I took a deep breath and knew what I had to do. I began the story, right from the very beginning. Right from the very first night Nate had left the house.
I left no details out. Dr. Aldridge had told me that Nate didn’t remember the vast majority of the last two months. And he deserved to know. It was about him, after all, and the fate he’d been given. There was no reason to hide it. And absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about.
“So that’s why I needed to start taking all of that medication? It’s why I stayed in the hospital for so long?” Nate’s memories had begun to kick in at around the point in my story when he’d come home. When the medication had started to work. Before that, memories were pretty foggy for him. Like a dream, he explained.
“Yes. And it’s the medication that has made you better. And a whole bunch of other things, alongside it.”
“Like what?”
“Well, like all of your conversations with Dr. Aldridge. And the art lessons you had with Payton. And your music lessons at Henry Lewis.” I pulled my son in and kissed the top of his head. “A whole bunch of people have worked very hard to make you better. And you are doing so great! I’m very proud of you. You are making friends at your new school, and the teachers and nurses say you are doing so well and learning lots of new things.”
“I know. I really am.” Nate’s response was confident and bold, and he smiled when he’d said it.
“Yes, you really are,” I agreed. Behind me, I heard Pete quietly walk into the room. He sat on the bed. I suspected Tay had gone to get him so that he could join my conversation with our son, and she was probably downstairs entertaining Grace to keep her distracted.
“So now I have bipoly disease? And I have to keep taking my medication and going to my new school to stay better?”
“Bipolar disorder,” I corrected. Beside me, I could feel Pete become rigid, still uncertain about whether telling Nate was the way to go. But I was tired of keeping everything a secret. I didn’t want to give in to the disease we’d all been handed.
So I continued. “Yes, honey, we suspect you have something called bipolar disorder. We don’t know for sure yet, but Dr. Aldridge is pretty sure that’s what’s going on.”
“When will we know?”
“Well, right now she’s diagnosed you with something called Psychosis NOS. It basically means that we know you need to keep working with Dr. Aldridge, and that you need to stay on your new medication, but that we won’t know for sure until Dr. Aldridge can provide her final answer in about six months. She wants to monitor you until then, just in case we find out other things or something different happens.”
“Six months? How long is that?” Nate asked.
“Probably by next summer,” Pete said.
“Whoa. That’s a long time from now!” Nate exclaimed. “Does it mean I’ll get to stay at my new school until then? Do I get to stay with Adam?”
I nodded. Despite learning everything I could tell him about his disorder, he was fine. There was no embarrassment. No stigma. No shame.
In that moment, something clicked, and I decided to bridge a very big gap between two worlds that suddenly seemed way too far away. “There’s one other thing, buddy. One last thing you should know. It’s about your grandpa.”
“Grandpa?” Nate asked excitedly. It was the first time in three years that I’d mentioned my father to Nate.
“Yes. Grandpa. The biggest reason we think you have bipolar disorder is because your grandpa also has it. And it’s genetic, which is a fancy word for something that runs in our family.”
“Really? I’m the same as Grandpa?” Nate asked excitedly. I felt a sharp pang rip through my heart. My son missed his grandfather so much that he was overjoyed to hear about the disorder that bound them together, even through their years of separation.
“Yes, sweetie. We think you have the same disorder as Grandpa.”
“Can I … can I talk to him about it?” Nate asked.
“I don’t know, hon,” I replied honestly. “Maybe we’ll see if we can get together with him soon. But I don’t know for sure that it will happen. We’ll have to ask him first.”
Beside me, I sensed that Pete was smiling. He pulled Nate and me in for a group hug and it was in that giant squeeze that I started to really feel like everything might be okay.
59
We invited my father to visit us, starting on New Year’s Day. Pete called him at home in Florida, and my father eagerly accepted our invitation to come to Toronto. He found a last-minute flight and booked a room for three nights at a hotel close to our house. Even though we had the space, we both knew it would be far too uncomfortable to have him stay with us.
“Do I look okay?” I asked Pete nervously. The kids were upstairs cleaning up their rooms, and Pete and I were getting out cheese and crackers to offer my father when he arrived. I looked down, smoothing non-existent wrinkles from my winter grey dress. “Maybe I should have worn jeans. Do you think I should have worn jeans?”
“Honey, it’s okay. Your father won’t care how you’re dressed. He’s so excited to be coming here. Anything other than that won’t matter to him.”
“Yes, well, it will be good for him to see the kids,” I said, checking my lip gloss again in the mirror.
“That’s true. But he also wants to see you, Ash. You’re his only child, sweetie. And I happen to know that he loves you very much.”
At that moment, the doorbell rang. I froze where I was standing, a brick of old cheddar dangling from my right hand.
“It’s okay. I’ll get it. You stay here.” Pete gave me a hug and walked towards the door.
“No!” I said, almost too forcefully. “I mean, no, thanks, honey. I will get it. I can let him in.”
I held my head high and walked towards the door. When I opened it, I found my father standing on the step, looking as nervous as I felt.
He had lost a considerable amount of weight, and was far too skinny for his frame. His face was gaunt, filled with wrinkles that were new to me, and he looked much older than the man in my mind.
“Hi Ashley,” my father said. He extended his arms to offer the big bouquet of purple freesia he was holding. I was touched that he’d brought them, that he’d even remembered they were my favourite. I accepted the flowers, inhaling deeply, and was instantly transported back to happy times with my mother. I loved purple freesia so much because they reminded me of her. They were her favourite too.
“Uh, hi. Thank you for the flowers. Please, come in.” I held the door open for him. He awkwardly stepped in, and took off his shoes.
Pete shook my father’s hand and offered to take his coat. My father’s frail body became more exposed, and I realized just how emaciated and undernourished he looked. I couldn’t even guess how much weight he’d lost.
“Grandpa!” Nate shrieked, interrupting my thoughts. He ran into the front hallway and ploughed into my father, giving him a giant hug. It was the happiest I’d seen Nate in a long time.
“Well, hello, young fellow,” my father chuckled, returning Nate’s hug. “Look how big you’ve gotten. You’re huge! Practically a man yourself —”
“I’ve missed you!” Nate squirmed out of my father’s grip and peeled off his sweatshirt to reveal his faded, orange shirt that read Grandpa Loves Me. It was about four sizes too small. “Look! I’ve still got the T-shirt you gave me. And I still love it! I haven’t thrown it out, even though Mom wants me to.”
My mind immediately flew back to the Christmas Eve when my father passed out the shirts, and I found myself getting flustered at the memory. I forced myself to focus on the present.
“Where’s Grace?” my father asked.
“I’m here,” Grace responded, walking into the hall and giving her grandfather a shy hug. “Hi Grandpa.”
“I really can’t believe this. You kids … you’re … you’re s
o big!” my father said, his eyes growing misty. The tear he wiped quickly from his right eye did not go unnoticed by me.
“Why don’t we let Grandpa come in? We can go and sit in the family room. We’ve got some snacks we can put out, and then we can have a visit. Does that sound okay?”
We made our way into the family room, and settled into the couches. “Can I get you something to drink?” I asked my father.
“Just a water, thank you,” he replied quickly. I breathed a sigh of relief, thankful for the non-alcoholic drink order. I had been so worried he was going to ask for his beloved single-malt Scotch.
I handed my father his water, and put out the cheese and crackers, noticing as I put the tray down that my hands were shaking. I wondered if everyone else felt as uncomfortable as I did. Stealing a quick glance at my father sitting awkwardly on the couch, I suspected that he did as well.
As I sat next to Pete on the couch opposite my father, who was sitting with a grandchild on either side of him, I realized it was only the adults who felt any sense of angst. Grace had launched into stories about all of her friends at school, and Nate was eagerly showing his grandpa all of the new toys he had gotten for Christmas. My father was nodding happily, alternating his attention between the kids. It was as if they had never been apart from each other.
I cleared my throat uneasily, trying to figure out a way to participate in the conversation. “How was your flight? Did you have any trouble getting here?”
“No, no. It was fine, actually. I’d been a bit worried about it because I haven’t flown in a long time, but everything turned out okay. And it was worth it to be able to come here.” My father smiled at me across the table, his new wrinkles deepening as his grin widened.
I was shocked to hear him say that he hadn’t been on a plane. “You haven’t flown in a while? But you love to travel.” My father had been a consummate world traveller, continually hopping from continent to continent, visiting friends in each place. He was the global jetsetter whose bags were always packed for the next big adventure. I wondered what had happened to change things.
“I just … haven’t. Things are different now.” My father took a deep breath and looked straight at me. “A lot of things have changed in the last three years, Ashley. I’m not the same father you used to know.”
I nodded, unsure of what to say next.
“Mom, can I have some chocolate milk?” Grace asked, standing from the couch and starting towards the kitchen.
“Oh! Me too!” Nate was quick on his sister’s heels, leaving Pete and me alone with my father.
“Where do you live now?” I asked my dad, realizing I didn’t even know where in Florida his house was.
“On the coast. A little town called Melbourne Beach. It’s about a hundred miles from Orlando.”
“Do you live in a condo?” After I said the sentence out loud, I realized how sad I was to have had to ask. It hurt my heart to fully realize that I had no idea where my own father lived, or anything about him. We had become completely estranged.
“A little house actually. It’s very small. But it’s right on the ocean. I love to go for walks up and down the beach. Early in the morning, and often again when the sun is setting. When I went through my uh … I mean … when I stopped to really learn a few things about myself a year or so ago, I realized that my favourite place to be is on the water. But I had to get out of Miami, which is where I’d lived previously. The place wasn’t good for me. So I moved to Melbourne Beach.”
“It sounds lovely,” I responded. “Do you live with anyone there?”
“No. Just me. I have a few friends that I sometimes get together with to play afternoon bridge. And we always go for Sunday brunch after church. But it’s just me in the house.”
“You go to church?” We had gone all the time when my mother was alive, but after she died, my father claimed to have become an atheist and turned his back on the church. He had vowed to never return again.
“Yes. Every Sunday, in fact.”
“When did you start going again?”
“About a year or so, I guess. It’s a small little community chapel. It’s Christian based, but non-denominational.”
“I see.”
An awkward pause took over the room, and I wished the kids would come back. “The kids are certainly happy to see you,” I said, hoping they’d hear me from the kitchen and take it as a cue.
“And I’m so happy to see them. They really are wonderful kids, Ashley. You both should be very proud.”
“We are,” Pete said. He took my hand and gave me a squeeze, as if to say everything would be okay.
“When are we eating?” Grace called from the kitchen. “I’m starving!”
“Soon. Why don’t you come out here and have more cheese and crackers if you’re hungry?” I stood from my chair. “I’ll go grab the kids and check on dinner. It’s lasagna. Is that okay with you, Dad? I remembered how much you used to like it.”
“It’s great, thank you.” My father looked pleased.
“Mom?” Grace whispered when I walked into the kitchen. “Why’s he so skinny?”
“I don’t know, sweetie. I guess he lost some weight.” I brought my kids in for a hug. “It’s so nice to have him here. We haven’t seen him in a long time. Why don’t you go and visit with him some more, and I’ll finish getting dinner ready?”
I used dinner preparation as an excuse to escape, and puttered about the kitchen while my father talked to Pete and the kids. When we finally sat down to eat, the awkwardness I’d felt earlier followed us to the dining room table.
“Can you please pass the salad?” I asked, pointing to the big wooden bowl filled with Caesar-covered romaine and croutons.
My father lifted the bowl and passed it down the table. It looked heavy for him, almost as though he was struggling to lift it. He smiled sheepishly, realizing that I had noticed.
“How long are you on Christmas break for?” my father asked the kids. He took a sip of his milk, which he’d requested with his meal once we’d sat down.
“Twelve more days!” Grace replied gleefully. I raised an eyebrow at my daughter, finding it interesting that she was suddenly excited about being off. Just two days before she had begged to go back so she could see her friends.
“I go to a new school now,” Nate said between bites of pie. I’d made lemon meringue, as it was another one of my father’s favourites. “It’s awesome there. And my best friend Adam likes all the same things that I do. Especially superheroes!”
“That’s wonderful. I’m glad you found a friend you like so well,” my dad said. From across the table, I watched his response carefully, and tried to gauge whether or not he previously knew about Nate’s new school. After Pete’s confession in the hospital, he’d promised to not have any more contact with my father. Other than calling my dad to invite him to come, which I’d asked him to do, my husband had sworn up and down that he hadn’t talked to my father again.
“What’s your school called?” my father asked. The look in his eyes was so genuine that I knew wholeheartedly that he’d had no more contact with Pete. Which meant he also didn’t know about what Nate had been through. Or that his grandson had followed in his bipolar footsteps.
“It’s called the Henry Lewis School Hospital,” Nate answered simply. “And I love it!”
“Hospital? I think you’ve got your words mixed up,” my dad said, grinning at Nate before he took another bite of pie.
Nate shook his head. “Nope. I meant hospital, silly grandpa. Didn’t Mommy tell you? I’ve got bipoly disease … just like you.”
60
After dinner, my father and I stood side by side in silence while we finished the dishes. He washed the pots while I dried. Neither of us spoke.
I’d managed to quickly change the subject after Nate’s confession about him being bipolar, but I k
new neither my father nor I had stopped thinking about it since. And I was certain he had many questions for me, just as I had for him.
Pete had made a quick exit after helping clear the table, offering to help Nate with his new helicopter Lego set that he’d gotten in his stocking. Grace was upstairs talking on the phone.
“Ash,” my father started, just as I cleared my throat to say something to him.
“You go first,” I offered. I wasn’t sure what I was going to say anyway.
“Is it true? What Nate said tonight … is he really bipolar?”
“We think so,” I replied honestly. “He’s been officially diagnosed with Psychosis NOS, which stands for —”
“Not otherwise specified,” my father interrupted gently. “I know what it means.”
“Yeah … sorry. I sometimes forget that you know a lot about all of this, too.”
“Ashley,” my father started. “Can we sit down? I’ve got some things I’d like to explain to you.”
I nodded and pointed to the kitchen table. We sat across from each other in silence. His breathing became rapid, almost as though he couldn’t get enough air. He was more nervous than I’d ever seen him.
Then, finally, after a breath so big I thought he wasn’t going to exhale, my father began to talk.
After he’d left our house that Christmas Eve three years prior, it had been a fast and fierce downward spiral into the wild pit of uncontrollable blunder. He started drinking earlier and earlier, sometimes barely making it past breakfast before he poured his first Scotch, and didn’t stop pouring until he’d passed out.
Most often, somewhere around the tenth or eleventh drink in my father’s day, rage would slowly seep into his body, quite often metastasizing into vicious attacks on whoever happened to be with him. He alienated every acquaintance he had in one way or another, ultimately driving them all out of his life. Before long, he had no one left.
“So I moved to Miami,” my father continued, fidgeting with his fingers. “Thought I’d start over and make new friends. But it turns out I got mixed up with the wrong crowd there, too … which I know sounds funny for a guy who’s almost seventy years old.” He chuckled lightly at his own expense, but I remained fixated on everything he was telling me. I was absorbing every word. It was the first time my father had been completely engaged. The first time since I was seven years old that we’d had an honest conversation filled with meaning.
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