He nods. “I know.”
“You need to say something about Dad. Everyone here knows he’s sick, Len. Acknowledge it.”
He nods, acquiesces.
I don’t go back to my seat. I stand at the back of the room, watching the people mingle and speak, discussing treaty and procedure, making connections, making us grow. We never get it right because each of us is only human, the sum of all our parts, and each part is flawed.
I see my brother, charming and affable, making someone laugh and someone else smile; the shaking of hands.
I sip my rum and cola. Watching.
Ben joins me, saying nothing, holding a beer. We lean back against the wall, waiting.
Pigeons watching, perching. Waiting. Or Eagles, maybe.
It depends how high we soar.
Lennox stands, taps his glass with a fork and the room comes to a halt, needing to listen.
“All of you know my father has been tired. There has been speculation that he’s ill, and this isn’t just speculation. It’s true.”
I don’t choke or show anything but the emotion they would expect as Lennox speaks and eyes flit my way. I am serene, as if I control this charade, this pretence that I feel only what is becoming.
“My father can’t be here today. He has stage four cancer of the liver and needs to spend his time in the place that he loves with the people he loves the most, so he has passed it to Blair and I to disseminate his views, feelings and vision.”
“My father loves his country and his people. He also loves our history. A history that entwines Scotland with England. We are strongest when we are together…”
Ben puts his hand around my waist, the darkness shielding up from everything but Isaac’s eyes that I am fixed on from the other side of the room.
He isn’t listening to a word of Lennox’s rhetoric. He’s watching us, as if we’re the only three people in the room.
“We should go.” My words to Ben are low and quiet. The focus is on Lennox as he delivers a eulogy to my father before he’s dead and I’m not sure I can listen any longer.
“We should.” He takes my hand and we slip away, through the silent hallways and corridors of the hotel, through the ghost town of rooms to the floor where my empty suite sits.
“I’m sorry about your dad.” Ben’s words are choked.
I don’t look at him.
“We don’t know how long.”
“Then take the time you have. I didn’t get that with my mother and I wish I had.”
I hear the pain in his voice.
“I hate that you didn’t have her. At least I’ve had mine this long.”
“It was because England didn’t want immigrants.”
My hands touch him as we walk down the anonymous corridor, feeling his heat and his pain. He doesn’t respond and I remember when we were younger, how my father had used to come out to see the gardens and Ben’s dad, talking with them about hydrangeas and honeysuckle and how the lawns were taking.
It was affirmation.
All of it gave a purpose.
Just like now. Ben’s purpose is to keep me safe and whatever demons lurk; he will do that.
I feel safe. I need to feel safe.
