Elephant in the Sky

by Heather A. Clark

  I froze. I was staring at my father. The very same father I hadn’t seen or talked to in almost three years.

  When I could finally muster up the ability to control my actions, I forced myself to switch seats so my back was to him. I spilled some of the nameless red wine on my light blue scarf as I moved, and internally cursed my father’s name for ruining my favourite winter accessory. I gulped at the bitter wine and tried to think of a plan. I didn’t want to see him, that much was for sure, and I feared he would be on the same flight as me.

  As a global jetsetter, it wouldn’t be unusual for my father to be going to New York City. He had an apartment there, after all, and was likely meeting one of his too-young companions so he could take her for dinner at Le Bernardin and drape her in jewellery from Tiffany’s. The whole thought of it made me want to gag.

  After my mother died when I was seven, my father changed dramatically. It took six weeks for him to emerge from the dark and dismal guest bedroom so he could end his leave of absence from work and finally greet the dawn, only to decide that his career in law was over. He quit practising, despite the fact it was always something he loved, and further outsourced his life by hiring a second nanny to help keep me fed and clean during the day. The night nurse stayed with me while I slept, and the tutor he’d hired helped me with my schoolwork.

  With a full-time support system in place, and a previous inheritance that guaranteed he wouldn’t have to worry about the decision to walk away from his life, Todd Blakeley was free to gallivant around the world, leaving the only reminder of his beloved wife behind.

  Me.

  It got worse as I grew older, his trips becoming longer and more frequent. He always returned with extravagant gifts, shipping home the bigger ones, which often greeted me at the door long before he arrived home. He must have convinced himself that a good dad would make it home for the holidays, because he forced himself to fly in just before Christmas Eve every year. Except for four.

  At first I cherished the rare moments together, taking in every minute with him as I begged him to play with me or let me sit on his lap. But in my later teen years, I started to like it when he just stayed away. His trips home from whatever ski lodge or golf resort he had been at were usually accompanied by some woman who didn’t want to be there. And I’d grown in independence. I didn’t need him to be there.

  After I graduated from university, my involvement with him stayed about the same. We rarely spoke, and when we needed to connect about something, it was mostly over email. He never let me know where he was in the world, except for when he’d show up unannounced to shower his grandchildren in extravagant presents they didn’t need.

  Our conversations during his awkward short visits were curt, almost tense. And we never, ever, spoke about my mother. I knew I contributed to a lot of the tension during those visits; I’d never forgiven my father for abandoning me when I needed him most, and even my years of therapy couldn’t help me feel warm and fuzzy when I was around him.

  The biggest bomb came when he unexpectedly showed up on Christmas Eve, three years prior. We were just about to leave for church, when he literally fell through the door, dressed as Santa and reeking of single malt Scotch. He carried a sack full of unwrapped gifts, including matching orange T-shirts for our children that read “Grandpa Loves Me.” As he passed the gifts out, disgracing his dignity with each garbled word, I thought about the irony in the words on the T-shirts; my father didn’t know how to love. He knew only how to buy presents.

  “Just like old times … right Asheeey? I looove … uh … what was I going to say again? Oh. Right. I love Christmas … with you. You my little girl, sweetie Ashley. Forever … ,” my father had slurred, wrapping his arm around me and dragging me down with him. Literally. His heavy frame sunk into my shoulders, making me collapse on the kitchen floor underneath his drunken body. In front of my children.

  I immediately kicked him out and slammed the door, silently begging for my children to forget such a horrific display of alcoholism.

  I didn’t hear from him after that. He was sending me the loud and clear message that we were officially estranged — which I had no problem with given that he’d never been there for me anyway.

  Now, three years later, I was going through much bigger problems with Nate, and the last thing I needed was another encounter with my father. I slipped out of the Maple Leaf lounge to the bustle of the general airport and called Pete on my cellphone to tell him my news.

  “You’ll never, ever believe who’s here. My father! Can you believe that?! I mean, seriously. What are the odds?”

  “Really? Are you sure about that, Ash? Did you … did you talk to him?” Pete’s voice seemed puzzled. Almost uncertain, like he didn’t believe me.

  “Yes, of course I’m sure. It’s my father. Right there in the airport lounge, working on his laptop.”

  “His laptop, Ash? I’ve known your father a long time, and I’ve never seen him with a computer. How close were you to him?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe twenty feet away or so?”

  “That’s pretty far. To be sure, anyway. And you haven’t seen him in three years. Honestly, it probably wasn’t him.”

  “I know, but …” My voice trailed off as Pete’s hesitation began to play on my certainty.

  “Don’t sweat it. There are a lot of guys who look like him out there. Go get on your plane. And try to relax before you hit the chaos of your week. It sounds to me like it will be pretty insane with all of those meetings.” His insistence won, and I started to second-guess my previous conviction.

  “Maybe you’re right. My plane is boarding anyway so I guess I should run. I’ll text you when I land.”

  “Sounds good,” Pete replied. “And, Ashley? Don’t worry about your father. I know how upset he makes you. Just focus on your meetings this week and then come home to us. We love you, you know.”

  I smiled, trying to let Pete’s words make me feel better. But unfortunately for me, all it did was remind me that I needed to be away all week from a family who actually wanted to be around me instead of jet-setting off to the next adventure and leaving me behind. It had taken me a lifetime to find it, but I was finally in a family that was built on loyalty and love.

  When I took my seat on the plane, I pulled my laptop open and forced myself to focus on the creative brief I still needed to review. I managed to get through half of it before the flight attendant gently reminded me that I would need to put it away for takeoff.

  As I zipped up my red bag, the silver-haired man from the airport lounge scurried onto the plane, narrowly making the flight. He smiled at me as he passed, like he was apologizing for holding up the plane, and I realized immediately that he wasn’t my father at all. Just a man who looked an awful lot like him.

  As I returned the man’s smile, feelings of relief fused with confusion, and I tried to convince myself that what I wasn’t feeling was disappointment. But if I was honest with myself, I knew that a small part of me had hoped to see my father. To run into him. To talk to him — even hear about how he was. To find out about what he had been doing for the past three years. No matter what he had done, or not done as the case might have been, he was still my father, and I missed him.

  I closed my eyes, squeezing out the tears and quickly wiping them from my cheeks. I told myself that I didn’t need my father anymore. I was the parent now, not the kid. And I was a good parent. I was there for my children — even if work trips occasionally took me away from them.

  As the plane took off, leaving Toronto behind me, I tried to bury all images of my father. Somehow Pete knew that man wasn’t my father, and I didn’t know how he’d done it. Maybe his instincts about my reaction to Nate’s situation were correct, too?

  24

  When I arrived in New York, I quickly settled into my hotel room at the Waldorf and was asleep within minutes. The phone rang far too soon
the next morning, and I answered it with a sleepy, “Hello?” before I realized it was the automated wake-up call telling me that it was six o’clock and time to get up.

  I laced up my running shoes and hit the downtown streets of New York just as the sun was peeking over the buildings. It was my long-standing ritual on the first day of every business trip; I would trade in time typically spent at the breakfast table with my family for the chance to get some exercise and clear my head. It was quality “me time” before my crazy and hectic work day officially kicked in.

  I ran up 51st Street to 6th Avenue, and past the AJ & Emerson New York office where all of my meetings would be held later that day. By the time I got to MoMA, I had fallen into my stride and let my stress from the day before erase itself with each step.

  Once I’d finished my run and gotten ready for the day, I grabbed my usual latte from the Starbucks near the Waldorf and managed to resist the pumpkin scone that seemed to be calling my name. I knew my back-to-back meetings would be filled with catered baked goods, and I had a dinner meeting booked for that night at a restaurant that promised a rich meal with lots of wine.

  My day flew by without a moment to pause. I didn’t even stop for lunch. When I wasn’t in the Amex meetings, I had other people I needed to meet with from the New York office, or conference calls with my team in Toronto.

  I made it back to my hotel just in time to freshen up and change into something more my style. Amex was one of our more formal clients, and I quite often wore business suits when I met with them.

  I quickly swapped my dark suit for a pair of skinny jeans, a cream-coloured top, and my favourite Smythe blazer. I spritzed on perfume and put on a pair of pumps before running out the door, and added a fresh coat of lip gloss as I waited for the elevator.

  After I’d hailed a cab and asked the driver to take me to the West Village, I texted my colleague, Brad, to let him know I was running a few minutes late. As two long-time AJ & Emerson employees, Brad and I had known each other forever, and we tended to meet for dinner when I was in the city. Brad headed up the AJ & Emerson New York creative team, and it was good for us to both collaborate and commiserate when we could. And as a single guy living in the big city with more accountability during the daytime than at night, Brad could usually meet me for dinner when I was in town.

  “Hey you!” Brad greeted me with the wide, white smile our female clients loved. As the maître d’ led me to him, Brad rose out of his chair to kiss both of my cheeks. He brought me in for his usual bear hug and, as he squeezed tight, the faint smell of his familiar cologne tickled my nose.

  “It’s so great to see you,” I said, laughing as Brad squeezed tighter. “And to be here, finally. Where’s that wine list, already?”

  “No need, my dear. I’ve already ordered a bottle of your favourite. And, look! What do you know? Here it is, right on time.” Brad pointed at the waitress who was approaching our table carrying a bottle of red.

  “How does this look, Mr. Andrews?” she asked, presenting the wine.

  “Great, thank you.” Brad swirled the wine the waitress poured, then tasted before giving his nod of approval.

  “You must come here often, Mr. Andrews,” I teased him when the waitress left. “Does everyone get such special treatment?”

  “Well, what can I say? The food is good. Clients love it here. And no one’s cooking for me at home so it’s better than the burned crap I’d surely make.”

  I laughed in response. “Makes sense to me. I’d likely do the same.” I sipped at the wine, happy for the familiarity of my favourite Borolo and secretly pleased that I had such a good friend who knew my tastes so well.

  “So? How did the meetings go today?” Brad asked, helping himself to a piece of bread.

  “They went well. We covered a lot, actually. More than I thought we would, which is good.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Brad replied in between bites. “And how’s the Toronto office these days?”

  “Great, as always. It’s such a good team, and my associate creative directors make my job easier. They could practically run the creative shop.”

  “Come on now, Ash. You know that’s not true. Please … AJ & Emerson Global would practically shut down without you.”

  “Now you’re exaggerating.”

  “Maybe a little bit, but it would certainly be a huge hit for us if you left.”

  I laughed at Brad’s flattery. He’d always had a knack for making people feel good about themselves.

  “Speaking of AJ & Emerson Global,” Brad continued, “has Cole made any headway in convincing you to move here already? This place would be rockin’ with you and I working together every day.”

  “Funny you should ask: he actually did mention it in passing again today. But Jack would have a fit. You know that. Plus, there’s no way I could move my family here. We’re settled where we are. And, Nate, well … I’m not sure that would be best for him right now.”

  “Aww, Nate. How’s my little tyke doing?” Brad asked, grinning at the mention of my son. He and Nate had become fast friends when I’d had Brad over for dinner the last time he’d been in Toronto. “And why do you say that about my little guy? He’d love this city! Who wouldn’t?”

  “Maybe one day …”

  “But not now?” Brad tilted his head to the right and set his glass of wine down. He looked me straight in the eyes. “Anything you want to talk about, Ash?”

  I shook my head no, my eyes filling with tears. I looked down, hoping Brad wouldn’t notice. I longed to talk to someone about it. Someone who wanted to talk about it. Who would understand. Maybe even make it better. Or make it go away completely.

  “You sure, Ash? The colour just drained from your cheeks.” Brad took my hand from across the table. “We’re more than just colleagues. We’re friends, too. You can talk to me about anything.”

  Two tiny tears dropped onto the white linen napkin on my lap. I wasn’t a crier, and I was embarrassed to be letting my emotions show. But what was going on with Nate was big. Real. And for a mother who loved her son like crazy, it was also very scary.

  “Sashimi?” our waitress asked. She had sneaked up behind me and startled me with our appetizer. She put down the wasabi and ginger, and then placed the sushi in between us to share.

  Silence punctuated our first few bites. I tried not to feel uncomfortable, which was unusual for Brad and me. But I knew he’d spotted my tears and was likely wondering if he should keep asking if I was okay.

  When his next question wasn’t about my emotional state but rather my opinion on securing digital rights as part of talent negotiations for broadcast media, I realized he had decided to opt out of counsellor duty. And that worked just fine for me. I didn’t want to get into a long conversation with Brad about how worried I was about Nate. Even though I certainly needed someone to talk to, I knew that person wasn’t Brad.

  Two hours later, as dessert arrived, my phone was still buzzing obnoxiously in my bag. For the majority of our dinner, I’d ignored it for fear of losing the groove in the conversation that Brad and I had finally found, but there was something about the way it wouldn’t quit that made me feel like I should give in.

  I picked up my phone and slid the arrow right to unlock it. Seven missed calls and thirteen text messages from Pete. I scanned to the last one and my heart clenched: “Where ARE you? Call home ASAP. This is an emergency.”

  I grabbed my purse and coat and excused myself from dinner before walking outside to call my husband. “Pete? What’s wrong? Why so many calls?”

  “You don’t know what’s going on? Didn’t you see my other messages?” Pete’s voice was frantic.

  “No … I just saw your last text saying to call home immediately and I phoned you right away. What’s going on? You’re scaring me.”

  “It’s Nate. He left. Again. Only this time … only this time, we really c
an’t find him. He disappeared while I was making dinner. He was there one minute, and then suddenly he was gone. All I did was go into the pantry to grab some pasta. It had to have been less than thirty seconds. And as soon as I realized he wasn’t there, we started looking. We’ve looked everywhere inside our house. We’ve driven all over the place. We’ve searched and searched but … we can’t find him. Anywhere.”

  My pulse quickened. The heat of fear I’d felt before crept its way back up my neck. I knew I was actually living out the imagined scene my incessant worry had forced into my mind so many times in the weeks leading up to that moment. I bit the inside of my cheek and tasted blood. I wanted to ask the million questions that were filling my head but I was speechless, completely muted by fear. I couldn’t bring myself to say one word.

  “We’ve called the police …”

  The police?

  Pete’s words got fuzzy after that. All I could hear was the word police in my mind. I heard it over and over and over. The more I said it in my head, the more it started to sound funny.

  “The police . . ?” I finally muttered out loud.

  “Yes, the police. That’s what I keep telling you. They’re on their way over now. Should be here any minute. Tay came by and took Grace to her house because she’s hysterical, as you can probably imagine. She was freaking out and I couldn’t calm her down. I thought it would be better if she weren’t here when the cops get here. So Tay picked her up.”

  “Has Grace eaten dinner yet? You need to make sure Tay feeds her.”

  “What? Huh? Ashley … what? What kind of question is that?” Pete spit into the phone. “I’m talking about how Nate is gone. We can’t find him. Anywhere. I’ve been driving the streets and going everywhere I can think of for over an hour now. And I can’t find him. And now it’s dark.”

  I knew Pete was right. Given the situation, it was a weird question to finally ask, but in the moment, it was as if Grace’s dinner was the only thing I could control.

  “Ashley? I have to go. The cops just got here.”