by Teresa Toten
He flinched. “She couldn’t make it.”
Mama couldn’t make it? Papa’s jaw set. In profile he didn’t look as boyish as he did full on. In profile, Papa looked middleaged. Maybe he looked like that full on too. I hadn’t looked lately. Not really. I used to examine my father’s handsome face for clues, search for traces of anything useful, despondency, frustration, joy, drinking, always the drinking. Make it? Mama would have crawled out of a hospital bed to “make it.” I felt like I had been run over.
I had had seven miraculous days. Seven days of as close as I was ever going to get to being at the centre of it all in a world that made sense.
“Papa?”
We pulled up to a pretty little church near Auntie Eva’s. He parked just down the block. It was a Unitarian church. Normally, I would’ve asked Papa what the heck a Unitarian was and whether I should add one to my altar. We would have done shtick. Not this time.
“What’s happening, Papa?”
He took the key out of the ignition and crumpled.
So did I. I take it back. Don’t answer! I don’t want to know! Don’t …
“Sophie, your Mama and me …”
He didn’t have to say it. I didn’t need to hear the words. I already knew. I knew for months. I knew when I saw them together, at the funeral, at Christmas, and even at my party. I also knew that, if the actual words hit the cold, steamy air, I wouldn’t be able to pretend anymore.
“Sophie.” He squeezed my hand. “There will never be anyone else for me but your Mama.”
Could my mother continue without my father? Would the sun ever come out for her again?
“And you are everything to me. You were from the day you were born.” He dropped his head. “You must know this, Sophie.” Papa scrubbed his face with his hands. “But no, I can’t. I won’t be coming home.”
I saw them clearly now in my head, what I had avoided seeing each time. They would stand together, closely even, but while Mama was totally there and shining for him, Papa was on guard, like he was marking his exit. “Ever?” I asked.
“I am stronger, but I am not strong, not yet, maybe never.” I was about to pounce on that when Papa brought a finger to his lips. “It’s true. And it’s also true I’m tired of being a loser, Sophie. I have to be responsible for myself and take responsibility for my actions. I now know that I have to move forward, not back, if I’m going to get a chance at this sobriety thing. I’ve been a loser for the past twenty years, almost the entire time with your Mama.” He lit a cigarette with the car lighter and blew smoke into the rear-view mirror. Into his own eyes.
Loser? Did he say loser? My father was the sun king. Loser? Nothing was making any sense and still I was not surprised. I think I knew from the moment he packed up his little suitcase all those months ago. I never once asked him when he was coming home. I knew.
But I had kept it a secret from myself.
“You can’t blame Mama! That you feel like a loser, I mean. It’s not her fault.”
Was it?
“Of course not, Sophie. I’m the weak one, only me. It’s entirely my weakness, not hers, but see, together somehow we, I … and I’m still too shaky in this.”
“But what about Mama?”
“I believe your Mama knows this and deep inside of her she accepts.”
Like hell, I thought. Sobriety had clearly impaired his judgment.
“She must know even better than I do. Seven years in prison, all the drinking before that, all the drinking after, the blackouts, the shame, the guilt, so much guilt, Sophie, so much guilt. Too much has, see sometimes what happens is that, too much …” He slumped over the steering wheel.
“… has happened,” I finished for him. I flashed to Luke that last day in the park. “Too much has happened,” I repeated. “You can’t find your way back.” This, I understood.
He nodded. “What matters in this is you, Sophie. We both love you so much.”
“You love me more.”
I might as well have slapped him. He turned away. “I’m ashamed I let you think that. I love you differently because your Mama let me. She did all the hard work, the jobs, the moves, the scraping, the worrying, day after day with no help. Even before prison, Sophie, she did all the heavy lifting so that I got to come in with balloons and poems and magic mirrors for my princess.”
I didn’t say anything. We both knew it was true. We sat there for a bit while I tried to take it in. Just before I started to wallow, Papa jumped out of the car and ran over to open my door. He always had pretty fierce timing. “Will you do me the honour of accompanying me to my meeting?”
Dear Moses, Mama was going to be a train wreck. Worse. All right, well, I’ve seen that movie, and we got through it all the other times. It’ll be okay, it’ll be okay, it’ll be … I inhaled slowly and exhaled slower still. “The honour is mine, Papa.”
He took my arm and we walked into the meeting like we were walking the red carpet. I allowed the familiarity of it all, the warm feeling of the greetings, to wash over me.
“Welcome.”
“How’re you doing?”
“Glad you’re here!”
“Welcome!”
Papa knew everyone and it was like I did too. That’s what they do. Welcome! You belong. You’re safe here. That was it! The feeling I had been chasing the whole year. It was the reason I loved that very first AA meeting. Wait, if I stopped being a drama queen for a minute, I had to admit that I felt safe with my Blondes, I felt safe with the Aunties, and I sure felt safe in David’s arms. Mama and Papa? Not so much and not for years, if truth be told.
“Hi, my name is John and I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hi John.”
John outlined the evening’s program, reminded us that we must respect the anonymity of every single person at the meeting and then led us into that prayer that I like so much.
“God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.”
Papa caught me reciting along with everyone and raised an eyebrow.
I broke down instantly. Pathetic spy, I’d make. “Auntie Eva led us on a fact-finding mission back in September, and I’ve been a couple of times since,” I blurted as we sat down.
Papa shook his head, but I could tell he was biting the inside of his cheek.
After some announcements, John made way for the guest speaker for the evening.
“Hi, my name is Kurt and I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hi Kurt.”
Kurt was a hippie, circa 1969. He looked like John Lennon, complete with long, wavy hair parted in the middle and granny glasses. Kurt told us that he was honoured to be telling his story at the request of tonight’s celebrant, Slavko. Papa grabbed my hand and put it on his jangling knee.
“Papa?”
He nodded and I did the math. Sweet Jesus! It had been a year since me and the Blondes went tearing around the city looking for him, a year since his last bender, a year since he moved out. It had been a year since my father had had a drink. I squeezed his hand hard as much to stop myself from crying as to acknowledge his mind-blowing achievement.
Kurt had been sober for seven years, one day at a time. He was a Vietnam vet who came to Canada to escape his demons, only to find out that they had a passport too.
Kurt talked about damn near killing his brother-in-law over a hockey game and about living on the streets for five months. He talked about “getting it” in this room and how he was privileged to be connected to such amazing human beings, of whom one of the most amazing was Slavko. It had been a long time since Kurt had encountered such a trough of shame in one man countered by such a willingness to be open and receptive to help and to work the program.
“Slavko, please come up and receive your one-year medallion to mark twelve months of continuous sobriety.”
Thunderous thumping and heartfelt applause carried Papa to the podium. Years melted away with every step, and by the time he got there, Papa was young again. He thanked his sponsor, Kurt, and everyo
ne in the room. He also thanked God, which was pretty shocking, but even more shocking was that he went out of his way to thank Mama and Auntie Eva. Papa’s greatest enemy had turned into his greatest friend.
“People cared for me, despite what I did or did not do for them,” he said. “They cared when I least deserved it. They cared when I was the most ashamed and rightly so.” He paused, to control himself. “And the one who cared the most is the one I hurt the most, my baby girl, Sophie.” Papa extended his hand toward me. “I have so, so much to be thankful for, but I am the most thankful for you, my wonderful daughter. You, dear girl, are the reason I am standing here. God bless you, Sophia, happy birthday, baby girl, and thank you, thank you all.”
Kurt gave him a back-smacking hug and then every single person in the room stood up for my father. Papa smiled back at us through tear-smeared eyes. Oh sweet Jesus, Buddha, and Moses, he was going to be okay. I have been watching and waiting on my father since I was seven years old. Even during all those years we didn’t see each other when he was in prison, I carried him as best as any little girl could. And now he would be fine.
I could let go.
When Papa got back to our row, he hugged me so hard it hurt.
“Happy birthday, Sophie!”
“I love you Papa. This is the best birthday present of my life!”
The meeting wound down and Papa was swarmed. Everybody came by to shake his hand or slap him on the shoulder and offer a gruff “congrats, man.”
We were pretty well the last ones out. “How about we get some milkshakes to celebrate? There is a ‘surprise dinner’ celebration at the Lobster Trap tonight at eight for all of us. But how about a milkshake with your old man now?”
“Will Mama be there?” I asked. “At the restaurant, tonight?”
“I hope so.” He waved to a straggler. “But maybe not.”
Reality pierced our celebration bubble. Mama. Somehow, she had managed to keep both of his big secrets from me. Papa’s one-year sobriety medallion and Papa not coming home. She gave me my week, a whole week of being in a miracle bubble. How much did it cost her? Would she have retreated to her room by now? I felt myself go small inside.
“I’m going to keep renting at Eva’s,” Papa said because he could always read my mind. “There’s lots of different ways of being a family, Sophie.”
The Blondes, the Aunties, he was right, I guess. Most families were messy, not just mine, not just me. I think I nodded.
Papa stood there waiting, looking like a hopeful twelveyear-old with his hands shoved in his pockets.
“If it’s okay with you, Papa, maybe I’ll pass on the milkshake part right now, but I’ll definitely for sure be ready to celebrate like crazy at the restaurant with you and everybody tonight.”
“And your …”
“And I’ll try to get Mama to come.” He looked relieved. “But no promises, okay? Right now, I think I want to go home.” I let the word roll around in my mouth. I never called it that, never called any of our places that all these years. They were the apartment, the flat, the condo, not home. The word felt odd, sticky, like it would catch in my teeth.
“Home?”
“Yeah.” I nodded. “I need a bit of time, Papa, and more importantly, I think Mama needs me. Actually, I think maybe Mama needs me to need her right now.”
We walked toward the car. “And how may I ask, are you going to accomplish that?”
“It’s time to paint my room!”
Papa laughed. “Genius!”
“Yeah, well, it really is time, and I know what I’m going to do. Remember my Endless Summer poster?” Papa nodded, but he didn’t remember. That was okay.
“Anyway, it’s in these beyond awesome shades of hot pink, psychedelic orange, and electric yellow. I’m going to paint each wall one of those colours and then hang the poster on the remaining white wall. It will make her demented, but she’s the one who’s been after me all these years to fix it up. Then there’s the furniture and bedding …”
“I see endless weeks of operatic arguments over paint and fabric samples.” Papa threw his arms around me. “I repeat … genius!”
“Yeah, and even if it’s not the perfect plan, at least I’ll finally have a finished bedroom. Hey, I deserve a decent bedroom!”
“You, Sophie Kandinsky, deserve a palace.” He winked and then opened the car door for me. “So …”
“So, I want to go home, Papa.” A little less odd this time, less sticky. I could get used to it.
He fired the ignition and the car purred into life.
“Okay, Sophie.” Papa tried to smile, and then he tried harder.
“Home it is.”
Acknowledgments
It takes a shocking amount of work by a shocking number of people to turn my words into a book. My husband, Ken, and my daughters, Sasha and Nikki, are not only first-class first readers but indefatigable cheerleaders as well. My writing group, the infamous GOUP, did a lot of heavy lifting. Thank you, Loris Lesynski, Ann Goldring, and especially Nancy Hartry and Susan Adach. Margaret Morin, Paula Wing, and Marie Campbell were indispensable—again. I am deeply grateful to the ever-patient and talented Penguin team, including Vimala Jeevanandam, Lisa Jager, Dawn Hunter, and Karen Alliston, and to Caitlin Drake, who made my Blondes better than they would have been without her. And finally, to all of my own Blondes and Aunties, who always were and still are my inspiration, puno ti hvala.