Scenes from a London Wine Bar
A daughter’s tribute to her late father
Sitting at the window table in our favorite Leicester Square wine bar, the after work crowd bustles by in earnest, hurried on by the unseasonably cool drizzle. Inside, at our table for two, time moves slower. Agonizingly slower.
Ring still in hand, Graham looks across the table, searching my face, waiting for the response that should have come. His proposal was hardly a surprise. I had predicted it, actually. And had been giddy with excitement. Now, though, sitting in the weight and truth of the moment, I am silent.
“You’re not saying anything,” he says. A polite reminder that now would be a good time to do just that.
Whether my silence is a result of a lengthy and unfortunate relationship with a frighteningly insane sociopath, or my penchant for overthinking things, or the protective instinct of a child from a broken marriage, I can’t say. Whatever it is, indecision doesn’t plague me for long.
Locking in on his eyes, I phrase my answer with words my late father offered decades ago. To the sixteen-year-old girl with a knack for the dramatic, who’s first serious boyfriend had abruptly ended their ill fated courtship, it was disarmingly simple.
“True love is rare, but when it happens, I promise you that you will know. You’ll know it in your bones.”
I‘ve always wanted to believe that, but a part of me never really did. Until now. My tears, when they come are happy tears, as Graham breaths a sigh of relief, then places the ring on my finger. My feelings are many, though perhaps more than anything, they’re a strange entanglement of intense emotions. Love, overwhelmingly, for the man who will soon be my husband, and a quiet aching for the man I’ve missed for twenty-three years, the one who promised me I would know. Even if I had been the last to arrive at that realization. It’s bittersweet, bound up with the sudden, urgent need to thank him. To let my Dad know that his simplistic advice was, in fact, exactingly accurate.
It was shortly after I turned nine, when my parents made the decision to divorce. An only child, living a safely naive existence at the foot of the Gatineau hills, I was convinced life as I knew it was over. In most of the ways that counted, it was. But more than that, it was also particularly frustrating. Because even during their clearly painful breakup my parents, strangely enough, appeared as if they still had real, genuine love each other. “Grown apart” was the official, oft repeated explanation, however, I wasn’t convinced. There had to be something else at play, I was sure.
My gut instinct turned out to be a wholly accurate one, I would discover four years later. When, sitting in Dad’s new living room he explained that Evan, his roommate since leaving Mom, was not just his roommate. Though I’d love to say that I was graciously accepting and nurturing while embracing my father’s newly realized truth, that’s not at all what happened. Instead, weeks away from day one of the ninth grade (a uniquely special hell) I reacted out of anger and fear. Regretfully, my acceptance of our families new reality took not a small amount of time, with plenty of hurt for all. Not because my father was gay, no that didn’t concern me. After all, I was a drama major on a performing arts scholarship. For goodness sake, I was soon to become affectionately referred to as the lavender team cheerleader! “Gay” was not the issue. No, what I had a difficult time with was the hurt over my fathers dishonesty, lying to me about something so central. And the fear of my dawning realization that maybe our father-daughter connection was not as strong as I believed it to be.
Credit is owed to both my parents, as they did their best to ensure Dad and I stayed connected, even when it was difficult. I spent summers and holidays with Dad and Evan when they moved to Vancouver, and slowly, over time I grew to not just accept their relationship, but to view it as a rare gift, one I was richer for embracing in my life. I think for me, it was about coming to view my father not just as a parent, but a fully realized human being, complete with all the inherent contradictions, gifts, and failings we are all blessed and saddled with. A curious thing happens, I think, with such a realization. A humbling, of sorts, as resentments and unattainable expectations slowly fade away, resting in the past as just another memory. Evan soon became inextricably bound to my life; a consistent and welcomed presence; nothing less than my “other Dad.” The fact that my mother, who had certainly lost the most in all of this, was genuinely and unfailingly supportive of them as a couple, helped my own process tremendously.
Ideally, that deep, albeit unique grounding, should have lasted far longer than it did. Life and fate, however, happen when you least expect them to. It was at dinner on boxing day, 1991, when Dad told us that both he and Evan had tested HIV Positive. After the initial shock, we hung on the assurance of promising research, and to the fact that, well, at least it wasn’t AIDS. That diagnosis came just over a year later, and it was soul crushing. He left his work as a law professor not three years later. Complications, infections, and multiple setbacks soon followed in rapid, hellish succession. I’ve always believed it was a telling insight into the kind of man my father was that we all rallied around him, doing what needed to be done. Evan, and a circle of close friends, theirs and mine (alto included), supported him not just emotionally, but with the gift of continued presence. His last year was the best we had, and I have been enriched in multiple ways with that elusive gift of “quality time.” In what was one of the darker times in the history of the epidemic, Dad was deeply moved and intensely proud that his family, both blood and chosen, were up for that challenge.
In April of 1996, I was on the Cross Canada train, returning east from Vancouver after visiting Dad and Evan. My memory of this, like it was yesterday; dusk had fallen over the Manitoba plains and I was well into my second glass of wine as I put the final pages of Jon Krakauer’s Into The Wild down, taking in the view of a magnificent purple and orange sunset. Mesmerized, I hadn’t noticed the train attendant quietly approaching. Would I please follow him, there was a message waiting. I suppose I knew, deep down, that visit would be our last. I just had no idea the end would come so soon.
Exactly one month and two short days later, there was a strange and uncomfortable confluence of relief, joy, and white, hot anger as I watched the CNN announcement. A new breakthrough in HIV treatment; highly active retro-viral therapy was literally saving peoples lives. It was as if overnight, people rose from their death beds and suddenly grew stronger and healthier by the day. Sadly, that game changing discovery was one month and two days too late for my father, and for countless other men and women.
So, here we are. Father’s Day again. Not surprisingly, this particular holiday has sometimes been a challenge. Almost a quarter century later, this Sunday celebration in mid June brings all of it back in beautifully vivid, yet painfully searing color. Today, in 2019, enough time has passed that simply sitting with the memories is mostly a good, usually comforting, and no doubt necessary thing. Though with each passing year, my father feels just a little more out of reach; like a snapshot that over time has become ever more grainy, slightly less clear. My increasingly distant connection to an ever fading past.
Yet, with oddly serendipitous fashion, days ago in a wine bar halfway around the world from my childhood home, the wise advice of a man to his only daughter arrived. Just when she needed it most.
Thank you, Dad. Happy Father’s Day. You are deeply missed.
