Chapter 11 #2
The next evening, Maggie and I worked together to move some hive boxes.
One of our more experimental batches of mead hadn’t been great, so we’d moved the hive itself to a new box last fall, and Maggie had spent much of the off season moving them bit by bit to their new location in the field out front.
Now, we just needed to move the old hive boxes, which needed some TLC.
Maggie was on the mini forklift, loading them onto the trailer attached to the ATV, which I’d drive up the orchard so we could move them again into the barn.
It was all very complicated, but it beat carrying the heavy boxes one by one up the hill.
I looked down at the tree roots gnarling the landscape and thought of the keg at the Ren Faire.
I was surprised to find that the memory brought a grin to my face rather than a scowl.
While we worked, Maggie asked how things were going since coming back.
I knew she meant it casually; maybe even rhetorically.
Maggie and I were usually work-in-silence types, after all.
But maybe it was because I’d been seeing more of her at dinners here and there, watching the casual comfort she and Jen shared, or maybe it was how badly it was eating at me.
Regardless of the reason, I decided to open up about what was going on.
“Jen’s started cutting me out of some of the decision-making,” I admitted. “Like the finances. I know she’s used a lot of the budget to supplement the grant to pay Chloe, but I don’t know why she doesn’t want me involved.”
“She’s just trying to do what’s best for you,” Maggie said, sipping from her thermos of tea, sounding very much like she and Jen had actively discussed this.
I liked Maggie, and I liked her for Jen, if that was indeed what was happening, but I wasn’t sure I liked knowing they talked about me.
“And for her, too. She doesn’t want you spending all your time here crunching numbers.
You’re much better off out here with me, doing this sort of thing. ”
“I know,” I said, shuffling a hive box into place on the trailer. “Doesn’t mean I like it.”
Maggie squinted at me in the dark. “You can’t be everywhere, Ted. Let people help.”
I stopped working for a moment, staring at the dirt beneath my nails. “I don’t want to be obsolete.”
She snorted. “You’re not a tractor, love. You’re a person. A person Jen loves very much. You’re not getting replaced, even if you wanted to.”
I resolved to borrow some of Maggie’s confidence – at least enough to get through the day’s work.
She was right, I decided; whether or not I was involved in the finances didn’t change what we needed to get done.
Didn’t make the hive boxes move themselves.
Didn’t repoint the retaining wall or crossbreed flower varieties or make soap.
For now, only I could do that, so maybe I should just keep my head down, actually.
But, no matter how much my brain was on board with what Maggie said, the pinch in my chest wouldn’t let me really believe it.
* * *
The notification that popped up on my phone the next morning sent a wave of anxiety coursing through me:
DAD BIRTHDAY
I hadn’t been at home to celebrate with him since I was a kid – since Mom had still been with us, and Jen had still been married to a man, and Gwenynen hadn’t existed. But every year since Mom had died, Dad’s birthday celebrations had become more and more distressing.
“Don’t forget to ring your dad today,” Jen said as soon as she came downstairs to put the kettle on. I was pretty sure she’d set herself the same reminder.
“I won’t,” I said honestly – I couldn’t have forgotten if I’d tried.
Would I avoid thinking about it as much as possible?
Sure. I couldn’t ring him until later, anyway.
The sweet spot would be just before bed.
If he was still on the wagon, he’d be home from whatever he’d done with his morning – before I left, it had been volunteering at some ecological charity – and, if he had relapsed, he’d be awake but not yet slurring his words, which meant I wouldn’t have to feel that visceral sense of guilt for not being there the whole time I spoke to him.
I did my best to put it out of my mind, but the coin toss loomed in the air all day as I sheared back the geraniums’ first flush and tied in some of our climbers.
I wondered every moment whether I’d get the dad I’d come to expect – the one who could barely remember what month it was, or if I was even in the country – or the increasingly rare dad who would actually want to hear from me on his birthday.
When I lay in bed – alone, as Willow was curled up with Jen tonight – and my first call rang out, I feared the worst. I sat perched on the edge of my bed, my hair wet from the shower, soaking my shoulders through my pyjamas. I wiped the wetness off the screen of my phone so I could try him again.
One ring. Two rings. Three. Four. Fi—
“Teddy, my girl!” he answered, his voice bright and clear, and I exhaled long and hard in relief. But then the background noise came into focus, and I could hear classic rock and clinking glasses. He was at a bar.
“Hey, Dad,” I said, already resolving to keep this conver-sation as short as I could. Even if I knew I’d feel bad about it for weeks afterward. “Happy birthday.”
“Thank you, baby.”
“Out celebrating?” I tried to keep the judgmental edge from my voice, but he must have heard it anyway.
“I’ve only had the one,” he said, and I believed him. But I also knew it was still early there. Not even three in the afternoon.
“So far, right?” I regretted it as soon as I’d said it, but I couldn’t take it back.
“I don’t need this,” he muttered, presumably to himself, his voice quiet as he dropped away from the phone.
Then he came back, louder and stronger than before.
“I’m a grown man, Teddy, and your father at that.
I can have a drink to celebrate my birthday, especially since you’re not here to celebrate with me. ”
I bit my tongue hard. When I was younger, it had been easier to rise to this; to argue with him, or, worse, let the guilt permeate. But now, I saw it for what it was: a bitter, grieving drunk needing to pass the buck to someone else. Even if that someone was his own daughter.
I swallowed hard as heat pooled behind my eyes.
“I can’t talk for long,” I said, my voice thick with emotion I hoped he couldn’t hear. “I just wanted to say happy birthday.”
“Yeah, well, you’ve done that,” Dad said. “You can tick me off your list.”
I sighed, blinking up at my overhead light, willing myself not to cry. “It’s not like that, Dad.” But we both knew I was lying.
“Yeah, well, enjoy your night. Tell Jen I said hi.”
“I will,” I said. Then I closed my eyes and tensed my jaw. “I love you.”
“Love you, too, kiddo,” he said, more softly now, and I couldn’t hold back my tears any longer. They leaked out of me like a dripping faucet.
I ended the call, then, before I knew what I was doing, took off down the stairs. It had been a long time since I’d been a kiddo to anyone. But if I couldn’t have my mom or dad, I could have the closest other thing.
I found Jen sitting on the sofa reading a book – some prize-winning something or other – a cup of mint tea steaming on the side table by her elbow. She looked up as I came through the door, and the moment she saw my face, her own crumpled in understanding.
“Come here,” she said, as she scooted over and patted the seat next to her, setting her book on the floor without marking her place.
I collapsed onto the cushion beside her, folded my legs underneath me, and leaned into her, the tears coming fast and fierce.
* * *
By the time Chloe started filming me at one of the hives the next day, I was already on edge, despite it being only ten in the morning.
She wanted me to wear a different shirt to the grey-green one I had picked out first thing – something that would “pop on camera” against the hedges.
When I protested, she suggested, not entirely unkindly, that maybe my default palette of “mud and stoicism” wasn’t ideal for content.
“Drop it,” I said, sharper than I meant to, and I saw it land in the way she flinched. “I’m not dressing up for some video. The agreement was that you’d capture the reality of this place, not try to turn it into something it’s not.”
Her brow creased. “It’s not a big deal. I just need you to look a little less … leafy.”
I stepped back, fists tight at my side as I tried to control my breathing, the tightness behind my ribs making it hard. “I’m not going to let your marketing strategy dictate my entire life, Chloe. I’m sorry I’m not picture-perfect enough for your content, but you’ll just have to get over it.”
Her eyes widened. “That’s not what I—”
“I’m not a prop,” I said, voice low. “You can do your job without turning me into a mascot. Or, better yet, go weed the lavender beds.”
Chloe stood there for a long moment, stunned, her forehead creased in a frown that looked downright unnatural on her. She stood there long enough that I felt my fists unclench at my sides, and I debated apologising. But then she pocketed her phone and nodded.
“Okay,” she said. “I hear you.”
Chloe walked away, her footsteps soft but definite on the gravel, and I stood in front of the hive box, breath shaking, not sure if I’d just won or lost. Either way, it didn’t feel good, and I had to resist the urge to run after her and say whatever I needed to say to smooth the wrinkle I’d put in the middle of her forehead.
But that wasn’t my job, and, as Maggie had said, I had plenty to do without adding to my own plate. So I let her go.