He's halfway down thecrosswalk before the light even changes and I have to break into ajog not to lose sight of him.I cross in the middle of Fifty Eighthand watch as he passes the glass encased entrance to the AppleStore.The lunchtime crowds are remarkably dense, the air thickwith the smell of hot pretzels and horse manure from the hansomcabs that line Central Park South, and I skirt around FAO Schwartzand through the plaza rather than the main sidewalk.
It's then that I realizewhere he's headed, and I'm surprised that it's taken until he wasnearly there for me to recognize the obvious.He pauses outside ofHarry Cipriani, the upscale Italian restaurant he's alwaysfrequented and where he's taken us all to countless lunches anddinners.In fact, it used to feel kind of like our place—ourfamily's, mine and my father's, his and my mother's.And eventhough I know it's just a restaurant, enjoyed by many andconveniently located near his office, it still feels like abetrayal.
He takes a quick moment tocompose himself, combing his fingers through his hair again andregulating his breathing.But he can't be more than a few minuteslate, and it doesn't account for his agitation.
My curiosity shifts tosomething deeper—a need for information that rivals paranoia and acontemptuous desire to confirm this sense of betrayal.I can't evenfathom who he could possibly be meeting that would warrant suchemotions, but I want to catch him doing something wrong.I want toprove to myself that he's still a bastard, despite the supposedstrides he's made toward being a decent man in the past five years.I want to give myself this chance to slam that door shut, an excusenot to have to examine these unsettling possibilities anyfurther.
I feel off balance.As ifmy foundation has shifted, and now I can't quite catch my footing.My hatred for my father is such a deeply rooted part of my identitythat I'm not even sure who I am without it.
In the past few monthsI've already been shaken to my core and turned inside out by a girlwho forced me to reject everything I've ever believed—or didn'tbelieve—about love.And now, the mere possibility that Mitch Caplanis not who I so fervently believed him to be, the inkling of achance that I might have a father worth knowing… it's tilting myworld so far off of its axis that I fear I may just slide rightoff.
So I find myself silentlypraying that I was right all along—that I will somehow prove tomyself, inexplicably, that he's the asshole I always knew him tobe.Because it would be so much easier to right the world I knowthan to have to navigate my way through a new, unfamiliarlandscape.
When he finally enters therestaurant, I rush to the northeast corner of Fifty Ninth and Fifthand press my back to the window, leaning casually against it.Iturn subtly toward the restaurant and scan the bar and dining room.I spot him almost instantly and anger rises like a tide in mybelly, though in the back of my mind I know it isn'trational.
His back is to me, and itmostly shields my view of the woman who faces him, but there's noquestion that this lunch is, in fact, a date.Her manicured handsare clasped around his waist, and he appears to be holding her facein his hands.Wisps of blonde hair peek out from my blocked view,as do thin, shapely legs below the hemline of her skirt.
He certainly does have atype, and the thought makes me even more resentful.Does he thinkhe can just replace my mother by finding some woman with a similarbuild and hair color?
I almost leave.After all,I've confirmed what I came to find out, and though it isn't thescandal that will allow me to unequivocally condemn him, it'senough to give me an excuse to ignore his speech about undyinglove, and at least remain doubtful of everything else he's told metoday.Because whatever lines he spewed about loving my motherevery day since their teens, he certainly seems over hernow.
Whoever this woman is,whatever their relationship, I can read body language enough toknow it isn't remotely casual.Their stance is romantic,affectionate, and if you consider the way they're standing with myfather's anxiousness over being three minutes late to a stupidfucking lunch date, I would even venture so far as to guess myfather may very well lovethiswoman.
The maître d' taps him onhis shoulder and I look away before he turns in my direction.In myperipheral I see them all embrace like old friends, exchanginghandshakes with my father and a kiss on the cheek with his date.Iface Central Park as they pass through the dining room, but beforeI leave, I turn back to get one good look at this woman who'sreplacing my mother in his life.
And I stopbreathing.
My father's fingers arelaced with her finely manicured hand as he leads her to theirtable, and before I even see her face, I realize mymistake.
This woman isn't replacingmy mother.This womanismy mother.
I stand there, gaping, toostunned to concern myself with my covert operation.My father pullsout her chair, allowing her to sit before taking his place notacross from her, but beside her, and scooting his chair closer tohers.The way lovers would sit.I realize I have no need to try andremain hidden—they are far too caught up in one another to noticeanyone else, least of all their son stalking them from outside therestaurant.
I can see my fatherperfectly, and my mother's profile, her lips stretched wide in acontented smile.My father says something and she laughs, and myfather's pleasure at her joy is palpable.He looks at her like heused to during the good times—as if there isn't another soul in theroom, or anything that matters besides her.As if his primarypurpose in life is making her smile.
It's this adoration thatwas always dulled by his drinking, that was always the alcohol'sfirst and worst victim.It blinded him, made him forget who he was.Made him jump onto some random, seemingly innocuous slight oroffense and clutch it with both fists, until suddenly it was themost important thing in the universe.
How could you mention thatin front of them?!Didn't I tell you to have this dry cleaned?!Iwasn't ready to leave yet!How dare you say that to me?!Who do youthink you are?!Who do you think I am?!
It didn't really matter.It was never actually about whatever it was about.It was about mydad drunk off his ass, something bothering him, and my mother or mebeing there for him to take it out on.It didn't escalate toviolence every time.But it wasn't about how often it did, it wasthe fact that it did, and when it did, it was fuckingbad.
I watch them interact asthe waiter pours them both sparkling water and brings my mother aglass of red wine, presumably her preferred pinot noir.I'm stillgrasping at the chance of catching him in at least one lie, hopinghe'll be served a whiskey and negate his story of sobriety.But hedoesn't.He sips his Pellegrino seemingly without a care in theworld.
It hits me that this musthave been going on for a while.They're clearly not justreconnecting.My mother never talks about him to me, or in front ofme, and I was under the impression that they were barely even incontact.
My father reaches out andtucks her hair behind her ear, and parks his hand on the side ofher neck, brushing his thumb lazily up and down the outline of hercheek while she talks animatedly about something or other.Hewatches her intently, seemingly enthralled.There's nothingtentative or hesitant about their interactions.In fact, if theywere just two strangers I was observing in a restaurant, I wouldguess that they were a committed couple, deeply in love.Thethought throws me further.
I think about the theatertickets my mother had the night I first called him, and herapparent excitement over what I'd suspected was a date.
The city street spinsaround me, the world sliding further off of it's axis as I realizethat it's likely that I was right about her dating, but cluelessabout exactly what company she was keeping.That it's possible he'sbeen her date each of the many times she's been out in the citythis past year.
I try to think back towhen she started being so much more social, spending quite a fewSaturday nights at the St.Regis, or so she claimed, so shewouldn't have to drive so late.I think it must have been justunder a year ago.
When they start feedingeach other bites of their appetizers, I realize I need to get thefuck out of there.Next they'll be slurping the same spaghetti likeLady and The fucking Tramp.
I make my way across FifthAvenue and enter Central Park.Conversation buzzes around me,faceless masses all going about their business like it's justanother day, completely oblivious to the alternate universe Isomehow stepped into on my walk to my father's office thismorning.
My head spins and my pulseraces, and I pick up my pace on my way to nowhere.The image of myparents staring at each other like teenagers in love shoots aroundmy brain like one of those super bouncy balls—the ones that neverseem to stop, that only bounce faster and harder with each hardsurface they come into contact with.
