After that night, every time he looked at her he had the vague sense that someone had come in when he wasn’t looking and snatched his sweet little girl away.
Sometimes, though, he still catches a glimpse of the old Natasha. She’ll give him a look like she used to when she was younger. It’s a look that wants something from him. A look that wants him to be more, do more, and love more. He resents it. Sometimes he resents her. Hasn’t he done enough already? She’s his first child. He’s already given up all his dreams for her.
I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO with myself now. I’m supposed to be blowing with the wind, but there’s no wind anymore. I want to get a hobo outfit and a sandwich board and scrawl What now, Universe? across it. Now might be a good time to admit that the universe is not paying attention, though.
It’s fair to say that I hate everything and everyone.
The universe is an asshole, just like Charlie.
Charlie.
That sack of shit.
Charlie, who told my would-be girlfriend that we didn’t stand a chance. Charlie, who accused her of being a shoplifter. Charlie, who told her I had a small dick. Charlie, who I’ve wanted to punch in the face for eleven years now.
Maybe this is the wind. My hate for Charlie.
No time like the present.
I’ve got nothing left to lose today.
THE PARALEGAL IS A LITTLE more rumpled when I see her this time. A lock of her hair is out of place and falls into her eyes. Her eyes are glitter under the fluorescent lights, and her bright red lipstick is gone. She looks like she’s been kissed.
I check my phone to make sure I’m not too early or late, but I’m right on time.
“Welcome back, Ms. Kingsley. Follow me, please.”
She stands and begins walking. “Jeremy—I mean, Mr. Fitz—I mean, Attorney Fitzgerald is just through here.”
She knocks quietly at the only door and waits, eyes even brighter than before.
The door swings open.
I might as well not be standing there, because Attorney Fitzgerald doesn’t see me at all. He looks at his paralegal in a way that makes me want to apologize for intruding. She’s looking at him in the same way.
I clear my throat very loudly.
Finally he drags his eyes away from her. “Thank you, Ms. Winter,” he says. He might as well be declaring his love.
I follow him. He sits down at his desk and presses his fingers against his temples. He’s got a small bandage just above his eyebrow and another around his wrist. He looks like an older and more harried version of the picture on his website. The only things that are the same are that he’s white, and his eyes are bright green.
“Sit sit sit sit,” he says, all in one breath. “Sorry for the delay. I had a little accident this morning, but now we don’t have much time, so please, tell me how this all came to pass.”
I’m not sure where to begin. Should I tell this lawyer the entire history? What should I include? I feel like I need to go back in time to explain it all.
Should I tell him about my father’s aborted dreams? Should I tell him that I think dreams never die even when they’re dead? Should I tell him that I suspect my father lives a better life in his head? In that life, he’s renowned and respected. His kids look up to him. His wife wears diamonds and is the envy of men and women alike.
I would like to live in that world too.
I don’t know where to begin, so I start with the night he ruined our lives.
THE THEATER WAS EVEN SMALLER than Peter and I expected. The sign said MAXIMUM CAPACITY: 40 PEOPLE. Tickets were fifteen dollars each, with the proceeds going to cover the rental of the space for two hours on a Wednesday night. The actors weren’t given complimentary tickets for friends and family, so he had to buy three for us.
My father loves ritual and ceremony but has very few things to be ritualistic or ceremonial about. Now he had this play, and these tickets. He couldn’t help himself. First he went out and picked up Chinese takeout—General Tso’s chicken and shrimp fried rice for everyone.
He sat us all down at the very small table in our kitchen. We never eat at the table, because it’s cramped with more than two people sitting at it. That night, though, he insisted we eat together as a family. He even served us himself, which is a thing that had never happened before. To my mom he said, “See? I got paper plates so you don’t have a bunch of dishes to wash up later.” He said it with a perfect American accent.
My mom didn’t respond. We should’ve taken that as a sign.
As soon as we were done eating, he stood and held a plain white envelope up in the air like it was a trophy.
“Let’s see what we have for dessert,” he said. He made, and held, eye contact with each of us in turn. I watched as my mom cut her eyes away from him before he moved on to Peter and then to me.
“My family. Please do me the very great honor of coming to see me perform the role of Walter Lee Younger in the Village Troupe’s production of A Raisin in the Sun.”
Then he opened the envelope slowly, like he was at the Academy Awards announcing the Best Actor category. He took out the tickets and handed one to each of us. He looked so proud. More than that, he looked so present. For a few minutes, he wasn’t lost in his head, or a play, or some dream fantasy. He was right there with us, and he didn’t want to be somewhere else. I’d forgotten what that was like. He has this gaze that can make you feel seen.
There was a time when my father thought the world of me, and I really missed it right then. More than that, though? I missed the days when I thought the world of him, and thought he could do no wrong. I used to believe that all it took to make him happy was us, his family. There are pictures of me from when I was three wearing a MY DAD IS THE COOLEST T-shirt. On it there was a father penguin and a daughter penguin holding hands, surrounded by icy blue hearts.