“And that’s why I came here in person.”
“Wait—OK, let’s start there,” I said, anxiety now becoming the new emotion of the moment. “Why are you here? Did something happen? Are you on the run?”
“No, no, no,” he said, shaking his head, uttering a gentle laugh. “Well, nothing bad.”
He took a seat on my couch, leaned forward, and rested his forearms on his thighs. His eyes... they looked both so old and so invigorated at the same time. Like he had finally found what he’d been looking for over the course of many years.
“After our phone call, I realized that so much of what’s happened between us since you ran away has happened of your accord. You reached out to me. You confessed how you felt. I was here trying to pretend things were great, and sure, they were better than before. But I knew after you talked to me last week, I had to be a better father. Better than any standard I had set for myself so far.”
He chuckled.
“Admittedly, it’s probably not a great idea to surprise a young lady at her house like this, but as soon as the idea came... I thought it would be helpful for both of us.”
“It is,” I said, putting my hand on my heart, relieved that this was not a meeting that would have tragic undertones.
“And besides, I realized I had invited you to come to me, but that would just continue the trend of you carrying the weight of this relationship, and that’s not very fair to you.”
“I see,” I said.
I was still just... what in the actual world? Like, what? My father, my father! Right here? I didn’t think it would ever make sense. Even a week from now, it would still seem like some sort of dream.
“Can I, um, get you some wine or something?”
My father laughed, and I put my hand over my mouth when I realized what I had just offered.
“I mean, no, no, no, anything but—”
“It’s OK, your words won’t make me relapse,” he said. “Just a glass of water. Relax, Jess. Let’s just talk. I want to make things right on my end.”
“OK,” I said.
I really wanted a glass of wine, if only because being a little buzzed would probably make this situation somehow make more sense. But I felt like that was bringing a deck of cards to a gambling addict, so I poured myself two glasses of water and sat on the other side of the couch of my father.
“I don’t want this to seem like it’s all about me,” my father said. “But I know that I have pushed you away too much. So... let’s make this the Walters panel, huh? Like Walters Cronkite, maybe?”
“Oh, heavens, Dad,” I said, rolling my eyes.
But even that—even that terrible joke—was still funny because my father was actually in the room. Not on the phone. Not in a flashback. Not in a photo.
Living, breathing, physically present.
Something that hadn’t happened in years.
This still didn’t make a lick of sense. And for how little it made sense, I was starting to think water wasn’t going to be enough.
“Well... let me ask you then. How has life been for you since I ran away? I know you got sober. I know you say you’re in a good mood. But tell me the real truth. The real deal.”
My father smiled, but I could see his eyes starting to water.
“It’s harder than I could ever put into words,” he said. “Don’t feel bad for me, though. I did it to myself. When your mother died, I didn’t handle it well, that goes without saying. But her death was obviously neither of our fault. It was just a cruel twist of fate, a major tragedy in our lives we had to deal with. But when you left, it felt like I was responsible. And though I got sober, I was really, really hard on myself for some time. What you didn’t see was how fat I got.”
“I can’t even imagine it.”
“I got the dad bod before the dad bod was cool!”
I laughed way harder than the joke called for, but what could I say? I was in a stress-relieving mood. Dad jokes were actually funny when you heard them in person.
“But anyway... yeah, it was... not fun. But I am very happy that we’re here now.”
