Chapter 30 The Warmth of Blank Pages
The Warmth of Blank Pages
George eased out of bed, not wanting to tell Bianca what he’d done, but he knew he had to. He’d put it off last night because she’d been on such a high. She’d made spaghetti Bolognese, and they’d laughed about the book club and their journey around Italy and to-do lists and a million other things.
He couldn’t take that day away from her.
But now, he couldn’t put off his confession any longer, because he couldn’t be the father she deserved if he didn’t come clean. He marched down the hall, ready to tear off the Band-Aid.
She sat on the balcony, her feet up on the table. “Morning, Dad.”
“Mornin’. What are you working on?”
A smirk appeared as she said, “A book.”
“What?” Last he’d heard, she was done writing books.
“I was on Substack this morning, sending out a post that I might regret, when I saw a quote by a guy I know. Kevin Kermes. It was about Van Gogh moving to Arles, a small town in Southern France. He was escaping the rat race of Paris to create in a more powerful way. Not for anyone else, only for him. Anyway, the quote was, ‘When you stop performing for applause, you start creating for eternity.’ How good is that?”
He chewed on the quote as best he could, despite his mind being elsewhere. “That’s powerful.”
“Yeah, an uppercut to my chin. I knew this but forgot it. I have a freaking degree in how to deal with human angst, and maybe I’m pretty good at dealing with others’ but not mine. I’m the slippery one.”
“You are good at what you do,” George said. “I won’t soon forget yesterday. What a powerful couple of hours. I suspect everyone is rethinking their lives now.”
“Maybe.”
How could he tell her that he’d betrayed her when she was sitting here so happy? And finally writing again!
“What are you creating for eternity, then?” George asked.
“I don’t even know that it matters. I’m just writing, working out a bunch of revelations. No agenda, like our trip, you know? Just faith. That’s my future.”
He’d never seen her so inspired, and no, he couldn’t tell her. Not now.
“I can’t believe you leave tomorrow.” She set down her laptop. “What does life look like for you going forward? You gonna be okay?”
He thought about it, imagining that bottle of pills waiting for him, the ones he’d immediately dispose of when he got home. “You know what’s funny? I actually miss Mr. Nutz. He and I need to work some things out.”
“Oh, God, here we go.”
George took a seat. “No, I’m serious. I came up with something while you were talking yesterday. I’ve spent so long fighting against retirement—fighting against everything—but what if I leaned into it? I started designing a squirrel feeder in my head. You ever seen one of those?”
She shook her head, her bright smile growing wider.
“Me either. I could be onto something. Maybe if I make him his own feeder, then he’ll leave the birds alone. It’s an idea.”
“I like it.”
“And then there’s the elusive and slippery Sir Parm. Guess what I did late last night? Got out of bed to do it. I removed the trap.”
“Get out. You conceded to Sir Parm?”
“I suppose so.” He held up a finger. “But I did something I’m proud of. I left a big hunk of the older Parm, the expensive stuff. Honestly, he should be rewarded for his ability to beat me. He and Mr. Nutz are true talents at what they do.”
Bianca was beaming. There was no way he could admit that he’d cornered Corrado right now.
He shook his head. “As much as I miss being home, it’s going to hurt to leave. I like seeing you every day.”
“Me too, Dad.”
“And I’m dreading the turbulence.”
“Yeah, I hate it too. Hopefully, it’s a smooth flight. You want some medicine? I have Xanax for exactly that reason.”
George shook his head. “No, thank you.”
“You sure? With the meds, I can be in a full-on nosedive and not be worried about it.”
“That’s a visual that’ll keep me up tonight.”
“Sorry. And I shouldn’t be talking about pills anyway.”
He cut a hand through the air. “You have nothing to worry about.”
She patted her chest. “I believe that.”
Taking a Nespresso back to his room, George started to empty his drawers. Was he eager to get back to the life he’d left behind? The life he’d been pushed into? Though he certainly wasn’t going to pick up golf again or start baking classes, he’d take with him what Bianca had said on their trip.
Treat every moment with the reverence it deserves. Because you’ll never be back there again.
He’d have to come clean to B before he left, and she’d lose it on him, and he’d return to Scottsdale with his tail between his legs.
But he would not go back and swallow those pills.
He’d try again at life. Maybe he’d return to Bologna in the fall—if she’d let him.
He’d at least send her messages and try living the life she’d advised.
Whatever he chose to do, build a squirrel feeder or maybe even start dating, he’d give every moment the reverence it deserved.
He might even take a break from to-do lists for a while.
There wasn’t much to put on them anymore anyway.
Maybe he’d get around to that, though. Find something to put on them.
Something that mattered. Maybe he did have another purpose waiting for him.
In the meantime, he’d give each moment its due and feel gratitude that his little girl had grown up to be a superstar and that he’d lived long enough to see it.
Bianca was probably right, that he better get his head straight without jumping into something that would distract him from facing his demons.
From that renewed place, he might just find that the best years were yet to come!
What came after the golden years? A decline in health and functional capacity?
No. Not by a long shot.
It was the platinum years that came next.
“You know what it is, Dad. For both of us,” Bianca said, storming into his room thirty minutes later, while he was folding his pants. She plopped into the chair by the window and kicked up her feet on the ottoman. “Actually, let’s back up. The turbulence thing.”
“Oh, yes, let’s bring that back up, please.” George set his troubles aside, feeling how much he was going to miss her. Especially the way she could light up a room.
“I’ve never admitted this,” she said, “but I have to use apps when I fly. I track the plane, follow the weather, and measure G-forces. If the turbulence is bad, I close my eyes and wait to die. It’s the freaking worst. People with turbulence anxiety, maybe even people who suffer any kind of motion sickness from riding in cars, boats, planes, they all have something in common.
Control issues. I’ve had plenty of clients who suffer from it, and like a lot of things, I diagnose and help them while quietly sweeping my similar issues under the rug. ”
George sat on the edge of the bed, enjoying seeing his daughter getting wound up.
He’d love to take that thirst for life back to Arizona.
Of course, before he left for the airport, he planned to tell her about his run-in with Corrado.
But an idea had started to surface. He could pull Corrado aside tonight and ask forgiveness, tell the kid he didn’t mean anything by it.
Please don’t tell Bianca. Forget I said those things.
It wasn’t the prettiest solution, but maybe this was one of those rare times when you don’t have to totally come clean.
“Point is,” she said, “I have control issues, as do you. What does that mean, you might ask. For me, it means that I don’t want anyone to know that I’m not perfect, so I keep up a facade.
I don’t like relationships because they obviously require a huge surrender of control.
You have to deal with someone being all up in your space, leaving dishes in the sink, deciding what you watch on television, asking for things, needing things.
I stay on top of life because I want to be in control of every piece of it, leaving nothing to chance.
Even the act of sitting and doing nothing is so hard exactly because it’s the opposite of being in control. ”
George could barely keep up.
“And even my issues with my weight. I have a hard time controlling it, like this writhing beast inside of me that I can’t tame, despite diets and all the other shit, which naturally means I’ve created an unhealthy relationship around my body shape . . .”
That broke George’s heart. “Honey, you’re perfect the way you are.”
“No, I’m not perfect. But that’s okay. No one is. Trying to be perfect is controlling. Chasing an impossible standard is controlling. Trying to be Peggy Megawatt is controlling. Living and dying by a to-do list is controlling.”
“Dammit, I’m going to miss you, B.”
She sighed, having gotten it out. “You know where to find me.”
“Yeah, I know. Trust me, if you can tolerate me, I’ll be back. I need this—your wise words—for my soul. I never thought I’d say it, but I may miss Italy too.”
“What’s that?”
“You heard me.”
“By the way, please don’t eat. Text Sandy and tell her not to eat either. Nine courses tonight. No one better show up full.”
“Nine courses?”
“That’s right.”
Bianca felt like she was running wide open.
Okay, many of the things she was thinking about would take work.
Accepting her body for what it was. Accepting that she’d written a book that had misled people.
Accepting that her life was a mess and might always be a mess.
She had no idea what she was going to do going forward. But that was okay.
It was all okay.
What she wanted to do now was write. She grabbed her laptop, assumed her position in the shade of the clothes drying on the clothesline, and cracked open a blank document. She’d been making notes and writing deadly honest Substacks, but this was her first true venture into what might be a new book.