Page 100 of Out of Control

“Sure. Yes. Of course.” But it doesn’t matter how many words I speak because I’m still trying to process that he’s here, on my doorstep. And suddenly, I’m the one who’s nervous. “Come in.” I close the door behind him. “Mamma’s okay?” I ask.

“Yes. Sorry.” He glances over his shoulder quickly before turning back and taking in the extravagance all around him. “She’s fine. Didn’t mean to scare you.” Another step. A hand reaching out to touch and then pulling back. “She wanted to come but I—uh—told her I needed to do this on my own.”

A lead weight drops in my stomach. “Do what?”

“Do you—can I have some water, please?”

“Yes.” I take a step toward the kitchen and know I’m going to need something more than water right now. “Or would you like something else? A beer? A whiskey? Wine?”

His half-smile is one of gratitude. “I’ll have whatever you do. Thanks.”

My mind races as I head to the kitchen and try to figure out why my father is here. When I come back out with two glasses of whiskey poured—because I think this might be a something stronger type of conversation—he’s standing in the same spot.

It’s weird. It’s not like we’re strangers. We talk on the phone. We exchange texts. I visit them occasionally in the offseason—and yet, it feels like we are right now.

“Babbo.” I hold out his drink to him and hate that his hand tremors when he takes it. What can be that bad?

“Thanks.”

“Come. Sit.”

We take a few minutes to settle and then we sit across from each other, our eyes locked and suddenly years of what feels like misunderstood distance rioting between us.

“I—uh—I’ve done wrong by you, Oliver.”

I take a slow sip of my whiskey and look at anything but my father, because I’m the one who did wrong all those years ago. I’m the one who screwed my family up. “Go on.”

“Please. Look at me?” he pleads. And I do as he asks. “It wasn’t until we talked last that you made me see the error in my ways.” He clears his throat and takes a deep breath. “I have failed you so many times, son, and I wanted to come here, to see you and explain, and ask for your forgiveness.”

“I don’t . . . understand.”

“I’ve always hated art. It was all your nonna wanted to do—paint, study how to paint, look at paintings. It became her whole life. She was a single mother, and she spent her life so determined to make a living out of her art, that she stopped living. We were dirt poor, Oliver. Many nights we didn’t eat because she refused to get a job because this painting, the one she was manically working on, was going to be her big break. I was teased. My clothes had holes in them. I ate the school lunches and filled my pockets with anything extra they’d give me because food at home wasn’t guaranteed. It was a miserable existence and all because she knew her big break was coming . . . but it never did.”

“I don’t understand.” I think of how when I stayed with her after being expelled. None of this sounds familiar. In fact, she bought me expensive art kits. She encouraged my appreciation for it by taking me to museums. “When I stayed with her . . .”

“We provided all of that for you. For her.”

“But . . .” I stare at him, blinking.

“She was your kindred spirit. She made you laugh and helped you be a kid again after . . . everything. Do you think I was going to badmouth her or let you see the real side of everything? The circus looks beautiful to kids. It’s only when you become an adult that you see the threadbare costumes and the scars on the animals.”

I lean back and blow out a disbelieving sigh, and as much as I want to hold steadfast to my memories, thinking back, there were chinks in the armor. There were seams that were threadbare.

“I loved your nonna with all my heart, but she was a burden on your mamma and me financiallyI loved your nonna with all my heart, but she was a burden on your mamma and me financially. We sent every scrap of money her way so that she didn’t die in poverty and so that you didn’t think ill of the one person you idolized.”

“But you were also paying for all the problems I caused.”

He nods solemnly. “Yes. I was. But I deserved that. That was my fault.”

I chuckle more because I don’t know how to process any of this yet. “How? I threw the punches.”

“And I was the one who was a bad father. I think some part of me let the bullying go on, hoping that they would shame you to stop with the art obsession. But I didn’t know how bad it was or how much you suffered. And when you snapped, they deserved it. And, as your father, I deserved the punishment—the endless bills—because of it.”

“Whew. I don’t even know what to say.”

A memory floats back. My father hugging me. Crying. Telling me it would be all right and apologizing for failing me. I didn’t understand it at the time. I was too wrapped up in the anger, the pain, the confusion, to care. But it makes sense now.

And I hate that I never wondered about it before.