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“On a Friday night? You should’ve come to the clubhouse instead. Paddy misses you.”
Dad gives me a wry smirk. “Paddy knows I’m a busy man, honey. Besides, I’m meeting him for lunch on Sunday. He’s interested in making some private investments.”
“Good for him. I’m gonna go to bed now,” I say, ready to make my way upstairs.
Everything in this house reminds me of Mom. I don’t mind it, most of the time, anyway. But it’s as if time has stood still here. For five years, nothing has changed—not the furniture, not the drapes, not the colors on the walls.
My father has instructed the service staff to keep everything just the way Mom kept it: fresh flowers in every vase, the same color scheme in every room. Nothing is to be changed, and it’s hard because I’m ready to move on. He isn’t.
It’s the guilt that is eating away at him. His desperate way of staying close to her after running away from her during the worst time.
“Just want to double-check,” Dad begins, “you are coming to work for me in September, right, Nadia? I’ve got an office manager position I intend to keep open for you.”
“You shouldn’t. I’m sure something else will pop up by September,” I reply.
He knows what that means, and he doesn’t like it. “Don’t do that,” he says. “Don’t try to pull the wool over my eyes, honey.”
“Or maybe you could respect my desire to try something else for once, something I’m interested in, without pressuring me,” I reply bluntly. I like this job, the clubhouse, and the people there. What’s the rush?”
“They’re not your people,” my father reminds me. “You’re not a part of that world. You never were, and you never will be. You’re practically a child, those are grown men. There’s no common denominator there.”
“You were a part of that world. And I am not a child!”
“We’re different people, Nadia. I had it rough growing up. I turned to the club because it was like a second home. Those people were my family, a brotherhood. You already have a family; you have resources and opportunities that I didn’t.”
I shake my head slowly. “I’m not sure I really have a family, though. I have a guy who claims he’s my father and pays for stuff. I had a mother, but she’s gone—”
“No, Nadia, don’t start.”
“Start what? Start telling it like it is, Dad?” I am getting angry, and for good reason. “You can’t handle the truth? Is that it?”
Dad sighs heavily and runs his fingers through his pale blonde, almost white hair. I’ve gotten remarkably good at frustrating the hell out of him in order to keep certain conversations short.
I don’t want to commit to any position within his company, and he doesn’t want to talk about how he let Mom and me down. It’s really that simple. Unpleasant but simple.
“Fine, Nadia. Just be careful,” Dad says. “And remember, for God’s sake, they’re not your people. They’re not your friends. And that’s not the kind of place you’ll want to list on your resume in the future. Do your thing, have your fun, satisfy this childish whim of yours, but do not forget who you are.”
“I know who I am. And I know who you are, too, even though you seem to have forgotten,” I reply. “Good night, Dad.”
He opens his mouth to say something, but I’m already gliding up the stairs, eager to take a hot shower and forget this conversation ever took place. It’s always been like this—it’s been like this for five years. He’s patient—I’ll give him that—but he is also determined.
I, too, am determined, though perhaps not in the healthier aspects of our relationship. I’m insistent in holding onto my resentment, my bitterness. Then again, I am entitled to feel this way.
While I was helping the home nurses and the maids take care of Mom, Dad was working obscene hours and traveling when he didn’t really need to travel, just to avoid coming home to us. To avoid seeing Mom as she slowly withered and died. I was there through it all. The chemo, the recovery, the remission, the return of an even more aggressive form of cancer, the slow death, the pain.
I was there. He wasn’t.
And I know it hurt Mom.
She left this world thinking the love of her life didn’t want to see her, didn’t care.
He couldn’t bear to see her, and I knew that. But I saw it as a sign of weakness. The great Michael Kessler is a weak man. And I have a hard time coping with that realization.
* * *
The following days roll by in a haze. I stick to my regular routine—wake up, go for a quick run, have breakfast, get my work clothes ready, and check the stock market.
I may not want to work for Dad, but I did pick up a few tricks from the old man, and I’ve learned to invest my money smartly. The more I think about it, the more interested I am in starting a business of my own.
