by Steph Bowe
Grandad gets the shits with me because I keep trying to hold his hand. I feel like a little kid, and I wish Grandad could be the Grandad he was ten years ago—strong and smart and taking care of things. Not vague and forgetful and randomly agitated. Not almost dead earlier in the evening.
A nurse asks Grandad if he knows where he is.
‘Hospital,’ he says, like she’s an imbecile. I almost expect him to add duh.
‘Which hospital?’ she asks.
Grandad is annoyed. ‘How am I supposed to know? I don’t live here!’
‘When is the last time you saw a doctor?’ she asks.
‘Oh, six months ago,’ he says. ‘I see Garry Henderson.’
Mum’s eyes flash. She shakes her head. Garry Henderson retired years ago. Grandad has a tendency to make up the answers when he doesn’t remember something, or draw up an old memory and make it recent. He says things with such conviction that even if I know they’re untrue, I sometimes doubt my own memory.
He doesn’t get a bed till eight in the morning. Grouchy with sleep deprivation, Mum grumbles about the health care system the entire time. I am at a point where I am so tired that everything seems surreal. If someone told me that I had slipped from the real world into a dream reality, I would believe them. I once read that sleep deprivation is the best form of torture. I think being forced to watch The Bold and the Beautiful nonstop for days would be worse, but that’s just me.
Grandad repeatedly asks me why we’re at the hospital. He has never been a fan of hospitals. He refused to go after he ran his car into the front of the newsagent’s; Mr Fields checked him out instead. When Mum brought him to the memory clinic in Sydney a few months back, she told him that she was the one getting her brain checked, that she needed him for moral support. It was the only way to get him there. He gets stubborn if he thinks you’re railroading him into something.
‘I don’t need to be here,’ he insists. ‘I’m fine.’
‘You had a fit, Grandad,’ I repeat.
‘That’s right,’ he says, every time. ‘That’s right.’
Once he’s settled in the ward, Mum and I drive to the shopping centre nearby. At this hour of the morning, it’s quiet. Too quiet. I feel silly walking around in my dress during the day, and Grandad can’t wear a suit in a hospital bed.
We settle on trackies and plain T-shirts and a set of striped pyjamas for Grandad. I pick a pair of cheap jeans and a hoodie virtually identical to the other hundred I own, and some spare underwear. Surprise, surprise, Mum settles on a plaid shirt and a pair of bootcut jeans. We manage not to talk about anything other than a) who on earth purchases denim-look leggings, and what would possess them to do so, and b) underpaid kids in third-world countries sewing our clothes in unsafe factories. Somehow, these are more cheerful alternatives to the things closer to home.
Shortly after we get back to the hospital, a nurse tells us that they’re going to take Grandad in for an EEG.
‘What does EEG stand for?’ I ask the nurse.
‘Electroencephalogram,’ he says.
Whatever that means, it sounds scientific enough to be reassuring. I echo it back to myself over and over again: he’s having an electroencephalogram. Like that’s exactly what he needs.
Mum and I head down to the cafeteria for a late breakfast while Grandad is taken off for his EEG.
Mum orders eggs on toast for the pair of us. The eggs aren’t bad, but she reckons they’re awful. She attacks hers with the salt and stares into the scramble as if trying to read it like tea leaves.
I clear my throat noisily.
‘Mum. I was thinking, since we’re in Sydney, and I know’—do I call him Jack? Dad? My father? He who must not be named?—‘uh, that, ah, my father is in Sydney, and I don’t know when we’ll be here next, it might be, it might be a good chance to have a chat. To…find out about my medical history on that side of the family.’
This seems like a practical line of reasoning, something I would be concerned about if I were an adult who wanted to prolong my life expectancy. Of course, I’m not the slightest bit concerned about that. What I want to ask is, Why didn’t you want to know me? I’d want to know me, if I were my parent. I want to ask Did you ever even think about me? Consider sending a birthday card? Did you ever love me, like parents are supposed to?
I can’t tell Mum what I really want to ask, because Mum is unsentimental. She won’t understand. And, for her sake, I don’t want to sound so desperate for familial love. I’m trying to keep pretending that it doesn’t bother me, that it’s never bothered me, that this is just a perfectly ordinary amount of curiosity about the person responsible for half my chromosomes but in whom I otherwise have very little interest.
‘If you want,’ says Mum, finally. ‘But you should go on your own. I don’t have anything to say to him. It’s all in the past. I’ll come if you need me, but really it’s about you.’
I want to do the right thing. That’s pretty much all I ever want to do. Say what people want to hear, do what people want me to do. It’s hard for me to tell, sometimes, and I don’t want to upset Mum by wanting to see my dad. But this is something I need to do for myself. She doesn’t seem hurt by it, but she never seems hurt by anything. Mum is unshakeable. I wish I could discuss it all with her, but she’s not one for a Deep and Meaningful, or monologues about love. For her, family just is.
Mum pushes the last of her eggs around the plastic plate, a pained look on her face. ‘I know I’m not…maternal. I hate to be a disappointment of a mother. I don’t know…I didn’t have much of a role model. being raised by a single dad. I mean, Grandad’s different now. Doesn’t have nightmares much anymore, forgets about them if he does. He was a strong bloke but there were times when he was crippled by panic attacks, reliving stuff from the war. He wasn’t abusive or anything to me. A good man. Just not really there for you, emotionally. Bit distant. I haven’t really got any excuse for being the same with you.’ She shrugs. ‘Just don’t know how to be. Mainly tried not to mess you up, you know. Like to think I’ve succeeded so far.’
‘Of course you’ve succeeded, Mum.’ This is the most Deep and Meaningful she’s been in a long time. Maybe because of Grandad’s fit. Maybe she does get it, thinks the same way I do. Maybe we just have a communication problem. ‘You’re a great mum.’
She nods sharply.
‘Uh, you know, I wanted to say, I didn’t mean to be weird about Nick,’ I say. ‘It was just…surprising. You’re allowed to have a boyfriend. Not that it’s up to me…You’re an adult. Obviously. It’s just…I don’t know. I was worried it would change things. But you…deserve to be happy.’
Mum nods again, despite the fact that what I just said bordered on being unintelligible.
‘I have no tolerance for platitudes, Kirby, but thank you. It’ll become normal. Just give it time. Don’t worry. There won’t be a new baby Arrow stealing your thunder. Other than Nathan’s kid.’
‘We could have Nick and his mum over for Christmas?’ I suggest.
Mum goes back to her eggs. ‘I’ll think about it,’ she says to her plate, in a tone that indicates the end of the conversation.
When we get back from the cafeteria, Grandad is wearing a Holter monitor so they can track his heart activity over twenty-four hours. A nurse presses little electrodes onto his chest. Wires connect the electrodes to a device the size of a phone from the nineties.
An hour later he is in a state.
‘What’s this?’ he asks, fingering the cords linking him to the monitoring device. ‘Why am I wearing this?’
‘It’s checking out your heart, Grandad. You can take it off later.’
‘My heart’s fine.’
‘They’re just checking, Grandad.’
He frowns.
‘They’re going to keep you in overnight again, Dad,’ says Mum. ‘So they can monitor you, take some bloods, run some other tests. Over in no time. We’ll stay at a motel nearby tonight, all right?’
It’s
hard to tell how much he takes in.
‘Why don’t we call Uncle Harry?’ I ask. ‘Stay with them?’
Mum is still not on the best terms with Harry, after he nicked off years ago and left her with all the responsibility. She gives me a look. I look right back at her.
She sighs. ‘I’ll call, see if they want to visit your grandfather. But I don’t want to put them out by staying with them.’ I don’t think she wants to have to deal with them, or accept any help from the family.
I go out to the hallway and compose an email to my father on my phone. There was a phone number on the letter he sent, but I’m not sure I’m prepared for the potential awkwardness of that conversation. What if he says I had no idea you’d have such a pitchy voice like me! It must be genetic! or what if I say Not that hard, is it, making a phone call…Funny you couldn’t do it for the better part of two decades? There’s something about my father that makes me want to be sarcastic, even though our entire communication to date has consisted of only two letters.
I let him know I’m in town, and ask if it would be possible to meet tomorrow morning. I press send without re-reading. No chance to stop myself sending it.
Half an hour later my phone vibrates with a response.
‘I’ll wait here,’ says Mum. She has her best supportive face on. She is trying her best. I overcome the sensation of being glued to the passenger seat and manage to get out of the car. That alone feels like a colossal achievement.
My heart is pounding unevenly as I walk through the university grounds. I locate a map and search for Building H. I half-hope it’s not there; perhaps I’ve made an error and I’m at the wrong university and I won’t have to see my father at all.
Building H is there, and not far away. I am too far gone to turn back. The grounds are lovely, rolling lawns and huge, shady trees, students lounging underneath. For some reason, I had imagined universities as urban hellscapes, but it’s pretty nice here, and I’d probably think it was even nicer if I weren’t about to see my father.
Building H is the psychology building, a rabbit warren of empty hallways. My footsteps are silent on the burgundy carpet. I may as well not even be there. I take the stairs up to level two and read the numbers on the doors.
Room 2.23. His name is on the door with ‘Professor’ in front of it. I knock, twice. Maybe he won’t answer. The aircon is on too cold in here.
The door opens. My father is wearing beige pants and brown shoes and a blue button-down shirt. His hair looks even more untidy than in the newspaper photo.
I don’t know what he’ll do. I don’t want to go for a hug and get rejected. I’m not even sure I want to hug him. He’s a stranger.
‘Hello,’ he says briskly. He looks over my shoulder as if someone is behind me in the hall. When I turn to look, there is no one there.
‘Hi,’ I say.
I step inside. He doesn’t offer his hand for a handshake. Maybe he’s waiting to see what I’m going to do. We’re going to get locked in a standoff. He is either half-smiling or grimacing. He closes the door behind me.
‘Would you like a coffee? Tea? Water?’
I shake my head. ‘I’m right, thanks.’
He nods, as if he’s struggling to say something. He settles on ‘Have a seat’.
The office is sparsely furnished. There’s a computer on the desk and a bookcase in the corner, filled with what look like reference books, neatly shelved. One wall is dotted with framed diplomas. The desk looks like an Ikea job. There’s a spinny chair on his side and two worn red armchairs on my side. The desk separates us. I sit in the chair on the left. It’s not comfortable, and neither am I.
He is blinking too much. I can tell he’s nervous, too, perhaps even more nervous than I am. I don’t know where to start, what to ask. When you don’t know someone at all, but the idea of them has been central to your life, and to your ideas of yourself, for so many years, where do you begin? How can you even ask Why? No answer would be adequate.
My father shuffles papers on his desk, looking from them to me and back again. There is a panicked smile plastered on his face, almost clown-like. He keeps making meaningless filler noises, like he’s about to start speaking, but he doesn’t say anything, just, ‘Ah, well. Um.’
Maybe this is even weirder for him than it is for me. I didn’t think of that.
Finally, I ask, ‘What are the papers for?’ Because he seems fixated on them and it’s likely to be an easier question to answer than: What are your reasons for leaving town and ceasing contact with me, your firstborn child, when I was still in nappies?
‘Research I’m doing into the effects of parasocial contact on prejudice and discrimination against asylum seekers.’
‘What does it do to the prejudice levels?’
‘What does what do?’
‘The parasocial contact.’
‘It’s been hypothesised that parasocial contact reduces discrimination.’
‘That’s good. You can help people become less prejudiced.’ On his desk, there’s a photo facing out at me: a woman with a shiny blonde bob and two boys with brown hair and freckles and gap-toothed smiles. They couldn’t be older than six and eight. It is such a posed, polished and perfect photo that it almost seems like a fake family. ‘Your kids?’ I ask.
He nods.
I look more like him than they do, which is strange. I’m trying to watch his mannerisms, looking for the things that I do. I can’t distinguish anything, but then I’m not self-aware enough to know all my habits, to be able to see them reflected back at me.
I’m an only child, and seeing the photo of the boys, imagining little brothers, I still feel like an only child.
‘Do they know you have an older kid? Your wife and your boys?’ I don’t say, Do they know you have a daughter? Do they know you have me? Because it makes it easier if I pretend I’m talking about someone else.
He shakes his head.
I’m not going to start crying. The idea of this man handing me tissues makes me feel angry.
I want to push over the bookshelf and rip pages from the reference books and smash the glass paperweight he’s just placed on top of those research papers. I want to put my fist through the computer monitor and chuck the hard drive out the window and take the framed qualifications off the wall and stomp on every single one. I want to scream.
I don’t do any of those things. Just imagining the room destroyed is enough to take the edge off. I breathe in and out around the lump in my throat, and I imagine that I look very serene.
I realise, right then, that I am not prepared for my father to be an actual, real person after he has been an abstract notion for so long. Now that all of the possibilities have narrowed down to one reality, I am disappointed. I’m sitting in front of a man who is ordinary, apart from the blinking. And uncaring. Here is confirmation that he never called or wrote or visited because he simply didn’t care. Maybe I would have preferred a father who had been a junkie for the better part of two decades, or had been lost on a deserted island with only a volleyball for company. Instead I’ve got this ultra-normal person, this normal dad with these other kids, to whom I clearly don’t matter. It’s hard not to let that get you down.
‘What do you want?’ he asks. He doesn’t ask it unkindly. But he seems incapable of saying my name. I’ve been in here a while already, but barely two sentences have passed between us.
‘I don’t know what I wanted. Or expected. Maybe a hug.’ It doesn’t seem like I’m going to develop any sort of friendly relationship with this bloke. His family is not going to have me over for dinner if they don’t know I exist. I belong to a different time, to a different man from the one he is now. I think it would probably disturb his marriage if his wife found out he had another child.
He says nothing. And he doesn’t make a move towards me.
‘I don’t think this is a question you’re going to be able to answer, but it’s pointless for me to come here and not ask. Um, why did you never contact me?’
He’s quiet again, staring down at his desk.
‘I think I put it in the too-hard basket,’ he says eventually. ‘I was worried about invading your life.’
This is an inadequate answer.
I’m trying to work out how someone can be so intelligent and successful—a wife and kids, a PhD, a fancy award and research that helps society to reduce prejudice—and also completely and totally fail to acknowledge his own child. It just doesn’t seem like something a good person would do.
‘Why did you leave?’ I ask. ‘Mum could never really explain it to me. I don’t think she understands it herself.’
He says something I do not expect at all. ‘Have you seen Star Wars? The old films.’
I nod. Everyone has seen Star Wars, surely.
‘You know the bit where they’re in the…I suppose it’s like a garbage disposal, with the walls closing in? And there’s some sort of creature in the water. And it seems like it’s only a matter of time before the walls close in, and they’re crushed.’
‘I’ve seen it, yeah.’
‘That’s how I felt. Walls closing in. Germans have a word for it but I…I can’t think of it. The realisation as you age that all sorts of opportunities are closing off. If I had stayed, it was just going to crush me.’
This makes no sense whatsoever.
‘But surely’—I sound so plaintive—‘when you have a kid there’s a higher purpose to your life? Does your kid take precedence? I mean, you’re the psychologist. Isn’t it basic evolutionary psychology? We don’t live in Siberia; we live a few hours away. You could have called, could have written, could have…commuted. Come for weekends. Every now and again.’
He sighs. I think he might feel genuine regret. ‘It’s too late now, isn’t it.’ Not a question. ‘You’re grown up. It’s all in the past.’