31. Chapter Thirty London
Chapter Thirty: London
W hy am I such an idiot?
The question echoes through my mind as I do another rep, mindful of my sprained wrist when I press the fifty-pound weight.
Not putting myself through physical and emotional hell. I drop the dumbbell back onto the rack with a heavy clang that reverberates through the almost-empty gym. It’s a weekend, and Halloween is tomorrow night, so no wonder the place is deserted.
After hopping in the shower, I towel off and drive back towards my apartment. Halfway there, though, I change my mind and head toward the Young residence instead.
Muscle memory or masochism pulls me into the driveway. When I spy my mom outside watering her fluffy blue hydrangeas, I freeze.
What would I say to her? I can’t claim a grievance against my parents—it wasn’t my wedding that they ruined. But as I stare at the hydrangeas, my mind spins, churning up a memory of what Raina told me. About Gloria and my mom’s conversation when I brought her home for Thanksgiving.
Even if I can’t be with Gloria, I can at least stand up for her and try to make things right.
“London!” My mom’s eyes widen when she sees me. “I didn’t know you were coming over.”
“Me, neither,” I admit. “I wanted to talk to you about something. Can I help you with that?”
I’ve never had a green thumb, but the years of filial piety bred into me make me offer.
She shakes her head, covered by a broad-brimmed sunhat.“I’m done. I wanted to get all the yard work finished before it gets too hot out.”
Are we really not going to mention that the last time I saw her, she and Dad were going for one another’s jugulars? Or how I ran off and got drunk, like a coward?
We go inside and she pours me a glass of water. “What did you want to talk about?”
“How you treated Gloria.” The words rush out of my mouth. My pulse quickens, elevated by the same old fear of hurting her feelings—of upending the boat, by adding to the tumultuous waves battering it.
Her brows furrow. “I don’t know what you mean. We barely spoke at the wedding.”
“Not at Sav’s wedding. At Thanksgiving. When I first brought her home in college.” I fiddle with the water glass, my fingers damp with the condensation beading on its surface.
“That was a long time ago. I don’t remember what I said to her.” My mother fidgets with the tie on her hat, pulling on the cord to loosen it. She avoids my gaze like it’s a laser pointer in a spy movie .
“She told me. She said that you kept telling her about… about how much you love me.” My breath catches in my throat, as I wonder if I really do sound foolish. Wouldn’t any mother brag about their son to potential girlfriends?
"I don’t see how that’s an issue.”
“You told her she’d never be good enough for me. That you never wanted me to get married and move away because it would take me away from you,” I snap, the tension whirling in my chest finally releasing like a dam breaking.
Her face is white. “I-I never said that. Maybe I told her... maybe she misunderstood me.”
“Gloria is the most intelligent woman I know.” I drain the water and fold my arms across my chest. “She wouldn’t misinterpret something like that. Or lie to me.”
“I couldn’t lose you!” she shouts. “You were already off to college. Soon you were going to leave me, too. I already lost all my other children. They don’t see how your father treats me, or they don’t care. They already have their own families.
“But you—you were the only one who saw the arguments between us. Who saw how he hurt me. How much we argued. I couldn’t let you… I couldn’t watch you leave me, too, London.” Her eyes glimmer with unshed tears. “I couldn’t lose the only child I have who still loves me.”
I’m rooted to the ground, my arms dropping to my sides from their defensive posture.
All along I suspected I might be the only one who she felt she could confide in about her problems. That I was her main support in our dysfunctional family.
But I never realized that she felt so desperate, so hopeless in her marriage, that she couldn’t let me go.
“Why didn’t you just tell me that?” I sigh. Have I been so against having a wife and children for all these years because deep down, I felt the same way? Because deep down, I thought too highly of myself, believing I was my mother’s saviour, her only hope? “Why couldn’t you just say how you felt? ”
“I was scared,” she whispers, staring down at her hands, with a pale line on her finger where her wedding ring used to be. Was she wearing it at Sav’s wedding? I don’t even remember now. “Everyone else had rejected me. How was I supposed to know that you wouldn’t do that, too?”
The vulnerability in her voice pierces my side like a thorn. My instinct is to reassure her. To tell her that of course, I’ll never leave. That I’ll do anything to make her happy.
But I’ve spent so many years bending over backwards to make this family function, and when did it all fall apart? While I was trying my hardest.
What if I’d never been the go-between for my parents? Never tried to grease the wheels on the rusty vehicle? Just let it break down, so they could see the real depth of their problems and fix them earlier?
Maybe I thought of myself as healing my family when I was just masking the symptoms until it was too late. Until the cancer had metastasized.
“I’m sorry that you felt that way,” I say, swallowing the words that I might have said before the wedding.
“But you and Dad need to work out your problems eventually, and I’m sorry if me always being here for you enabled you to never actually deal with your issues.
I love you, Mom, but I can’t keep being your therapist. I just wanted to be your son . ”
She rubs the back of her neck. “I know. I haven’t been fair to you, London. Putting all my burdens on you wasn’t right. You were… you were too young to have to listen to all my complaints about your father. Too young to be helping me through everything. It was selfish of me. Can you forgive me?”
As she speaks, something inside me that I didn’t even know was broken seems to mend. Like I’ve been walking around for all twenty-seven years of my life, believing I was whole when I was a mosaic with the pieces missing, and she’s finally slid them back into place with her words .
I’ve never lived a life where I didn’t accommodate myself to help and fix and please others. To twist myself into whatever mould they needed at that time. To fulfill what I thought was my purpose.
That’s why I love Gloria. She never asked that of me. Never expected me to change or wanted me to be anyone but myself.
“I forgive you.” I shove my hands into the pockets of my cargo pants. “But you need to apologize to Gloria, too.”
“I will.” She takes a deep breath, as if fortifying herself. “I’m happy you have her. And I’d give anything for the two of you to have a happier marriage than I did with your father.”
Did . Not do . Their marriage really is over.
Grief encases my heart before I breathe again, making room for love. For grace.
“Maybe we could all have dinner sometime,” I suggest.
“I’d like that,” she says, stepping forward and hugging me. “I’d like that a lot.”
“Where’s Dad?” I ask after she releases me from the hug. Her familiar scent of laundry detergent still lingers on me.
“I don’t know. When I woke up, he was gone. I checked his room and it was empty.” She shrugs.
Do I have the emotional bandwidth to confront him right now? Probably not.
Am I going to do it anyways?
Well, I did say I was an idiot.
My FindMe app tells me my dad is at a bar a few blocks away. Surprising, since he never drinks except in social situations. Even then, he only limits himself to one drink at parties. Something I guess we have in common.
When I walk into the bar, I’m surprised by how dingy and run-down it looks.
Sticky, scuffed wooden floors and scratched counters, along with a faded dartboard, tell me the place has definitely seen better days.
When combined with the aroma of spilled beer and the divorced dad rock piping through the speakers, it’s not the most welcoming or upscale environment.
Which is why my dad would usually never be caught dead in a place like this. He prefers upscale establishments where he can flaunt his wealth and accomplishments. Places where people would be impressed by his Amex or high-powered legal career.
Maybe he’s given up saving face. Or at the very least pressed pause on caring about his reputation.
He’s hunched over the almost-empty bar, wearing jeans and a t-shirt, a contrast to his typical button-downs and slacks. The casual clothes make him seem smaller and older, highlighting the greying hair by his temples and the wrinkles on his face when he turns around as I walk closer.
The look in his eyes gouges through me, anger and bitterness and the tiniest bit of resignation. Like he knew I’d find him here, and he already knows what I’ll say.
I wish I knew what I was going to say. I don’t know how to deal with a father who isn’t all arrogance and bravado, talking over everyone else and ensuring his voice and ego are the loudest in the room.
This version of my dad is defeated, slumped in his barstool nursing a Tsingtao beer.
I consider taking the barstool next to him, then think better of it and leave a seat between us. “A water, please.”
The bartender brings me a bottled water. It’s a fairly slow day, for a Friday. Maybe my dad knew that and that’s why he came here.
“Have you spoken to your brothers and sister?” Dad asks me when I sit down. His voice is hoarse. Like he’s been crying .
I refuse to believe that. More likely he’s been yelling and raging. “That’s the first thing you have to say to me? Didn’t you guys have a heart-to-heart at the wedding?”
He shakes his head. “We haven’t spoken since. Savannah stormed out a few minutes after you did, and all your siblings followed her.”
So we all have the same style of conflict avoidance, passed on from our childhood like hand-me-down clothes.
“I haven’t talked to them either.”
“Get on with your rant, then.” He waves a hand as if it’ll conjure an angry tirade from my tongue. A sigh escapes his lips, as he stares into his beer bottle with red-rimmed eyes.
“I don’t have a rant for you.” It’s true. Seeing him like this has deflated any harsh words I could have summoned. “You don’t deserve one.”
He deserves much worse than an angry rant for all the years of arguing, verbal bulldozing, and emotional manipulation that we’ve put up with. But my stupid filial piety doesn’t let me say that, either. I’m too tired for it in any case.
"I'm sorry," he says. "I know I never was the father you deserved. The husband your mom deserved."
I can hardly take in the words. He's never apologized before, at least not in any meaningful way. Apologies from him are usually passive-aggressive, making you feel like you're the one who should be apologizing for raising a complaint.
" Why ?" I snap, hating how laden with emotion the syllable sounds. "Why was it so hard for you to care—to tell us you loved us—to keep from losing your temper? Do you even care about all the years Mom spent keeping your house and raising your kids?"
His face flushes. Is he going to raise his voice and yell? Break the facade of a penitent father ?
"You may not want to hear this, London, but I didn't have the best childhood.
Your grandparents were strict and unfeeling people.
They did their best to provide for our physical needs, but they were not physically or verbally affectionate.
I knew they loved me because they gave me everything I needed to survive.
"When I met your mother, I never was one for flowery words or endearments.
Over the years, I let our marriage fall apart, thinking it was enough that I provided for a roof over her head and enough money to go shopping.
And with all of you kids, I know I never hugged or played with you the way I should have.
But in my eyes, what mattered was that I gave you the best opportunities: extracurricular activities, private schools, and lavish vacations. "
I blink slowly, trying to accept his words. Trying to push past the years of resistance that tell me he's manipulating me. That it feels too convenient, for him to come back after years of harsh words and passive-aggressive power plays, and give one speech and be forgiven.
“Well, it wasn’t enough,” I snap, but the words have no teeth. Where I thought years of holding my tongue and biting back my contempt for him would have sharpened my verbal arrows, they seem to have dulled them instead.
“I know !” he says, slamming his bottle on the bartop.
“I know I’ve never done enough, London. I know that over the years, between five kids and all the hours I put in at the firm, your mom and I…
we drifted apart. I let us drift apart, because what did it matter?
Nobody gets divorced at our age. Nobody gets divorced when they’re our age and Chinese. Nobody gets divorced…”
“Until they do,” I say, the words more white flag of surrender than condemnation. “Are you really… are you really going through with a divorce?”
He shrugs. “We didn’t have a prenup. Your mother is going to take everything from me. Who knows? Maybe I’ll let her. That’s the least I deserve. ”
My chest feels like it’s caving in on itself. “You’re not even going to fight for your marriage? Get counselling?”
“Don’t make my mistakes, London. Don’t wait until things are beyond repair,” he says. He drains his beer and motions to the bartender. “Another one, please.”
I slide off the barstool and slap a five dollar bill on the bar. “I’ll never make your mistakes.”