|Fiction | Relationships | Self Improvement |
Prodigal Daughter
A call after a long absence requesting a meeting
I'm late, fifteen minutes, and this unintended habit pisses her off. My reception will be met with calm frustration. She's been like this since her mother died five years ago.
"Coffee?" she asks, watching me remove my rain-soaked jacket.
"Sure," I respond, shaking off the London rain and putting it over the back of the chair. "Sorry I'm late; the rain came down in sheets as I left the rail station.
"Didn't you fly down?" She asks, standing, ready to get me a coffee.
"Into Denham, yes. I caught the train into London," I said, but she'd already joined the line for coffee.
I won't mention the ten-minute dash from the rail station in the rain; her anxiety is already apparent. The coat hanging on her chair is dry. She's been here longer than fifteen minutes.
I got her call yesterday. I was about to go fishing. "Dad, it's me," she said, and there was a pause. "Yes, honey," I answered.
"I want to see you. Can you come down?"
I would have responded six years ago, "Is it important?" I've learned that my daughter doesn't call me unless imperative.
"Of course, I can fly down tomorrow."
She gave me the address of a cafe in London's Haymarket. "Let's say two in the afternoon. Okay?" she said.
"I can do that. Yes, okay." My cell phone went silent.
There's nothing to hide anymore except how vulnerable I am to her disappearing from my life again, as if on silent wings. While she's at the counter, I dry and polish my spectacles. She returns, holding one cup of coffee. The cup on the table is empty. It's her way; this will be a short meeting.
"Thanks for coming, Dad." She puts the coffee on the table in front of me.
"Of course, honey."
I would have come any time during the last four years, but no call ever came. Not until three months ago. Then again, yesterday. Her clothes, her hair, everything outward has changed, but not her eyes, her smile, the way she lets its radiance broaden; well, that is her mother's genes. The once teenage eyes that had shone their accusations have softened.
I've changed, too. Thinner. After a long absence, she can observe this but doesn't.
She's never asked if I suffered; the aloneness, the fiddling with her mother's rings, the constant re-runs of I Love Lucy endured when sleep was just an idea.
"You look good," she says, scraping in her chair.
"Thanks. You sounded anxious on the phone."
"I did?"
"A little…" I said, sipping at my coffee.
There's a moment when I can imagine those wings beating, and she'll be gone again, a fledgling bird about to trust in flight.
"I'm in love, Dad… I'm totally in love!"
There's excitement in her voice, and yet a moment of disbelief, and again, I think of the high board diver, that bounce which signals no turning back.
"That's wonderful, Josie," I respond, seeing the light in her eyes telling me her truth. "How long have you known?"
In my heart, I wonder if what she feels is what I felt, meeting her mom. Or would she feel a constant fear and misgiving that her love might not be reciprocated?
Her body began to shape itself like her mothers did when she was about to give me some bad news. She began twisting her car keys in her fingers. The high diver is about to take that last bounce…
"I'm a lesbian, Dad…"
And what struck me was just how safe I felt seconds before; I was so happy when I looked into my little girl's eyes for that first time, remembering how contented Teddy was sleeping at her side, his dreams soft as the dawn, the singing 'Polly Put The Kettle On'.
"You're my daughter first, Josie. All I could hope for was that you would one day fall in love. It's not who you love or how you love, but that you love. I'm so happy for you, truly."
Josie’s hand reaches across the table, falling tenderly on top of mine. It sticks out all over her that people might love or hate her for how she is. I wonder how it leaves me — the old, safe, slow way of people learning how we once felt, the privilege that went with it, and not having to shy away from saying the words; I love her if that was what felt best.
Harry Hogg: English writer raised in Scotland, living between California, Missouri, Colorado, and Scotland.
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