32. A Different Angle
A DIFFERENT ANGLE
CHELSEA
I'm actually a little nervous when I arrive at my dad's building.
I haven't seen him since our run-in during the casino night event and I don't know what the temperature of the room is going to be. But he and my brother and I try to get together for dinner once a month, so here I am.
The doorman lets me up with no problem and I drum my fingers against my thigh as I take the elevator to the fourteenth floor. It’s still weird to me that my dad lives in a condo. So foreign from the house I grew up in, but I understand why he needed a change after Andrew and I moved out.
I knock on the door, glancing around the swanky brown and cream hallway. It’s quiet. Almost eerily so. Like the classier the building, the higher your condo fees, the more sound they drain out of the hallway.
The deadbolt clicks, and I brace myself. A second later, the door swings open.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” I say.
Oh yeah. The tension is thick.
He steps out of the way and I enter the small foyer. He might have money, but my dad's a man of simple tastes. All his furniture has to fulfill two criteria: be insanely comfortable and be dark enough to hide spills.
As for decor, as long as it’s hockey related, it’s all good with him. Framed photos of him with his players over the years. And his pride and joy, the three of us next to the Stanley Cup when he took Andrew and I to the Hockey Hall of Fame.
His team hasn’t won it yet, though, so there’s a spot directly below that frame that’s reserved for a picture when they do. When he actually gets to touch it.
All in all, it’s part office, part bachelor pad. His philosophy is basically, “I don't want to live in a damn showroom.”
Growing up, our house was the kind where Andrew and I weren’t allowed in the formal living room. So yeah, I get the “I’ll take the opposite of that” interior design rebellion that’s happening here.
It doesn't look like my brother’s here yet, so I follow Dad into the kitchen.
The air is fragrant with spices.
He’s got a bunch of take-out containers lined up on the counter like a buffet, but hasn’t quite gotten to the part where he realizes there are no serving utensils out.
“I got Indian. Hope that's okay.”
“It smells great,” I tell him.
“Andrew called just before you got here. He's stuck at the golf dome with the Timber King.”
Brett’s words float through my mind.
Maybe your brother got the promotion because he’s better at the job than you are.
It’s funny how freeing that realization is. How much better I feel.
Because I don’t wish I was stuck on a golf course with a man who has a stupid nickname.
I love the part of my job that I already do.
And this promotion that I was so focused on, well, maybe it was just because it was another notch on a checklist. It was what I was supposed to want.
And I never stopped to ask myself if I actually did.
“Said we could start without him.” My dad opens the cupboard and grabs us each a plate at the same time I open the cutlery drawer and pull out two forks and enough spoons to cover the entire spread.
Even now, when I'm still mad at him, I still fall into the rhythm of taking care of things. To take care of him.
I’ve been doing it since I was fourteen, when I found Dad sobbing on his bedroom floor after she left. I was the one who made sure he got up on Monday morning, got dressed in his suit and tie, ate a decent breakfast and made it to work on time. And then I did it again on Tuesday. And Wednesday.
By Thursday, I didn’t even have to prod him anymore. He threw himself back into his work, and neither of us ever mentioned those three days, or her, again. That’s how it’s always been with us. Swallow down the emotions and work hard.
I might look like my mom, but I’m my father’s daughter, through and through.
We’ve been pretending everything’s fine ever since.
When both our plates are full we take our usual seats across from each other at the kitchen table.
“So how's work?” he asks, but freezes with his beef vindaloo suspended halfway to his mouth. Like he didn't realize until he said it that his usual opening salvo landed in the middle of a minefield.
I know we can’t brush past this like we always do. This conversation is needed. It’s past due. But that doesn’t mean I’m looking forward to it.
With a deep breath, I wade in. “We need to talk about what happened at the casino.”
“Let’s just forget it.”
“I can’t.” I focus on the food on my plate, push it around with my fork. “You’re worried Brett is just like Mom. But what if it’s me? What if I’m the one who’s like her?”
Dad’s fork hits his plate. “You are nothing like her.”
I wish the reassurance helped, but it doesn’t. “How do you know?”
“Because I know you.”
“You know I’m responsible. You know I work hard. You know I’ll make sure there are serving spoons on the table. But do you know who I am? What I want in life?” I look up at him, a little desperate. “How can you know me when we never talk about anything real?”
His expression hardens. “What exactly are you accusing me of?”
“I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m asking you to tell me what happened.”
“And I’m telling you what happened in our marriage is none of your concern.”
I set my fork on my plate. I’m not hungry anymore.
“She left me, too. How is that not my concern?” I shake my head, at a loss for how to say what I mean. “I know Mom is a sore spot. But never talking about her? Pretending like she didn’t exist? I don’t know. I guess I just have some questions.”
“Well, I don’t have any answers.” His words are sharp, and the pain in them lingers, even after all this time. I’ve hit a nerve. “If I did, maybe she’d still be here. But she’s not. And there’s nothing I can do about it.”
The fact that he’s still so raw about it hurts my heart.
“I’m not blaming you,” I assure him.
“Aren’t you?”
The words hit harder than I expect. I open my mouth. Close it again.
I don’t want to be.
But maybe, deep down, some part of me has always been searching for a reason, some mistake to point to, something concrete to explain why she left. Because the alternative is that we weren’t enough to make her stay. She didn’t love us enough.
And that realization sits heavy in my chest, thick as the silence between us.
There’s a long pause before he speaks again. “What happened between your mother and me had nothing to do with you.”
Then why am I still trying to make up for it?
The words are swallowed by a knock on the door before they materialize on my tongue. The relief on my dad’s face would be comical if I thought we’d ever finish this conversation. Mostly, it feels like I just lost my one chance to dissect this with him.
“I’ll get it,” I offer. Because I need a minute.
“Hey, Sis.” Andrew shoots me an off-handed smile.
“How was the golf simulator?”
He shrugs. “I had to pretend to lose, but it was worth it. Wait’ll you see the number of zeroes on the Timber King’s next donation. Smells good in here. Indian?”
He pushes past me, and I hear him and my dad exchange greetings as he fills a plate. My dad’s patented, “How’s work?” goes over much better this time. Unlike me, Andrew answers with superficial generalities, keeping the small talk going.
I square my shoulders and head back to the table to pick at my naan, but I can’t help but notice it’s so much stiffer than my dinner with Brett’s family.
There’s none of the camaraderie, or teasing, or silly stories.
I love my dad. I love my brother. But it’s not the warm, comforting kind of love I saw in Portland.
Andrew makes a couple of attempts to pull me into the conversation, but my answers are too short to give him much to work with. Dad asks one stiff question about the Foundation, and I tell him everything is fine.
Eventually, the two of them retreat into shop talk. Andrew tells a funny story about the Timber King’s golf swing and my dad chuckles in all the right places.
When my dad says, “There’s cake in the fridge,” something inside me snaps.
Because of course there is.
Dinner, small talk, cake. If we complete the ritual, maybe we can all pretend the last ten years—and the last thirty minutes—never happened.
“I have to go,” I say, pushing away from the table too abruptly, chair screeching and my voice terse.
“Chelsea,” Dad says, and I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t.
I pick up my plate from the table. Then I grab Andrew’s and Dad’s plates, too, and take them to the sink.
Andrew shoots me a frown as he gets to his feet. “Yeah, I should get going, too. I’ve got plans with Ruby tonight.”
My dad accepts we’re leaving without a fight. No, sit down, young lady. Let’s hash this out. Which somehow hurts more than the argument would have.
After my brother and I load the dishwasher, he calls out a, “Thanks for dinner,” and I add a half-hearted, “Yeah, thanks,” and the two of us leave.
I was kind of hoping he’d make a pitstop in the bathroom so I could make my escape alone, but he’s right on my heels, pulling Dad’s door closed behind us.
We’re not more than six steps out of the condo when he breaks the oppressive silence. “Chilly in there.”
“I brought up Mom.”
“Oh, shit. Well, that explains a lot.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “Why’d you do that?”
Is he for real? “Because we never talk about her! And I’m done pretending that’s normal. I’ve spent every day since she left trying to avoid landmines. And I think he owes us an explanation.”
“What good’s that going to do? I know you think that a checklist can fix everything, but I promise you, that relationship was doomed long before it ended.” Andrew and I make our way toward the elevator. “Why rub his nose in it? There was nothing he could have done that would have made Mom stay.”
“How do you know?”
“Because she was cheating on him for years before she left with her boy toy.”
I frown at him. “She said they just met.”
Love at first sight. I have to follow my heart. I’m meant for more than this.
He shoots me a catch up, little sister look. “She didn’t leave with the first guy who, uh, flattered her ego.”
I flinch at the euphemism. Such soft words to say something that cuts so deep.
All this time I thought I was the only one carrying the confusion. The guilt.
Turns out I was just the only one still living in the dark.
“And you can wipe that look off your face. He didn’t tell me either.”
The announcement stops me in my tracks. Not just my feet. My brain. My whole damn body. “What?”
“I walked in on her a few times. I was fourteen when I caught her with my teacher. That summer she redid the kitchen, she was banging the contractor in every room in the house. By the end, she was barely trying to hide it.”
Everything inside me recoils. How could she care so little?
“Dad doesn’t know I know. But trust me. She was gone before she left. Maybe you were too young to see it, or maybe she tried harder to keep it from you, but I watched her disappear one little piece at a time. And Dad, he just kept trying to hold things together for us.”
After Mom left, Andrew disappeared, too. He took off in her Cadillac and reappeared two weeks later drunk and without the car. I spent the next few months helping him catch up at school so he wouldn’t fail twelfth grade.
I’ve always remembered it as one more mess I had to clean up. Now, for the first time, I see a seventeen-year-old kid who spent years watching his family disintegrate in secret and finally fell apart himself.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” My voice sounds small. “Why didn’t he?”
I know it’s stupid, but I almost feel, well, left out I guess.
Andrew shrugs. Not careless. Just... heavy. “I guess I thought not talking about it would make it hurt less. I mean, I wanted to bleach my brain at the thought. I sure didn’t want to tell my baby sister that our mom was getting laid on the side. I don’t know.”
He reaches up and rubs the back of his neck. “Maybe I should have. Maybe he should have. Maybe we were wrong.”
Everyone around me broke when my mom left. And because I look so much like her, I felt guilty by association. So I went into robot mode. Be good. Be quiet. Be helpful.
I guess it never occurred to me that my dad and my brother were also looking for their own ways to deal with the deep hurt that comes with the realization that you’re not enough for someone.
We stop beside the elevator, and Andrew hits the button.
“He’s not the bad guy. She cheated on him right to his face, and he still does his best not to shit on her in front of us. For him, that means talking about her as little as possible.”
The elevator dings. We step in, side by side.
I don’t feel good about tonight. My whole world is a little bit different now, and there are a lot of pieces that I need to pick up and figure out if they still fit. But I don’t feel as bad as I did when I arrived, either.
“Thanks for telling me.”
He doesn’t say anything back, but when the doors close, he nudges my shoulder with his.
“I missed dessert for this,” he says. “You owe me cake.”
I huff a laugh. I feel closer to my big brother than I have in a long time.