during the good times—as if there isn't another soul in the
room, or anything that matters besides her. As if his primary
purpose in life is making her smile.
It's this adoration that
was always dulled by his drinking, that was always the alcohol's
first and worst victim. It blinded him, made him forget who he was.
Made him jump onto some random, seemingly innocuous slight or
offense and clutch it with both fists, until suddenly it was the
most important thing in the universe.
How could you mention that
in front of them?! Didn't I tell you to have this dry cleaned?! I
wasn't ready to leave yet! How dare you say that to me?! Who do you
think you are?! Who do you think I am?!
It didn't really matter.
It was never actually about whatever it was about. It was about my
dad drunk off his ass, something bothering him, and my mother or me
being there for him to take it out on. It didn't escalate to
violence every time. But it wasn't about how often it did, it was
the fact that it did, and when it did, it was fucking
bad.
I watch them interact as
the waiter pours them both sparkling water and brings my mother a
glass of red wine, presumably her preferred pinot noir. I'm still
grasping at the chance of catching him in at least one lie, hoping
he'll be served a whiskey and negate his story of sobriety. But he
doesn't. He sips his Pellegrino seemingly without a care in the
world.
It hits me that this must
have been going on for a while. They're clearly not just
reconnecting. My mother never talks about him to me, or in front of
me, and I was under the impression that they were barely even in
contact.
My father reaches out and
tucks her hair behind her ear, and parks his hand on the side of
her neck, brushing his thumb lazily up and down the outline of her
cheek while she talks animatedly about something or other. He
watches her intently, seemingly enthralled. There's nothing
tentative or hesitant about their interactions. In fact, if they
were just two strangers I was observing in a restaurant, I would
guess that they were a committed couple, deeply in love. The
thought throws me further.
I think about the theater
tickets my mother had the night I first called him, and her
apparent excitement over what I'd suspected was a date.
The city street spins
around me, the world sliding further off of it's axis as I realize
that it's likely that I was right about her dating, but clueless
about exactly what company she was keeping. That it's possible he's
been her date each of the many times she's been out in the city
this past year.
I try to think back to
when she started being so much more social, spending quite a few
Saturday nights at the St. Regis, or so she claimed, so she
wouldn't have to drive so late. I think it must have been just
under a year ago.
When they start feeding
each other bites of their appetizers, I realize I need to get the
fuck out of there. Next they'll be slurping the same spaghetti like
Lady and The fucking Tramp.
I make my way across Fifth
Avenue and enter Central Park. Conversation buzzes around me,
faceless masses all going about their business like it's just
another day, completely oblivious to the alternate universe I
somehow stepped into on my walk to my father's office this
morning.
My head spins and my pulse
races, and I pick up my pace on my way to nowhere. The image of my
parents staring at each other like teenagers in love shoots around
my brain like one of those super bouncy balls—the ones that never
seem to stop, that only bounce faster and harder with each hard
surface they come into contact with.
Apparently my mother has
forgiven my father for years of abuse. Did she buy his sobriety
story? Does love really forgive all? I can't understand it. I can't
understand why she would give him another chance after the hundreds