Chrysalis, p.19
Chrysalis, page 19
“Twins,” I whisper in her ear as I hug her, and she gapes.
“It’s too early for a heartbeat,” she says after confirming that Ella is busy kidnapping Darby to go play with her.
“When it’s time…mark my words, you’ll hear two.”
Bex just shakes her head.
We spend the afternoon building snowmen, playing good guys vs. bad guys, and after Darby and Ella bake cookies together, we eat them at the table while Ella and I draw. I’ve trained my little pupil well and at the tender age of seven, she already has good taste in comic books and she likes to draw her own stories.
Alex arrives from the airport just before dinner, which I’m cooking as Darby drinks wine and “helps” me by tasting along the way. We leave Alex, Bex, and Ella to their reunion, and when she arrives at dinner, I know Bex is grateful for the help.
Dinner is spent catching up on everything that’s happened. Between vacationing with Darby and catching up at work, I’ve barely talked to Bex over the past few weeks. Darby gives everyone the short version of what happened with Frank. After Ella’s gone to bed, I relay vague details about what was contained in the letter from our father, but I’ve brought it with me, and I hand it off to Bex. I also let her know that I’ve contacted him and that I’ll be visiting him tomorrow. Bex gets that this is something I need to do, and to do alone.
Darby and I insist upon doing the dishes and letting Bex go to bed early. It’s the day before Christmas Eve, but even without the holiday here yet, this feels as warm and cozy as Christmas itself. When everyone else is upstairs in bed, Darby and I spike some store-bought egg nog with brandy and I build a fire in the fireplace. We sit on the loveseat in the living room with our feet up, enjoying the fire, the drinks, and the smell of the fresh-cut tree.
“So, Bex is pregnant, huh?” Darby asks casually after she takes a long sip of her drink
“What gave her away? The dark circles under her eyes, or her three-hour nap?”
“She had to leave the kitchen when she walked in and smelled the cookies.”
I chuckle at that. “It’s twins,” I say.
She looks at me.
“For real?”
“All her life she’s known she had an increased chance.”
“But you’re fraternal twins,” she observes.
“Coincidence,” I say.
Darby gets a little quiet and I think she’s just as relaxed as I am. The house still smells like cookies, Bing Crosby is playing, and all’s right in the world.
“Tell me the truth, Michael. Do you want this?”
My eyes open and I look at her.
“Life in the suburbs. Getting married. Having kids.”
“I know you don’t want to get married or have kids, Darby. I would never ask you to.”
“I’m asking what you want.”
“I told you the first night we met that I don’t want to have kids.”
“You told me you didn’t think you’d have time for them. That’s not the same thing as not wanting them.”
“If it happened, I’d figure the universe was guiding us towards having kids. But, no, I don’t think I’ll ever want to try. ”
“It’s not just that I don’t want kids, Michael. It’s that I can’t have them.”
I don’t say anything for a minute. “So…is it that you don’t want them?” I ask gently. “Or have you just given up on ever having them?”
“I really don’t want them,” she admits. And she still looks apprehensive. She’s afraid this is a deal breaker for me.
“Do you want the truth?” I say, needing to crush this before it becomes an issue. “I think I could be happy in a lot of situations. If you wanted ten kids, I’d seriously consider it. If you only wanted one, we’d have one. But since you don’t want any, we’ll get a dog and give him his own room and buy clothes for him.”
She laughs then, and I smile for having created it.
“What kind of dog?” she wants to know.
“A Labradoodle named Corky.”
“You’ve given this a lot of thought,” she observes, her voice still thick with mirth.
“Maybe.”
“So it’s less about the kids and more about the woman?”
“It’s about what’s right for both of us. If kids aren’t right for what we want from our lives and our relationship, let’s not have them.”
She’s thinking about this but I feel that some of the worry has left her body.
“It’s not like we don’t have plenty of kids in our lives,” I point out, set on bringing the idea home. “Ella’s six. Bex’s twins aren’t even born. I’m sure Tami and Ben would take us up on an offer to babysit their kids so they can get away for a while. I think we’re going to be able to get our fix.”
“I want to give you your Christmas present,” she says then, abruptly.
“It’s not Christmas yet.”
“I want to give it to you sooner rather than later,” she says, but there’s something strange about the way she says it.
“Should I give you yours now, too?”
“It’s not something that will fit under the tree,” she says cryptically, and then shakes her head. “Sorry, I’m not explaining this well. I can’t give it to you now. And I have to go in for a few hours in the morning tomorrow, but how about afternoon?”
I don’t even remember what he looks like, I realize, as I stand, nearly shivering, on the front steps of his house. Despite being back here for a few days already, I still haven’t adjusted to the cold. When I realized he lives only five blocks from Darby, I walk. A restaurant she and I used to go to for brunch is at the corner of his block. When I was younger, I used to think about what I would do if I ran into him. Now, I wonder whether I’ve seen him around the neighborhood before and didn’t realize who he was.
It takes me a full five minutes to gather the courage to ring the doorbell, but the cold gets the best of me and I feel like an idiot standing on someone’s doorstep in a neighborhood like this in broad daylight. My heart is loud in my chest, though I’m not sure it’s from nerves. I’m surprised by how much animosity I still feel toward this man. I entertain a brief fantasy of punching him as soon as he opens the door.
When he does open the door, I see blue eyes that mirror mine staring back at me, and I’m not sure whether this immediate recognition stems from a memory or his likeness to me and Bex. This man is definitely my father. And I I’ve never seen him around here before. The resemblance is so strong that I’m sure that I—or even Darby—would have known.
He’s tall like me, at least six feet, but ghostly pale. I’ve always known that Blaine is a Scottish name, and his extremely fair coloring further explains how Bex and I look as white as we do. Unlike us, he is freckled. He looks older than I expected—older than the fifty-five I know him to be—and I think about what his letter said, about having a difficult life.
But despite his letter, I have never pictured his life as difficult. And, no matter the burden I see from his face, I doubt any words he could say would make me believe it. If nothing he says will sway me, maybe coming here was a mistake.
“Michael,” he says.
I’m not going to call him Dad.
“Please…come in,” he says after seconds have passed without me offering a greeting.
As I walk inside, my brain processes the details of his home. From the exterior, I can tell it was built around the turn of the century. Inside, I’m surprised to find a number of original details, though some of the interior structure has been redone. The decor is classic and masculine, and I wonder whether he lives alone. From the unique paintings on his walls, I know that Avi’s intel about him being an art dealer is true. Even though it’s Christmas Eve, I see no evidence of a tree.
“Thank you for coming.”
Once I’m in his entryway, he looks me squarely in the eye. I’ve never held such strong resemblance to anyone and It’s still a little creepy. Looking at him leaves me with the eerie sense that I’m staring at what I myself will look like thirty years from now.
“Will you sit with me?” he asks.
Even without knowing him, I can read his gratitude. I like to think of myself as a gracious person but I’m having trouble finding compassion for this man. I have yet to utter a word. I mutter a “yes” as he leads me into some sort of living room.
“Can I offer you a drink?”
“No, thank you.” I say politely, relieved that my manners haven’t abandoned me completely.
I don’t say that I’ll only be staying long enough to have my questions answered. I’m about to start interrogating him—to press him to explain how he ended up with four wives and five kids all in the span of fifteen years, when his face falls a little and he speaks.
“I’m sorry, Michael. All you kids deserved a lot better than me.”
But I don’t want him to launch into his sob story. I read all of that in his letter.
“I didn’t come here to hear your apology.” I say it with as little bite as possible.
“Then I’m sure you must have questions.”
And I think of them then. Whether he let us struggle more than we had to. What he was thinking by leaving all of those wives with small kids. What he was thinking by doing it four times. But, in this moment, I realize the answers are meaningless, and the questions past their prime. And that my real reason for coming is to say what I have to say to him.
“Once upon a time I did,” I concede. “By now, they don’t really matter. But I did come here to find something out.”
“What do you want to know?” He’s more cautious now. I’ve set fire to his script.
“I want to know whether you ever learned to be a good father,” I say simply. “Maybe you screwed up with me and Bex, but I want to know whether you ever took the time to learn from your mistakes and mastered the art of being a dad.”
It’s not a trick question, but I can see he is caught off guard and doesn’t know how to answer. When he does, he speaks very carefully.
“Once I realized how badly I had screwed up with my own kids…my kids weren’t kids anymore. By the time I knew what being a good father meant, I’d missed my chance.”
Strike one.
“Fatherhood doesn’t end when your kids grow up. You say you’ve learned to be a good father…so what makes you feel right about approaching us now?”
I notice the tone of my voice—its quiet calm smooths over more intense notes—it’s the same voice I use when I interview people.
“I know the day has passed for me to be a father to you but I think I could still be a good influence on Ella. I’m trying to make amends. This is my chance, for once, to do the right thing by all of you.”
Strike two.
“So you’re doing this for Ella?”
“I think it could be a great relationship for both of us.”
“What’s in it for her?”
“Love,” he says simply.
“What makes you think you’re uniquely positioned to provide it for her?”
“What Ella needs is the love of her family. And I’m her grandfather.”
Strike three.
“Here’s the thing. You may not have been around, but I had surrogate fathers. I’m kind of a surrogate father to Ella. And one thing I know is that good parents do what’s best for their kids. But in order to give someone what’s best for them, you have to see them clearly. That means seeing past yourself.”
My façade of calm slips a little and I pause, but I can see his expression change as he lets the words sink in. For a second, he does not look repentant—he looks resentful. And, in that moment I understand. He thinks he’s done his penance. He thinks he deserves this, deserves us. He thinks I’m punishing him because I’m angry. I am angry, but I’m not punishing him. I’m doing what has to be done.
“You don’t know what Ella needs,” I continue. “Just like you don’t know what we need. Because you don’t know us. And you haven’t even bothered to ask what’s best for anyone other than you in this situation. You could have done that before asking what you wanted. You haven’t thought through how we’ll explain to Ella why you don’t have a relationship with me and Bex.”
He quiets at this.
“Do you remember the advice in your letter? ‘Don’t be better—be good?’” I ask. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, and I appreciate that it’s more stand-up than anything else you may have done on the parenting front, but it’s just not enough. You may be better at this than you’ve ever been, but you’re still not good at this. So, please, respect our wishes and leave all of us alone.”
I’m blindfolded. Darby insisted on that fact and, amused, I’ve gone along with her. She’s been uncommonly quiet for the first part of the ride and has seemed a bit nervous all morning. All I know so far is that driving to wherever she’s taking me has something to do with my Christmas gift. We’re scheduled to be at Bex’s house in about two hours and I’d been eager to know what she had in store since she mentioned it to me.
I gave her her gift this morning after I served her breakfast in my bed. I love that she never bothered to move back into her brownstone. I came home to half the closet taken over by her girly things. It’s crowded now, and less orderly, but I can’t help but to love it.
For her present, I had some of the old family records that she’d had Anita duplicate bound into a gorgeous leather book. I wanted her to have a memento of all she’d learned about her family—but one that left a sweet taste in her mouth. I’d also let her know that I was having a lab recreate the bottle of perfume her mother gave me, and I’m pleased to see that she loves them both.
But I have no idea about the kind of gift she’ll get me. She’s only ever given me simple things before, but whatever this is, I’ve figured out it isn’t simple.
We’ve been driving for a good hour and I have no idea where we are by the time she stops the car. From what I can surmise, we’ve driven on traffic light roads as well as highways, but from Chicago that could have put us anywhere between Wisconsin and Indiana. I expect her to relieve my suspense right then, to finally remove my blindfold, but she lets the engine idle, and I hear her shifting it into Park. She takes a few deeper-than usual breaths and my heart quickens a bit. I can tell that she feels vulnerable, and I want to know why. We’re still in the car. I hear the hum of the engine, and wait for the sound of her voice.
“This thing that I got you…” she begins softly, her voice almost shaky. ‘I’m pretty sure you’ll like it and I hope that you love it, but I’m afraid you won’t accept it, or that you’ll say it’s too much. I’ve never bought someone something like this before, but when I saw this I thought that it could be perfect for you. So, remember that, okay? And before your analytical brain starts working out how much it cost, or how outrageous something like this is for one person to give another, remind yourself that I can afford it and think back to how I have graciously accepted, and treasured, every single gift that you have ever given me. If you’re mad about the money, remember the Harry Winston necklace and the private investigator I’m sure didn’t come cheap and the $5,000 a night weekend at the Drake.”
“None of those things were about the money, Darby.”
“I know,” she replies. “This isn’t about the money either. Do you trust me?”
“More than anyone.”
“Good,” she says and I hear her get out of the car. She opens the passenger door and pulls me out of my side, blindfold still on as she leads me to the front of the car, turning me around so that I’m facing the hood.
“Then take off your blindfold and sign your deed.”
Before I can touch my blindfold, she places one of my hands upon something flat, something I immediately recognize as some sort of folder. Slowly taking off my blindfold with the other hand, I look down at it and recognize the Sotheby’s name. It’s a high-end real-estate firm.
“Open it!” she implores nervously, biting her lip.
She bought me property.
I’ve figured out as much by then—and when I open the folder to read the first of many papers, my suspicions are confirmed. The address is 200 Lakewood Drive, Glencoe. The town where my mother always wanted to live. The town where I’ve always known I would build Tara. She wants me to build my house.
My own tears immediately blur my vision, yet I continue to stare, dumbly, toward the papers on the hood, despite the fact that I can no longer see them well anymore. I blink then, my tears falling, and turn to find that we’re parked on a long, tree-lined driveway, which, in the distance, reveals the very beginnings of the frame of a house.
“It was in foreclosure,” Darby begins to explain and my wide eyes swing back to hers. “They had gotten far enough to tear down the old house and start to build the new one, but they couldn’t afford to finish it. I thought you would like it, so I bought you the land.”
I feel so many things for her in that moment that I know I cannot speak. No stringing together of words is sufficient to tell her everything I wish she knows. I can barely even hold the folder steady in my hand. Letting it fall, I raise my arms to pull her, fiercely, to my body.
“I love it so much,” I say with effort. “Thank you, baby. Thank you…” I’m whispering by the end. I feel her body relax a bit against mine and after a moment, I tip up her face so I can look into her eyes. They’re so luminous in the afternoon sun. “Thank you,” I say again.
“I expect to be invited to the housewarming party.” She smiles a bit then, and even thought we plan to move in together, I realize she still thinks of this as my house.
“You’ll be co-hosting,” I say.
“Show me around,” I command gently, and with that I take her hand.
And she does, and I’m amazed by just how perfect this property is. I learn that it sits on three acres, a very large plot for this town, with thick woods from the west to add privacy, a large clearing of ample size to build the house, and Lake Michigan on the eastern border of the property line. It’s better than even I had ever dreamed, and grander than my mother ever had as well. Property in Glencoe rarely goes up for sale, let alone property that’s on the lake.
