by Harper Bliss
What Kristin didn’t realize, was how in awe Sheryl was of her. Probably because she didn’t tell her enough, though Kristin seemed to have made a point, even through the most hectic stages of the renovations, of having enough time for them as a couple. On paper The Pink Bean was owned by both of them, but in reality, all of it, including the design-in-progress of their apartment upstairs, was all Kristin’s doing. Sure, they had discussed everything, but all Sheryl ever had to do was say yes or no to something Kristin brought to the table. She mostly said yes. And this was what her saying yes all those times had amounted to. A brand-new business, a brand-new life for Kristin, for whom being busy and working toward something was the pinnacle of happiness. She was the kind of person who needed something like this.
How exactly Kristin had pulled this all off in a matter of months, Sheryl wasn’t entirely sure, despite being witness to it all. She tried to be as involved as she could be, but The Pink Bean was Kristin’s baby and what Kristin needed most of all was her unwavering support, not her opinion on which tiles to use in the bathrooms. The only aspect of the entire endeavor they had discussed in depth was the name. Sheryl had been the one to suggest it, not only because Darlinghurst was a very gay-friendly neighborhood, but because she thought it important to state who they were from the get-go, rainbow sticker on the door and everything.
Of course Sheryl had had her fair share of doubts. How could she not have? But she was due for a change as well. Kristin quitting her job had been the catalyst for all of this, for their reinvention as business owners, though Sheryl would just continue working at the university the way she always had. Secretly, she hoped the change in daily routine and environment would spark a more personal transformation as well—thank goodness Kristin hadn’t set her sights on opening a pub, because that might well have been the end of her.
“Hello, stranger.” Caitlin sidled up to her. “Who would ever have thought? You and Kristin owning a coffee shop?” Sheryl had invited her old friend on a whim, and to her surprise, she had been in the country and shown up. She was probably on the prowl. Maybe she should introduce her to that woman she and Kristin had just met, the yoga teacher, who had made Sheryl’s gaydar buzz all over the place.
“Perhaps it was always in the cards for us,” Sheryl mused. “But we never truly know, do we?”
“You’ve become even more philosophical in your old age,” Caitlin said. “Every inch the wise professor I knew you would one day be.”
Sheryl bumped an elbow into Caitlin's arm. “I’m forty-five. You can call me wise but old is pushing it a bit.”
“Don’t you love it, though? Being in your forties?” Caitlin said in the same conspiratorial tone she’d always talked in. A tone that made Sheryl realize how much she’d missed her friend. “When you’re finally beginning to realize what truly matters in life.”
Sheryl glanced at Caitlin. “And what are your findings on the subject?”
“I, for one, couldn’t give one more flying fuck about what anyone thinks of me and my ways.”
Sheryl chuckled. “As far as I can remember, you never cared about that in the first place.”
Caitlin shook her head. “I cared a little, which was still too much.” Sheryl noticed how Caitlin's glance stuck to Amber. “All that matters is being true to yourself.” She took a swig from her champagne glass. “Now tell me, old friend, do you have any way of introducing me to that cute ginger over there, or am I going at this cold and alone?”
“I’ve got your back, sister,” Sheryl said, as a throwback to their early university days. “All you have to do is ask.”
Sheryl introduced Caitlin to Amber. Earlier, Amber had listened attentively to her little speech about visibility and all the ways in which it matters, her green eyes lighting up a bit, the way they used to, years ago, in girls who had just joined LAUS. Sheryl wondered what Amber’s story was, and she marveled in the fact that, because of this coffee shop she owned with her partner, she would soon be able to find out.
Sheryl looked around. People were chattering away, some meeting each other for the first time—like Caitlin and Amber—and some who had been neighbors for a while. Already, a sense of community was in the air. She had to hand it to Kristin once again: she knew an opportunity when she saw one, but more than that, she knew how to seize it when it presented itself.
She found Kristin in the thickening crowd and looked at her for an instant while a waiter refilled her champagne glass. As the level of bubbly liquid rose in her glass, so did the amount of respect and love she had for her partner who had pulled this off.
2016
Chapter Twenty-Three
Sheryl was going over the results of a research study two of her grad students had conducted. She often found herself coming down to work in the cozy, bustling atmosphere of The Pink Bean rather than in her office upstairs. She loved the hum of conversation around her and the sense of being surrounded by people more than the quiet of her study. What she loved most, though, was being able to watch Kristin from the corner of her eye.
Kristin had worked hard the past two years, often pulling week-long twelve-hour daily shifts behind the counter, because she was the sort of perfectionist who had trouble delegating even simple tasks like handing customers their change. These days, she employed a couple of people to do the work with her—one of them, Josephine, a student of Sheryl’s. A shy girl who Sheryl had pushed to take a job in a busy coffee shop when she’d asked her if she knew of any job openings. Sheryl was certain Josephine had meant a job at the university, but she’d also been sure that the girl would benefit more from a job that would put her into direct contact with a bunch of strangers. And she had. At least as far as Sheryl could tell. She made a mental note to check in with Josephine at the end of her shift.
Sheryl refocused her attention on her laptop screen and was just starting to recognize a pattern she’d been hoping to find, when the door opened. A man walked in and Sheryl did a double-take. He sort of looked like her father, but also sort of didn’t.
Instinctively, she rose. First, she looked around for Kristin, who had never actually met him, but she was in the back or upstairs.
Her father spotted her and walked up to her, hesitation in his steps. How did he recognize her so easily after all these years? His beard was neatly trimmed and his eyes were strangely clear. As he approached, Sheryl realized she was looking at an old but sober man. That was why she’d barely recognized him. He didn’t match the memory she had of him.
“Sheryl,” he said, his voice matter-of-fact. “Can we talk?” He didn’t make any moves to kiss or hug her, which Sheryl appreciated. They had lost contact decades ago. Though never a deliberate choice on Sheryl’s part—she couldn’t be sure of her father’s inebriated intentions—it had happened and it had been a relief. Because all her father reminded her of was the atrocity of her mother’s death. It was all he embodied for her because of what he had allowed it to do to him. And Sheryl soon realized there was no saving grace in hanging around a man who liked drinking more than spending time with his only daughter. Not if she wanted to save herself.
Sheryl gave him another once-over. He wore a jean jacket and trousers, a bright white T-shirt underneath. The stark cleanliness of the outfit struck her. Clean clothes was another thing she’d forgotten to associate with her father—the person who was supposed to do her laundry after her mother had died. He was skinny as a rake. Despite looking sober, he didn’t look very healthy, with his pale, yellow skin and sunken eyes.
“Do you want some coffee?” Sheryl asked.
“Just some water would be great, thanks.” Her father sat down without being invited to.
As she went to fetch a bottle of water and some glasses, she took a few deep breaths—Amber had been telling her about the immediate effect they can have on your psyche.
“Look at you,” he said, after Sheryl had sat down opposite him and clasped her laptop shut. “All grown up.”
“I’m forty-seven,” she sai
d. “I’ve been grown up for thirty years.” Before Sheryl and Kristin had bought their house, she had received the odd birthday card at her apartment, back when her father still had an address for her.
“I know. I know,” he said. “I’ll be seventy in a couple of weeks.”
Every year on her father’s birthday, Sheryl contemplated getting in touch. In theory, it wasn’t hard to do. He probably still had the same phone number, because why would an alcoholic bother to change numbers? And if not, all Sheryl had to do was go down to Campbelltown and ask around. But every passing year when Sheryl made the choice to cut him out of her heart and her life a little bit more, the distance between them lengthened. Despite being dressed in jeans, he looked more like a man in his mid-eighties than approaching seventy.
“I’ve been doing the twelve-step program,” he said, his eyes flitting from here to there. “Successfully, this time.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve come to make amends.” Sheryl didn’t know how else to be than on the defensive. Her heart was not made of stone and she even felt sorry for her father, who had lost most of his own life as well on the day he found his wife hanging from a rafter in the attic.
“I know I can’t ask forgiveness of you, but I do need to tell you how sorry I am.” He shuffled in his seat. “My liver is not going to hold out much longer. It has been failing for a while now, something I can’t blame it for.” He gave a mild, derisive chuckle.
“Oh.” Sheryl wished she had a glass of wine standing in front of her instead of water.
“I didn’t mean to barge in on you like this and deliver all this news, but I don’t know how else to tell you. I thought about writing you a letter, but… but I guess I just wanted to see your face. Look you in the eye.”
“How long have you got?” The tremor in Sheryl’s voice surprised her.
“Not long,” was all he said.
“I’m sorry.” Maybe it was because she saw her own eyes reflected back at her, only much more weary and bloodshot, but Sheryl truly was sorry. She had always imagined a phone call from the police, telling her matter-of-factly that her father had been found dead. While she was glad that it would never have to come to that, having him sit in front of her and give her the news himself was just as harrowing.
“When did you find out?” Sheryl asked.
He cleared his throat. “I’ve known something was up for a long time, but I’ve only been sober for four and a half months and going to a doctor was hardly a priority when I was still on the sauce.”
“And you still decided to stop drinking?” Though she barely knew the man, it seemed so unlike him.
“It’s never too late.” That mirthless chuckle again.
Sheryl didn’t know if he was joking. She had no way of telling. It had been too long. Too much time and life had passed between them. Inside her, a war waged between seeing herself in this man and all the distorted, mostly unpleasant memories she had of him. All the times he had let her down. At first, when she came home from school, she’d find him on the sofa, sleeping it off. But soon after he lost his job, he spent most of his time in the pub down the road, and Sheryl spent most of her time at her aunt’s. Though Sheryl always felt she needed to stay to take care of her dad, and to tackle the bottomless grief they’d been plunged into together. Who else could possibly understand what it was like to lose her mother like that? To be deserted by the person who gave birth to you?
“Looks like it is,” Sheryl murmured, hoping his hearing was failing as well.
“I know I’ve been the worst kind of father and I also know I don’t deserve to know any of the things I would like to know before I go, but I would like to learn about your life. About you.”
Sheryl cocked up her eyebrows. “Excuse me if I think it’s a little late for that.”
He leaned back in his chair. “Oh, it is surely too late for that. I’m well aware. I missed everything. Drank it all away. I don’t blame you for your reaction. I don’t blame you for a single thing. But I had to come see you and ask. I had to.”
Sheryl didn’t know what to make of all of this. This sudden appearance. She and Kristin were happy. They had this place. Sheryl had her career. They had good friends and a good relationship with Kristin’s parents. Sure—and this was the thought that stung the most—Sheryl was a bit loose-handed when it came to pouring wine, but she didn’t have any big complaints about her life. Everything was going great. And now her father had turned up. She’d put the anguish her parents caused her behind her decades ago. At least she thought she had. She hadn’t counted on her father materializing like that—all apologetic and sober.
When she was still a teenager, she had often fantasized about him sobering up, but had never detected any signs that he ever would. Thus, her father had lodged himself into her mind, and then her memory, as the pathetic drunk he was. Soon, she didn’t even feel sorry for him anymore. Because who was there to feel sorry for her? No one. She was only a young girl and she had gotten her shit together. She had found a way to recover from the unspeakable tragedy of her mother’s suicide. Her father hadn’t. It had taken him thirty-five years to pull himself together.
“All I ask is that you think about it.” He started pushing his chair back. “I just want to talk. Get to know you a little.” Was that a tear glistening in the corner of his eye? “Let me know.” He fumbled in his pocket and put a small piece of paper with a couple of digits scribbled on it on the table. “That’s the number of the place I’m staying. I don’t have a mobile phone, I’m afraid.”
Sheryl looked at the piece of paper. She imagined him writing down his number, his fingers trembling as he hoped for the best. Why was it so hard to give him a clear no? She wanted to, felt she needed to in order not to burst a huge delicate bubble inside of her, but she couldn’t.
She palmed the piece of paper and said, “I’ll think about it.”
Kristin heard Sheryl come up the stairs. She was about to make a phone call but waited so she could ask how things were going downstairs. Living above The Pink Bean was great in many ways—a very short commute, being the main one—but it did fail to put any kind of distance between her and what was now her job.
“You look pale as a sheet, babe,” Kristin said. “Did Josephine set something on fire?”
“I just talked to my father,” Sheryl said, and steadied herself against the fridge.
From the very beginning of their relationship, Sheryl’s father had always been an elusive figure. Ever since Sheryl opened up to her for the first time in the cabin in the mountains, Kristin had pledged never to push her on the subject. She figured that Sheryl would start the conversation if she wanted to have it. She never had an issue doing that when it concerned any other topic. But Sheryl never did talk about her father, and Kristin had continued not to push.
“Wh—How?” Kristin walked over to her. “Did he call?”
“He was here. I sat with him at a table downstairs.” Sheryl’s voice was shaking.
“What did he say?” Kristin didn’t know whether to put her hands on Sheryl’s shoulders or not. Whether to draw her into a hug and try to make the sheer shock displayed on her face go away.
“He’s sober.” Sheryl shook her head. “And dying, apparently. Nothing like death tapping on your shoulder to make you see the error of your ways, I guess.” Sheryl’s voice trembled with years—decades—of pent-up hurt and disappointment.
“Let’s sit down for a bit.” Kristin gently took her by the hand and walked her to the living room.
“I need something,” Sheryl said after she’d sat down. “Something strong.”
Kristin knew what she meant, didn’t hesitate, and fixed them both a whiskey, adding lots of ice, because it was the middle of the day.
“I think I might be in shock,” Sheryl said, tipped the tumbler to her lips and drank it all in one go, the ice clattering idly against the glass. “Never in a million years…” Her voice trailed off and she stared ahead of her.
“What did
he want?”
Sheryl sighed. “To get to know me before he dies.” She turned to look at Kristin, and Kristin couldn’t remember a time she’d seen so much helplessness cross her partner’s face.
“Fuck.” Kristin didn’t swear often, but this occasion called for it.
“He gave me his number.” Sheryl fished a flimsy piece of paper out of her jeans pocket. “And I don’t know whether to tear this up or frame it and hang it on the wall.” She huffed out a disdainful breath. “What am I supposed to do with that?”
Sheryl’s eyes pleaded, as though searching Kristin’s face for an answer.
“What did you say to him?” Kristin wished she had been there.
“He asked me to think about it and I said I would.” Sheryl looked around, got up, and found the bottle of whiskey on the kitchen counter.
“Will you?” Kristin tried to keep her tone as gentle and light as possible.
Sheryl refilled her glass in which the ice had not had time to melt, then cupped it between her hands—as though she could draw strength and a clear head from doing so. “I have no choice but to think about him now.” She sighed. “All these years. It’s not that I never thought about him anymore. Of course I did. It’s not even that I didn’t understand his reaction after Mom died. But I wished so hard for him to pull himself together for such a long time, and when he never did, I had to let him go. Had to push thoughts of him away as soon as they popped up. It was hard enough having one parent desert…” Her voice caught and she sipped from her whiskey, more carefully this time. “As far as I’m concerned, he left me too. They both did. And we never, ever talked about it. About why she did it. Not even on the rare occasions when he was sober.” She went silent.
“He probably just wants to know you’re doing okay.”
Sheryl shrugged violently. “Maybe. But we don’t have a relationship, despite sharing DNA. I don’t know the man, and I don’t feel he has the right to know me. Not anymore.”