by Julie Mac
“Oh, God, I’m so sorry, Tam. That’s awful. I’m so, so, sorry. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Tamara smiled sadly. “Back then, when we’d just met? You’d just told me you’d lost both parents, one through illness, one through accident. How could I tell you I’d lost a parent through her own deliberate act of self‐destruction? It happened when I was fifteen, and I was still angry with her when I started university. It seemed like such a selfish thing to do, hurting so many people around her.”
“Then later,” said Kelly slowly, “later, you probably did what I did, and found it easier to go on letting people believe the lie.”
Tamara nodded. “Exactly.”
“Maybe it’s time for us both to tell the truth,” said Kelly.
It was a hot summer’s day, with a pesky nor’‐easterly blowing across the cemetery, setting the leaves clacking and rustling in the big old poplars in the bottom corner.
Kelly spread a rug on the grass and sat down by her mother’s grave. It was Monday and she was in her work clothes—beige linen textured pants and short‐sleeved turquoise cotton top with tiny pleats down the front. Normally, if her mother’s birthday fell on a weekday, she made this pilgrimage to the cemetery after work, accompanied by Dylan. But this time, Dylan was away in Australia. Besides, she had a client to see at five, so she’d taken a long lunch break instead to make the forty‐minute drive out to the little country cemetery north of the city.
She sat with her legs out‐stretched on the rug, resting her weight on her arms, her face upturned to the sun and her eyes closed. It was easy to hear Mum’s voice when she was here in the cemetery, with no other living soul near, and the only sounds, the wind and the occasional contented murmur from the cattle grazing in the paddock next door.
Established on top of a hill by the farming pioneers who settled this area from the Julie Mac
middle of the nineteenth century, the cemetery was plain and sparse, some of the headstones dilapidated and crumbling away, with little in the way of the fancy gardens, white picket fences and memorial walls a more sophisticated city cemetery might boast.
But there was a serenity about the place that Kelly liked. Her ancestors—her mother’s ancestors—were here, the brave pioneers who came from Ireland a hundred and fifty years ago to forge a new life in a young land. And after them, the two generations of progeny who’d kept the family name alive in the district until Kelly’s grandfather, an only son, had left to find work in the South Island during the Great Depression of the nineteen-thirties and founded his own dynasty at the other end of the country.
The graves of her forebears were here, close to Mum’s, and Kelly found comfort in that fact every time she left the graveyard.
She opened her eyes and watched a butterfly dipping and swooping around the pretty little posy of flowers she’d picked from her garden this morning and placed in a small vase on the gravestone. In a few days, she’d return to take away the blooms before they withered and died. A grave adorned with dead flowers looked terribly bleak.
Sometimes when she visited the cemetery on her mother’s birthday, there’d be a single red rosebud on the grave. “From one of her old friends,” she’d tell Dylan. The rosebud wasn’t there this time, and in a way, she was glad. Invariably, the sight of that perfect bloom, her mother’s favourite, the choice for her wedding bouquet, made her feel sad beyond words, but angry at the same time.
She heard a vehicle pull up in the car park on the other side of the cemetery, car doors opening and closing, and loud voices. She turned and raised her hand in a friendly wave. She didn’t know the family—parents and a collection of children—but they gave her a wave as they headed for a grave up in the top corner.
It was obviously a quick visit, because soon she heard the family loading up into their car again, and driving off down the road.
“Just you and me, Mum.” She breathed in deeply and let her mind drift. Funny how it seemed able to empty of extraneous thoughts when she was here, to be replaced with the clearest memories.
Some stirred sorrow like a restless tide, but others made her smile, like the one flooding her brain now: Mum working in her vegetable garden, singing, Dad working beside her, singing too. Both had good voices—that’s how they met, singing in a high school band.
Often, they’d sing along to a cassette tape blaring from the player in the kitchen.
Mum’s all‐time favourite tape was an early Simon and Garfunkel album. Kelly had asked the undertakers to play The Sound of Silence at her mother’s funeral.
That moment was clear in her mind, poignant but beautiful. She started singing the song now, softly, and fancied she could hear her mother’s voice giving strength to her own.
After the first few words, she paused, feeling slightly foolish. She hadn’t inherited the singing gene. But there were only the butterflies and birds and cows to hear her, and if she closed her eyes, she could see her mother smiling her encouragement. So she took a A Father at Last
breath, deep into her diaphragm, and resumed.
Then a strange thing happened. She fancied she could hear a man’s voice, soft but true, join hers.
She stopped singing, but the man’s voice continued; she saw her mother’s smile widen and change, and she was looking past Kelly into the cemetery beyond.
Kelly opened her eyes.
She turned her head and he was there.
Dad.
She didn’t know whether she’d said the word out loud or in her head. But he was there, just four paces away, real, not a vision.
She gasped and her hand flew up to her mouth.
‘Dad.’ This time she made sure she said the word aloud. But it came from her mouth shakily, like a sob.
He wasn’t a figment of her imagination because the breeze was ruffling his fair wavy hair a little.
It was thick hair, just as it had always been—he wasn’t going thin on top as most of her friends’ fathers were. Nor had his hair gone grey. But his neatly trimmed beard, once bright russet, was now silver.
He was dressed simply, in a T‐shirt and jeans, and he carried a single red rosebud.
He said nothing, nor did he move. Kelly thought she could see the bright sheen of unshed tears in his eyes. She stood up and stepped from the rug onto the grass, facing him, close, but not close enough to touch. She was aware of the sounds in the silence of the cemetery: the wind in the trees, birds singing, her own breath, quickened with emotion.
In the last two days, since Ben had suggested she meet her father on Wednesday, she’d wondered what she would feel when she first saw him again. Nervous? Awkward?
Embarrassed? But all she felt now was golden light surging through her.
He looked like Dad, the old Dad, fit and strong, the one she remembered before the trouble, except for the silver beard and the deep furrows in his forehead, and she wanted to step forward and hug him, as she had when she was a child, but she wasn’t a kid anymore and she’d treated him badly these last few years. In the last two days, she’d agonised about what she would say when she saw him.
Hello, Dad, we’re both adults. Let’s put the past behind us and move on.
Or, you do understand, don’t you, that I was justifiably angry at what you did? Or maybe, I didn’t want my son to be embarrassed by having an ex‐prison inmate for a grandfather.
Now she knew none of those words were right. The anger was gone, dissipated on Julie Mac
the breeze. He was her father, she was his daughter, end of story. She opened her mouth, but no words formed. Then he spoke.
“You were off‐key, Kelly. I’ll have to give you some singing lessons.”
She laughed out loud and the golden light filled every corner of her being. ‘I’ll have to give you some singing lessons.’ He was thinking of them, him and her, in the future tense.
A weight, heavier than any of the dark old slabs of solid granite all around her, and infinitely sadder, lifted. Dad was back. The old Dad—witty, funny, fu
ll of life.
He was watching her laugh, a slow smile lifting the corners of his mouth, even as a single tear slid down his cheek. He made no attempt to wipe it away.
“I didn’t hear you arrive,” she said. She wanted to jump up and down with joy, like a little kid would. “I thought I was alone, otherwise I wouldn’t have been singing.”
“I pulled up when that other car was leaving.”
She looked beyond him to the cemetery car park where a white van was parked alongside her Toyota. “I’m sorry, Dad.”
“What for? Singing out of tune?” He said it quietly.
She shook her head, knowing that wasn’t what he meant. “For all the other stuff. But mainly for ignoring you at Mum’s funeral and cutting you out of my life when you needed me most.”
“And I’m more sorry than you’ll ever know for getting myself in that position in the first place. I failed you, Kelly—and your mother. I remember you coming to the prison in the very beginning. You were just a little kid, but you were so strong—”
“You told me to be strong; you told me and Mum we had to be strong. I remember that.”
“Yes, I did, and you were, both of you. Far stronger than I was at the time. You marched in there with your head held high, a proud, stoic little human being, shouldering far more than a kid should ever have to bear. There were no tears, no feeling sorry for yourself because of what had happened.”
There was a huskiness to his voice that hadn’t been there when she was a child. The after‐effects of a cold, maybe. Or emotion. She watched him flex his fingers, an old gesture she hadn’t thought of for years. Now she remembered: when he was angry or upset, he’d look perfectly calm and his body still—apart from the flexing of his fingers.
“I was the one who was weak when you came to the prison.” He was silent for a long moment, his grey‐blue eyes steady on hers, then he dragged in a deep breath and continued, “By then the effects of the stuff I’d been taking had well and truly worn off. I could see what I’d done, so clearly. So bloody clearly. I knew what I’d done to my wife and child. I knew how badly I’d let you—and everyone else—down. I seriously thought about ending it all that night—”
A Father at Last
“No!” Tamara’s revelations yesterday were still fresh in her mind, and his words were a knife‐stab to her heart. “That would have been the worst thing you could have done.
It wouldn’t have helped.”
“I knew that. When I thought about it, I knew the hurt would be worse than ever for the pair of you. I knew I had to…” He shrugged his shoulders, flexed his fingers some more.
“I knew I had to get on with it, do my time, take my punishment and get back to you as soon as I could.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t come and visit you in prison, Dad.” Kelly was surprised at the huskiness of her own voice. “I found that place frightening—I hated to think about you in there. It seemed so cold and…lonely.”
He shook his head briefly. “Don’t be sorry, love. It wasn’t a place for a little kid. I didn’t want you to be exposed to that side of life—prison bars, locked doors, guards all over the place. I didn’t want my little girl to carry those images home with her every week.”
Kelly looked away, fixing her gaze on a pair of blackbirds flitting in and out of the waving poplar branches.
“I was so sad, Dad,” she said, almost in a whisper. “It was like…like you’d died. I remember how it felt back then, when you first went in. The feelings were just as bad as when Mum died, only a hundred times more confusing.” The blackbirds dropped to the ground, and started busily scratching in fallen leaves. “I missed you.”
“I missed you, too.”
She heard the ragged breath he dragged in.
“But your mother brought me photos, and kept me up to date with things you were doing. I saw all your school reports. And when you got to high school, I had an arrangement where I would ring the principal once a year and talk to her about your progress.”
“You did?” Kelly jerked her gaze back to meet her father’s. She was stunned by his revelation.
“I did. Your mother would set up a time for me with the principal and I’d call her.
Before then, she would talk to all your teachers and make notes. She was most helpful and…kind. She didn’t have to go to all that trouble, but she did. I knew how you were doing in every subject.”
“You did?” Kelly repeated, astonished. “But I had no idea...no one ever told me.”
“You didn’t need to know,” her father said simply. “The teachers thought highly of you. One of them even made a video of you making your head girl’s speech at your last prize‐giving and the school sent me a copy.”
“Oh, Dad, I remember wishing you were there, so much.” Kelly thought she might cry. She clenched her hands into tight fists. “Mum was really sick by then, but she came along. When I got up to speak I looked down in the audience to see her. They’d given her a place near the front, so I picked her out easily. I remember feeling quite shaky because I Julie Mac
knew how sick she was, and I wanted to make her happy and proud of me. I wanted her to know that all her hard work, all her encouragement, all her sacrifices, had been worth it.
And,” she reached up and smoothed back her hair from her face, “I pretended that you were there, Dad, sitting beside her and that you two were…holding hands.”
She’d never told that to anyone.
“Oh God, Kelly, if I could have been there, I would have been. You must know that.”
Her father stepped forward and took one of her hands, dwarfing it in his own big, confident hand, and turned them both so they were facing the headstone together.
“Your mother was bursting with pride when you made that speech. She told me she cried a little bit.” His voice was even huskier now. “She was a wonderful woman, Kelly, and my biggest regret was that because of my own stupidity, I wasn’t there with her in the end—to look after her when she was sick, and to be there, beside her, right at the end, doing what I could to help her. To hold her one last time.”
Kelly opened her mouth to speak, but the words seemed to strangle in her throat.
She hadn’t realised she was crying, but now she felt hot tears streaming down her cheeks.
She sucked in a deep shaky breath and tried again. “She wasn’t…afraid. I asked her, on the fourth day before she died, on the day she finally gave in and they hooked up the morphine drip and she took to her bed. I asked her if she was afraid of dying, and she said she wasn’t.”
A long sigh escaped her father. As she turned her head, he reached up to brush tears from his face with the palm of his hand.
“She was so brave, Dad. And…” He was strong and upright as a totara tree, but crumbling inside now, and she wondered if she should tell him another time. She looked back at the headstone, and knew it had to be now. “She called your name, Dad, in the last few hours. It wasn’t in a desperate sort of way. She sounded quite peaceful and she smiled every time she called to you.”
He breathed in sharply, his face tense, the muscles stiff. Obviously, he was struggling.
“Sorry, Dad.” She cleared her throat. “Shall I leave you here, with Mum? Give you some time on your own?”
He shook his head, his chest expanding as he inhaled deeply. “No, don’t go. I’m glad you told me. Needed to know that.”
They stood together then, united by their hands and the tears that flowed for the woman under the earth they stood on.
Presently he said, “I tried to go to her, you know, when the message came that she only had a few days left. It was a Friday, and I applied for compassionate leave straight away, but the administrator who took care of all that stuff was away. He signed the papers on Monday, but they were still organising transport and a guard to come with me when A Father at Last
someone phoned the prison with the news. It was too late.”
Kelly brushed her wet cheeks with her fingers. “I know
you tried, Dad. Mum’s sister told me. You did try, and I regret that I treated you so damn badly afterwards.”
“It’s okay, Kelly, love. No more talk about regrets, eh? I’ve got plenty, but I try not to think about them too much. I prefer to look to the future.”
He glanced across to her, straightening his shoulders and standing taller.
“I’m hoping you’ll be part of my future. I’d like to be a better dad to you.”
She pulled her hand from his, and put her arm around his shoulder, surprised how easy it was to do so. “I’d like that. And I’m going to be a better daughter to you.”
“So we’re agreed,” he said, “we’re going to move on now. Deal?”
“Deal.” She couldn’t help smiling. Being here, standing beside her father felt right.
“Ben told me about your work and all the good things you’re doing for people now.”
“Nice guy, that Ben.”
She saw his face crease in the hint of a grin, and hoped she didn’t blush.
“Mm. Nice. But he’s not a law‐abiding citizen, is he, Dad? He’s been to your establishment—does that mean he’s been inside, or is he just there supporting mates who’ve done time?”
“Sorry, love, I can’t divulge information about my clients and contacts.” He cleared his throat noisily. “Anyway, I’ll always be grateful that he…ah…came across me and that he remembered me from all those years ago. And for him talking to me about you—talking to you about me—and organising our meeting on Wednesday.”
“Oh, our meeting on Wednesday!” Kelly started laughing. “We’ve already met now.
Does that mean we can’t meet again on Wednesday?”
“No way! I expect to see you there—after work, is that what he’s arranged?”
“I’ll be there, Dad. I want to see your rehab centre, and talk to you about your work and about things…” She wanted to tell him all about Dylan, here and now, but that could wait till Wednesday. “I’ll see you then. Now, I have to get back to work.” She leaned in and kissed his cheek.
It was a little scratchy with whiskers, and she felt a fresh surge of tears hot in her eyes. His scratchy cheeks were a long forgotten childhood memory.
