Chapter 14 Let’s Try This Again
Let’s Try This Again
Furthermore, why drive more nails into the coffin of his relationship with his daughter? He might as well quit while he was behind. Every day, they found a way to crash into each other. Sometimes, it was subtle, but he could feel the tension between them grow.
God, she was trying hard, so hard. He could hear it in every breath she took, every moment she paused to find the right thing to say, every time she bit back a response when he bumbled a conversation.
The last bright flickers in his life were his time with her, even if she was going mad being around him, so he was putting up with Italy a little longer.
He hoped that she could see that he was trying, because his trying took a lot right now.
Getting out of bed took a lot right now. Turning up his lips took all of him.
Ever-present in his mind was how close he’d come to taking his life in March.
The Zoloft was still helping—and certainly the tasks keeping him busy here—but he was in the same boat he’d been in since being escorted out of Intel.
Soon as he got back, he’d have nothing. What would happen then?
How easily he could slip back to that darkness that had consumed him.
Not that he wasn’t wallowing in the dark now, but those days in March had been far worse.
What he most remembered was how hopeless he’d felt.
Not having any experience with depression in the past, not even a taste of it, what he’d learned was that there was no talking your way out of it, no plugging the hole by taking trumpet lessons or jumping into a baking class.
When you’re on the edge of suicide, there is no light.
Come to think of it, an extended stay at a Motel 6 might have been the end of him.
Detaching his readers, he sat back in the chair.
There was still more that he needed to say to Bianca.
She was making mistakes, and it was impossible to stand on the sidelines without at least attempting to save her.
He might not be a great father, but he’d never stop loving her, never stop wanting the most for her.
He eventually crept down the hall to the living room, finding Bianca immersed in her work, perhaps another newsletter or some journaling.
Holding her fingers over the keys, she said in a tone rich with annoyance, “Just working, Dad.” She said “Dad” like it was a bad word. It hurt worse than a blade shoved through his rib cage.
He didn’t want her to see that, though. Trying to appear fearless and forgiving, he sat down. “We don’t have to do lunch.”
She went back to typing something.
“I know you’re slammed,” he said at the end of a long silence.
She stopped again, fingers hovering. “Sorry, just focused.”
He could see she was fighting to stay calm. He did the same, saying in the most loving way he could, “I know I’m out of quarters, but I . . . May I offer something? I have to get everything out before I go.”
She took a long time to respond, eventually offering a curt nod.
Feeling like he was dipping his toes into piranha-filled water, he said, “Look, I’m searching for a flight back. I know I’m a lot. But can I do a little parenting in the meantime?”
He paused, wishing she’d beg him to stay, but of course she didn’t.
She didn’t say a word, so he continued. “I took the liberty of reaching out to a guy I used to work with, great guy actually. Grew up the son of a logger in Canada, got into Pepperdine, and eventually made something of himself. A higher-up in HR at Intel, then started his own headhunting firm. He helps people find their path. You pay some money, which I’d be happy to do, then he coaches you through figuring out next steps. ”
Her fingers still hovered over the keys. “That’s nice of you, but I don’t need any help right now.”
“Oh, c’mon. You have to work.”
She retracted her hands. “How many times do we have to do this? You’ve been working sixty hours a week since you were a teenager, and for good reason.
You climbed out of a tough childhood. But I don’t find the same satisfaction you do in working.
The people here, they don’t let their work define them. ”
“And that’s why Europe is a shit show. That’s why we’ve blown by them.”
“Blown by them? In what way? Because of our economy?”
“Because of everything. Jobs, opportunities, tech. Yes, economy. We’re the center of the world. Do you know how many people here would kill to be American, to have the lives that we have?” He’d said it before, but she still wasn’t getting it.
“Not as many as you think. Do you see how healthy people are here? How happy?”
“I see the lines, the red tape. The bureaucracy.”
“Are we doing this again, George?”
Ugh, there was nothing worse than when she called him by his name.
He raised a hand like a white flag. “As someone who’s been around the block, I’m simply sharing some of what I’ve learned. Sure, enjoy this year, but then come home and get to work. Sitting around is what kills people.”
She closed her laptop with a snap. “That’s so your generation.
And so American. I want to become a sponge for knowledge.
I want to get my Italian back. I want to study art and history and read.
To stop doing and start being.” The decibel level of her voice rose by the word.
“Sometimes, I want to do absolutely nothing but face my demons and get to know myself. I want to repair that damage I did to myself by working my ass off since the moment I started college. It may not make sense to you, but what I’m doing right now is everything to me. ”
If only she knew what she was saying. In a way, it was good that he’d been raised poor because he knew what happened when you stopped working. Nevertheless, the window of opportunity here had closed. He’d have to try again later.
He stood, held his hands in prayer position, and spoke calmly. “This is me loving on you, honey. And worrying about you.”
“I’m the best I’ve ever been, getting back to the real me.”
The real me? George thought. She wanted a time machine and to be eighteen again. That’s not the way the world worked. Before he uttered anything else to anger her, though, he said, “I’m going out for a walk. Sorry for butting in.”
She said a lot by not saying anything at all.
On the other side of the door, he pressed his eyes closed. Why did he think that would go well? He’d have to call his buddy, the career coach, and tell him Bianca wasn’t interested.
Out in the fresh air, he looked left and right down Via Giulia. Maybe he’d go grab some lunch, take a long walk. As he’d done every five minutes, considering the pickpockets, he patted his pants to make sure he had his keys and wallet.
Keys, check, but he’d left his wallet back inside.
He climbed the stairs again and walked through the door. As he was about to say, “I forgot my . . .” he heard Bianca ranting into the phone. He realized she was talking about him. He didn’t want to listen, but he couldn’t help it.
“. . . trying to help him, Mom, but I don’t think he can be helped.
Not even Italy can save him. He hates everything but work.
Work, work, work. And the to-do lists. He has to-do lists for his to-do lists, and now that he’s retired, he’s grabbing into thin air for chores.
He cleaned the freaking community courtyard yesterday. Like swept and—
“. . . I know it’s nice, and I know this is his way of showing me—
“. . . What I want to say is that I’m here because I don’t want to turn out like him. He screwed up his marriage to you, was barely there for me, and now that he has nothing to do, he’s trying to swoop in and fix everything. Honestly, he’s making it worse.”
The air left George’s lungs. Forgetting about retrieving his wallet, he slipped out, hoping she wouldn’t hear the door click.
Back on the street, he started wandering.
The only reason he’d come here, putting up with the plane travel and all the headaches of this fucking city, was to help her.
To show her that he did love her. Sorry that he had worked all his life.
His dad had barely worked a day, and George had sworn to break the cycle, to never let his family starve.
Any light that he’d found since March dissipated. What was the point in even taking the Zoloft? To keep masking the truth that his life had run its course and there wasn’t much point anymore?
“Hi, George.”
He looked up to see Sandy brushing past him.
Sandy wanted to keep going, but George was trudging along like there was something wrong, like he might drop. When he looked at her, his eyes were red, on the edge of crying.
“You okay?” she asked, truly concerned.
He faked a smile. Or perhaps tried and failed. “Do you have kids?”
Feeling that one in her chest, she gave a nod. “A son.”
He rolled his tongue against his lips, his eyes searching the sidewalk, his head shaking. “I’ve never been good at this parent thing. Can’t figure it out.” He ran a hand through his impossibly perfect hair. “I’m driving Bianca crazy.”
She stepped toward him. “Isn’t that what all parents do?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
He said no more. Sandy could sense the pain bleeding out of him.
Another step toward him, one parent to another. “Don’t beat yourself up. It’s not easy.”
When he looked up, she realized he was still handsome when he was sad. A sad handsome. “Got any books on how to repair relationships with your kids?”
This was his form of humor, perhaps. “We could order you one. I should have a whole shelf.”
“How old’s your son?”
“Almost thirty.”
“Where is he?”
She took a long time to answer. “I don’t know. He went into the marines, fighting classified wars in foreign lands.”
“I can’t imagine. When’s the last time you saw him?”
She reached into her purse and ran her finger along the coral. “It’s been a while.”
A nod, a reverent moment of silence. “You’re probably rushing into work, but I was going to take a walk. Wanna join?”