“This is ridiculous,” Dad muttered. “What was your mother thinking?”
I couldn’t join in his disdain. I didn’t feel sour anymore. The atmosphere, the cider, everything about this situation was incongruent and surprising. I felt that darn ray of hope seep back within me. “A tasty time-out?”
Dad arched a brow, but before he decided what more to say, our first course arrived. A modern twist on fish and chips.
Glancing to the menu, I read aloud, “‘Torched Mackerel, Blood Orange, Monk’s Beard, Smoked Garlic and Anchovy Sauce with Straw Potatoes.’ I’m not sure how it will taste, but it sounds great.”
Dad took a bite and his features relaxed. “It’s surprisingly light.”
We ate the dish in silence and only after it was cleared did Dad speak. “I want you to stop this.”
I set down my glass. Mom had also ordered the wine pairings—this course featured a light Sauvignon Blanc—and I was very happy to have both the softening effects of a sip of good wine and the seconds of stall time it offered while I set down the glass.
“It’s not what you think, Dad, and Mat’s story isn’t what he thought either. We can find . . . well, I’m not sure what we’ll find, but it’s amazing so far. They were amazing. And it’s your family. Your history.”
“That’s my point. It is my history and you should respect my wishes. And what is this ‘we’?” He let the word linger. “You and this young man are not a we, Caroline. He has encroached into our lives, wants to expose us, and you align yourself with him?”
“You act like he’s an enemy, or that it’s you or him. What if you’re both wrong?” I shifted forward in my seat, glancing around to make sure no one was paying attention to us. “I said it was your history, but I’m your daughter. It’s just as much mine. I remember that day, Dad. I didn’t before, but I do now. Can you recall what you said to Grandmother? She said it happened before you were born and it didn’t affect you. You shot back that you felt the burden, the black void it created every day of your life. You said those words. Don’t you think I feel that way?”
I swirled the light liquid around my glass. “I came home to be with you. I live a few blocks away and you don’t see me. You see my failures, but do you see me? And if you—” I couldn’t say the word. “I don’t want what we’ve had to be all there will ever be.”
I felt a stillness around us. Despite my best efforts, in such a small space, with no soft surfaces to dampen the noise, my whisper had garnered attention.
“This will ruin even that, Caroline.”
“So be it. There isn’t much to ruin.” Tears pricked my eyes, but I refused to blink.
The two of us had leaned so far toward each other in our effort to talk quietly, we jumped back as the waiter, slightly flustered, lowered the next course between us.
“Here we have Fowey mussels and saffron potatoes in a curried cauliflower velouté.” He reached for a wine bottle sitting on the ledge running the length of the boat. “And Chef is pairing it today with a Viognier.”
“Thank you.” I pressed the linen napkin to my lips to gain my composure.
When the waiter stepped to the next table, I turned my attention back to Dad. “How can you not want answers?”
“‘Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t,’” he quoted with no humor.
“You can’t be serious.”
He was. His eyes rounded and there was a yearning within them, fleeting as it was, that rendered him young for a heartbeat. Young and so alone I felt myself sink into the chair.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
We sat in silence for several minutes. Then Dad picked up his spoon and ate a few bites. I followed.
As we finished the course and the boat entered a long tunnel running underneath the highway, he spoke again. It was a strange experience, hearing his words disembodied by the complete dark surrounding us.
“I lived my entire life believing a set of facts that made sense to me. My parents never loved each other, most likely didn’t love me much, yet perhaps just enough to push me out to find a new life when neither had more to offer. How it all started? I never knew. Perhaps the war. I remember growing up in its aftermath . . . Even born in 1950, I was ten before the city looked and felt whole again. So, you see, it didn’t matter what caused our pain. It simply was.”
We emerged from the tunnel. He sipped his wine. Then, eyes fixed on me, he resumed talking. “Then twenty years ago, you stumbled upon a letter and everything changed. There was a cause. A person. A secret. Shame got added to that brew. I simply want it all to go away.”
I stared at my plate. I had nothing to counteract that.
“I’m tired, Caroline. I’m seventy-one years old. I’ve lost enough. I’m too worn out for more.”
I tapped the stem of my wineglass. It was so delicate. My eyes traveled to the tablecloth, the flowers, the cutlery, and the tiny bits of saffron sauce still marking our white plates in yellow. One should enjoy this experience, I thought. I glanced to the tables around us. Couples smiling, tasting, laughing, and making friends with the others seated with them. I wondered how much my dad had missed, how much I had missed, by focusing on what was absent rather than what was in front of us.
“Jason hoped your coming here would be a good thing.”
Dad smiled something small, almost indulgent. “Jason hopes for a lot of things.”
“As do I, Dad, and respectfully, I can’t give up.” I raised my hand. “Please, before you say anything, let me tell you some things I’ve learned. First of all, your parents did love—they both loved Caro . . . Caro was Grandfather’s first love and Grandmother knew it. He held on to her memory, the hope of her return, for years.”
“Caro?” Dad shifted his gaze out the window.
“That’s what they called her. And she called your mom Margo,” I offered, then waited, unsure what he was thinking.
He nodded to himself, as if reliving a memory. “I hated him that day. It was right before I left for the States and they were arguing. I came to the stairs because I thought it was about me. I first heard Mother clearly. She said something about Father loving someone better than her. He spit back, ‘I did and she’s gone. When are you going to let her go . . . I can’t breathe here.’ He went on to say he’d once loved her. My mother. He used that word, ‘once.’”
Dad faced me again. “That’s when I figured out there was someone else. I thought she was still alive; that it was ongoing. I’ve always thought . . . It doesn’t matter what I thought.”
We sat still for a long time. Me digesting. Dad reliving.
The boat turned around and eventually we entered the tunnel again. Dad continued, “I thought he wanted to leave her. I almost wanted him to because then . . . then she might be happy. Someone could be happy.”