“Your dad, he called here.” She paused. “He said he’d been trying to get ahold of you. That he wanted to let you know that he’s…he’s been sick. He’s been in and out of the hospital for a while and he just wanted to talk to you. So, whenever you get a chance, maybe just send him a message or give him a call?”
“Sick? What kind of sick? Like…” I sat down, my head reeling.
“He didn’t say. But…just give him a call.”
I hung up and immediately dialed his number. He answered after only one ring, telling me he’d been diagnosed with bladder cancer. They’d done some rounds of chemo a few years ago, and he had been in remission for a while, but now it was back. He’d recently gone through surgery and had the tumor removed, and they thought he’d be fine from here on out, but he’d wanted to tell me about it.
Guilt flooded through me.
I couldn’t stop thinking about all the missed calls I’d ignored, the ones I’d never returned.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know. Can I—can I do anything? Is there anything you need?”
He waved the offer away. “No, everything’s okay. Recovery is slow, but I’ve got good people around me. I just wanted you to know so you could update your medical history if you need to.”
My guilt transformed, my stomach dropping like a stone.
I’d thought—hoped—that this might be a moment of connection with my father. I’d thought that maybe he was reaching out. As soon as my mom had said the word “sick,” I’d concocted a whole narrative in my mind. My father had had a brush with death, and he was desperate to get ahold of me so he could tell me he was sorry. Sorry for being an absent father, for being so uninterested in my life. Tell me that he knew it was too late, but he wanted to do better now that he’d been given a second chance.
But my father wasn’t apologizing, or making some effort to reconnect. He didn’t ask to see me or for me to visit him, even though he’d just undergone a serious medical crisis. He was just being practical, providing information so I could update my medical files.
We haven’t spoken much over the phone since then. I gave him my new email address, but we’ve barely corresponded. He’s only asked the standard questions he’s been asking since I was a child, andI’ve provided some slightly more mature answers. I’ve asked about his health, how he’s doing, but he’s never offered much more than “fine.”
Then three months ago, he emailed to say he was getting married, and that he’d like my current mailing address.
I sent it, along with a quick “congratulations,” but I was stunned. We’d been corresponding cordially for months. I’d been making more of an effort. I’d thought again—stupidly—that he might be trying to repair our relationship, but he hadn’t ever mentioned that he was seeing someone, that he was engaged, that he’d be getting married soon.
I told him I wouldn’t be able to go all the way to Scotland for it, and when the invitation never arrived in the mail, I figured he’d decided he wouldn’t waste one on me. But then last week, it arrived.
I must have made a mistake and given my dad the address to the old apartment I’d shared with my ex. He took forever to forward it to me, and when I opened it, my first instinct was to book a flight. It was odd, but there was no reason I couldn’t go. It was the offseason, so I didn’t have to go in to work. Anything I needed to do could be done remotely. And I couldn’t help thinking about my dad being sick. What if his cancer came back? What if something happened to him? I hadn’t seen him in years, and I wondered if I’d regret missing out on this moment. If I’d ever have a chance like this again.
I packed, made arrangements, and now, a few days later, I’m here.
I spend the rest of the afternoon working in the café, then walk back to my hotel. I slip on a plain navy-blue dress that I’ve worn to a number of my friends’ weddings over the last few years, and take my time getting ready for the rehearsal dinner tonight.
Anxiety thrums under my skin. There wasn’t any sort of wedding website listed on the invitation, and there wasn’t enough timeto send back the physical RSVP. I sent my dad an email saying I was coming, but he never responded. I’m sure he’s been busy with pre-wedding prep, though. I wonder if he’s even seen it.
I smooth my hands over my dress and head down to the front desk. I ask for a cab and nervously tap my foot as I wait outside.
God, I hope it’s okay that I’m here.I don’t know how my dad is going to react to my showing up like this. I don’t know how I’m going to react to seeinghim. But it’s just two days. Tonight, and the wedding tomorrow, and then I’ll be going back home.
I can get through this.
When the car arrives, I take a deep breath and climb inside.
5
The restaurant is small, and the crowd even smaller. Only thirty or so people, and they all stand in little clusters, conversations in full swing. I do a quick scan, but I don’t recognize a single person. Not that I expected to, really. The only person I’ll know here is my father.
I snag a glass of wine off a table and take a walk around the room, sticking to the periphery. I wonder who all my father invited to this. There are people in suits and people in kilts. Plenty of Scottish people, but some Indian folks too, though they must all be my father’s friends, because I don’t recognize any of them as family. A great deal of the people here are likely colleagues of my father’s too, based on the snippets of medical talk I’m hearing.
I steer clear of those groups and continue until I overhear a few people laughing. One of them says how wonderful all of this is, how happy they are for Maggie.
I drain my glass and set it down.
I only know the name of my father’s fiancée from the weddinginvitation. From the light Google stalking I did, I discovered that she’s now retired, but used to work as a teacher. Her Facebook profile was private, but I could see her main picture, a zoomed-in shot of her face. A wide smile and full cheeks, curling gray hair that stopped at her ears.
My general impression of her was that she seemed kind, but I had very little information on which to base that.
