‘When can I speak to her?’
How could I tell him that she thought he was dead? I felt torn between the love of my life and my flesh and blood. I told him that I would talk to her and we would take things slowly at first. He agreed. We discussed what to tell her about his absence, and felt the truth was best.
All this time I had lied to her. I had done it to protect her, but I knew I was going to have to beg her for her understanding and forgiveness. I was so scared and ashamed of myself. The three hours before she came home from school seemed to go so quickly. I wanted to never have to have this discussion, I wanted the clock to slow down, to put off the inevitable for just that little bit longer. I knew this day would come but I expected Poppy to be in her teens by then. I just didn't think that eight years of age was old enough to absorb the complexities of her father’s condition. But the truth needed to come from me rather than for her to answer the phone one day and hear her ‘dead’ father on the line.
I ordered a pizza to butter her up. Her pretty little face lit up when she saw the pizza box, which only made me feel more guilty. I didn't waste any time beating around the bush. With her first bite I told her the true story of her father’s illness. How he had abandoned us in my time of need because he had concerns about his own health. How his trip overseas hadn’t helped and how he had ended up in the hospital, diagnosed with schizophrenia. Finally I told her how he had been discharged and that I’d been in touch with him.
Poppy walked away from me and my confidence was shattered. But she returned within seconds holding our cordless phone in her hand. ‘Mum, call him now I want to talk to him.’
‘Poppy do you understand how serious a condition that your father has, do you understand that he does not function like you and me? You’ll have to go slow with him, darling.’
‘Mum, call him!’
I dialled Ben's number, all the while praying that he wouldn’t answer. I needed to spend more time talking to Poppy, I needed to re-acquaint myself with Ben. I wanted to see with my own eyes that he was better before I let him loose on our daughter. There was so much hurt that could come of this, and I knew that I’d be the one mopping up the mess if and when that hurt came.
‘Hello.’ Ben had answered the phone.
‘Hi, Ben, it's me, Annika. I just finished speaking to Poppy. She’s so happy that you’re well and is dying to speak to you so when you’re ready you just tell me and I’ll let you talk to her.’
‘Sure put her on.’
Reluctantly I handed the phone to my daughter. ‘Hello? Ben? Dad? This is Poppy!’
I walked away. I poured myself a wine and went out the back to light up a Winfield. Before I could reach the back door I could hear laughter. It was the happiest day in Poppy's life. But how was she going to treat me?
As I drank my wine and then another to the background noise of laughter and singing I contemplated what was going to happen next. I knew that eventually he would want to come over, but was that what I wanted? And would it make a difference what I wanted? I was frightened. I still believed he was capable of harming us as he had his own father. But was I just being overly protective?
When I finally returned inside it was late and Poppy was still talking to Ben. I told her to finish up and took the phone.
‘Annika, thank you so much for calling. She is an absolute delight. You have done a marvellous job raising her.’
‘So what did you guys talk about?’
‘Anything and everything. Her gymnastics, my childhood, her favorite subjects. Please let her call me again. I promise to do everything I can to make you proud of me.’
I wanted to say so much to that statement. I searched my library of emotions. Had I ever been ashamed of him? The answer was no, but I simply didn't have the energy to go into it now. I had a child upstairs waiting to be tucked in.
‘Ben, I would never stop her from calling you, if that would make you feel good. And I want you to pick up the phone and call us whenever you feel the need.’
By the time I went in to the bedroom Poppy was curled up in my bed smiling from ear to ear.
For six months, Poppy would be delivered to the door at five thirty pm by her nanny only to run past me like a gust of wind, straight to the phone and to her father. Every conversation ended with ‘see you soon’ and those words chilled me to the bone.
On one occasion Poppy passed the phone to me with a sentence that brought goose-bumps to my skin. ‘Mum, Dad needs to give you his flight details so that you can pick him up from the airport.’