“We’re closing in a few, darling.”
“I know,” I say. “I’m here to see Dr. Robert West. He hasn’t already headed home for the night, has he?” Then I quickly add, “I’m his daughter.”
“Does Dr. Robert West ever go home?” the janitor replies. “He’s around here somewhere. You want me to call for him?”
“No, thanks. I’ll find him.”
I stop by the exhibits on the ground level and come up empty. I make my way to the lower level and journey down the Cosmic Connection Corridor. As I near the end, I hear my father’s voice call from behind.
“Halley! What are you doing here?” Dad saunters down the lengthy hall, dressed in my favorite blazer he’s had since forever, a charming tweed. “Neal said a daughter of mine was here looking for me.” He gives me a hug.
“Oh, I’m on my way home from Nina’s. Thought I’d see how you were doing.”
“I’m doing just fine, Halley. Just fine.” He leads me down the hall, back to the mezzanine level, his briefcase in hand, an old-school puce leather case with well-worn brass locks. “We had three elementary class visits come in today!” He beams. “I had the honor of presenting at the planetarium for all three of them. How are you doing, sweetheart?”
I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear. “Been better, but I’m hanging in there.”
“Everything still . . . the same with Adam? You guys are . . .” His grey mustache twitches as he moves his pursed lips from side to side.
“Still the same, Daddy.” Random night of passion aside, but a girl’s not going to spill those beans to her father. “Still separated. Still figuring things out.”
“Progress takes time,” he says with confidence. “How’s Nina?”
We make our way toward the entry.
“She’s on bed rest, poor thing,” I report. “But she and Baby are A-okay.”
“Oh goodness.”
“Hey, don’t know if you’ve heard yet. I’ll be joining you guys for Thanksgiving at Charlotte’s.”
“Wonderful.” I can tell, as he looks at me with a tight-lipped smile, that he’s wondering if I’ll be coming along with Adam.
“Adam’ll spend it with Nina and his parents,” I clarify.
“Okay.” He closes his eyes and nods, Dad’s affable way of dealing with news that could have gone in a better direction.
I ask if he’s ready to close shop for the night, and when he says he is, I suggest we go out to dinner.
“What do you say, Dad? Did you have dinner plans?”
He checks to see if he’s got his usual pen in his front shirt pocket, then motions to the exit. “Does a frozen TV dinner count?”
“Omigod, Daddy. Come on. You need a real meal, and I need emotional counseling.”
We find ourselves at Debut Steakhouse. Since Dad insisted on paying, and since they serve some of the best steaks in Los Angeles, we claim two of the few available seats. At the bar we place identical medium-rare fillet orders and await our drinks.
“It’ll be nice to have you at Thanksgiving dinner, Halley,” Dad says. “It’s . . . been a while.” He smiles.
It’s been at least three, maybe four, years since Adam and I have done “the family thing” for Thanksgiving. Last year it was Vancouver, the year before that the Caribbean. Always taking advantage of holidays from work, living the DINK dream.
“Yeah. It has.” I look to my father and smile, refusing to let Adam and broken plans resurface. “I’m looking forward to it.”
Our drinks arrive—Dad’s his usual gin martini with two olives and mine a Scotch neat. It’s an order that surprised me as much as my father, as I’m ordinarily one to order a chardonnay or pinot. I ordered Scotch for the simplicity and because I just want something really strong. Something that’ll burn as it goes down, that’ll give the proper nod to the crappy swell of emotions going on inside me.
“I know how much you and Adam like your romantic getaways and adventures.”
I nearly roll my eyes at the mention of Adam and our travels. Instead I knock my glass to Dad’s and say in an acerbic tone, “Well, I don’t think we’ll have to worry about us taking any of those this year.”
“There’s always Christmas. Or New Year’s.”
My father, ever the optimist.
I shrug, then take a sip and wince slightly at its strength.
“Halley, I don’t mean to talk poorly about your mother.”
His words take me by surprise. First, I didn’t expect my mother to hijack the evening even in her absence. Second, though it’d be entirely warranted, my father doesn’t speak ill of his ex-wife. Though no one would ever hold it against him, it isn’t in his nature to ridicule, lay blame, or complain.
“It’s something I think is important for you to hear from me, Halley. I’m sure you already know it, but I want to be clear.”
“What, Daddy?”
His forehead wrinkles. “You’re not your mother.”
His words chill me, but not for the reasons one might think. They’re the words I said to Charlotte when she disclosed her infidelity.
“You and I both know your mother never shone in the maternal department,” he says delicately.
“That’s a diplomatic way of putting it.”
He pats the bar top twice, palm down, and says in a humble tone, “I know you don’t want children, Halley. I want you to know, though, that if you were to have a child, you’d be anything but your mother.”
“Daddy, it feels good to hear this. Especially from you.” I value my father’s advice more than almost anyone’s. “But Mom’s lackluster efforts are not why I don’t want to be a mother.” I pause to consider my words, biting down on the bottom corner of my lip.
My father patiently waits, his warm eyes encouraging, comforting, accepting.
“I suppose, yes . . .” My words come out slowly. “To some degree I’ve been influenced by not having had the best example of a mother. But . . . it goes deeper than that, Daddy. There are a lot of reasons one can give to want a child, and the same goes for not wanting one. And I have my reasons. They may not be ‘good enough’ or acceptable to some. They may not be shared or understood, but they’re mine. And they’re real.”
“I figured as much, Halley.” He smiles. “I felt it important that you heard it from me, just the same. You are your own woman.”
“Thanks.” I cup a hand over his.
“There’s a lot you could blame your mother for,” he says with a light chuckle, “but I played a role in the divorce, too.”
“Don’t defend her.”
“It takes two to tango, Halley.”
“Oh, Daddy, come on.”
“Halley, listen. Looking back all these years, I’ve learned a thing or two. I know I could have been more emotionally available for your mother. Now, I don’t know if that would have saved our marriage, and I can’t speak for it doing anything for her . . . maternal instincts. God knows it probably would have only delayed the inevitable divorce a short while. But I could have done more. I could have fought harder.” He takes a sip of his martini. “Halley, I know you came to your old man tonight because life’s beating you up lately.”
“Oh yeah.” I raise my eyebrows for dramatic emphasis.
“And I’m out here sipping an overpriced seventeen-buck martini to tell you that life’s hard.”
I laugh louder than I would have expected and say, “You don’t need to spend seventeen bucks on a drink to tell me that.”
“Well, that’s what we’re doing. And I’m telling you that life’ll beat you up, and you’ll have to stand again. When it puts up a fight, you fight back. And harder. But don’t beat yourself up when things don’t go the way you plan.”
“Things definitely aren’t going according to plan, Daddy.”
“See?”
“But I’m not naïve enough to believe everything does. And will.”
“That’s not naïve, that’s hopeful. I mean, what’s the point of making a plan if you don�
��t expect it to . . . go according to plan?”
“That I’ll toast to,” I say, raising my nearly empty glass.
“I loved your mother, and I think a small part of me still does.”
It’s not often I hear my father mention my mother and the word love in the same sentence. And I certainly never imagined he still loves her.
“A part of me will always love her, because she’s the mother of my children. I have two beautiful daughters out of my marriage with her and three amazing grandchildren. I’m, despite the hell that woman put us through, the luckiest man in the world.” He takes a drink, sets his glass on the cocktail napkin, and looks me in the eyes.
“Expect that a part of you will always love Adam.” He swallows hard before he continues, almost pained by his own words. “If you and Adam don’t come out together at the end of this, know that it’s perfectly normal to pine for him, Halley. To find yourself still loving him. Sometimes marriages last; sometimes they end. It’s not black and white. Whatever way it turns out, I’m saying not to beat yourself up. Not to mistake your love and longing for a reason to do something untrue to who you are.”
“Don’t stay for the wrong reasons,” I say.
“Don’t live a lie.”
“I don’t want my marriage to fail, Daddy.”
“I know you don’t, sweetheart. No one wants to see their marriage end.” He squeezes my hand. “And, if it came to that, I wouldn’t look at your marriage ending as a failure.”
“Daddy. Come on.”
“No,” he says, steadfast. His shoulders broaden some; he sits up taller. “It takes a lot of guts to call it quits on something that is no longer working. Fight? Yes. Take the high road and try to figure out a real and honest solution? Hell yes. Suffer? Live a half-fulfilled life? Live untrue? No, no, no, Halley. Life’s too short for that. I could have stayed with your mother. I was the one who finally called for the divorce, and she ranted and raved, fought tooth and nail to keep the marriage.”
“Really?” I’m taken aback. I’d always figured it was mutual. Mom was, after all, the one who ran to the overtanned, bleached-teeth divorce attorney with the giant billboard over Wilshire Boulevard that advertised cheap and quick divorces. Perhaps that was out of spite, or defensiveness, or a wish to surrender.
“Really,” Dad says. “Life’ll hand you more than you think you can handle. Don’t look at a plan gone wrong as a failure, but as a different plan. Your course has shifted.”
“Easier said than done.”
He laughs some, then says, “Halley, you know what I’ve always said?” He finishes his martini just as our steaks arrive. My father, in all his wisdom and knowledge, is an overflowing wealth of sage advice. It is one particular tip, though, that he’s made his life’s motto.
“If it isn’t hard,” I recite, “it isn’t worth doing.”
He smiles and adds, “The rewards are in what’s hard, never in what’s easy.”
I can’t help but say, with a grin, “What happens when every path is super-duper hard? Which do you choose?”
My father doesn’t answer, and he doesn’t have to. Because I believe there is no clear, straight, single answer. Love is not simple. It is universal, but it is not uniform. It is not a clear-cut equation or an easily explained scientific formula. Love and life’s paths and choices are not things you can quantify, put under a microscope, toss around some hypotheses about, and after extensive evaluation come out with a foolproof answer to. Love, like life, simply is varied. And I can live with that. The problem is just deciding what difficult answer—what hard path—will be the one I do choose to follow.
It’s after nine by the time I get home, and Marian, instead of being hunkered over her laptop, putting in the sixty, seventy, or however many workaholic hours she clocks each week, is hunkered over a bowl of instant oatmeal. The signature scent of the peaches and cream I grew up on fills my nostrils as soon as I walk through the door.
Marian’s standing at the kitchen counter, one elbow plunked down on it, the side of her head pressed into her hand, spoon in mouth. She looks as if she’s suffering from a hangover.
“Drink too much, Marian?”
“That’s tomorrow’s plan.”
I toss my purse aside. “What’s going on?”
Marian pulls the spoon from her mouth, making a suction sound. “I went to the firehouse.”
I shake my head, confused.
“The firehouse. In Glendale.” She widens her eyes at my doltishness.
“The firehouse?” My eyes match hers now, my mouth hanging open in disbelief. “In Glendale?”
Licking more oatmeal from her spoon, she says, “That’s right. The firehouse. In Glendale. Frickin’ firehouse number Twenty-Two.”
“Did you . . . talk to him?”
She sets her jaw in a determined way. “No, I didn’t talk to him. I drove there, like a pathetic, lovesick puppy, and I just watched him. He looks freaking gorgeous.”
“This is the first time you’ve been?”
“Yup. I’m amazed I lasted this long. For years I’ve known where he’s stationed. Good ol’ Twenty-Two.”
I feel responsible for Marian’s little trip to see Glendale’s bravest.
“Marian,” I say cautiously. She raises her brows, spoon in mouth. “When I said run to Cole, I didn’t necessarily mean, like, ASAP and all stalkery. No judgment!”
“Judge away, Hals. It was pathetic. I’m pathetic. And don’t blame yourself for my behavior. This was a long time coming.” She makes a disgusted face at her bowl of oatmeal. “This is my third instant packet. I think I’m going to be sick.”
I take the spoon and bowl from her.
“Come on,” I say, walking into the living room. She follows.
“I’m so stupid, aren’t I?” she says. “I don’t deserve any pity. I’m completely to blame for all of this. Stupid, silly girl in love.”
“Marian, when you drove to see him, did you plan on going to see him? Actually see him?”
She sits next to me on the sofa. “Yeah. Kind of. I don’t know. I just drove straight after work. I didn’t think it through, to be honest with you.”
“Sounds like it.”
“I didn’t get out of the car, because I think part of me wanted to just see him. To find out if seeing him made me feel differently. Stupid, huh?”
“No. I can’t say it’d be all that helpful, but . . . did it make you feel differently?”
“Ha! All it did, girl, was make me realize what a big fat mistake I made. And then I got so nervous, I couldn’t get out of the car. What would I say to him? What would he say? Ugh! You know he trains therapy labs? He raises cute puppies, trains them, and gives them away? As if his career isn’t already Mr. Hero, he’s perfect and selfless in his hobbies.” She sighs.
I take a bite of the delicious oatmeal. “So where do you stand now?”
She throws herself down, dramatically sighing and turning so that she can rest her long, tan legs against the sofa back, her bare feet crossing at the ankles. “Six feet under.” She laughs to herself.
Spoon in my mouth, I lean toward the coffee table to snag the remote control. “Honestly, Marian.”
“Honestly? I will go to that firehouse again. Firehouse Twenty-Two, where there’s one Mr. Cole Whittaker, the one who got away and still has my heart.”
“You’re going back?”
“Oh yeah. I don’t know when, exactly. God knows when I’ll gather the nerve. But next time, I’m getting out of my car. And I’m going to talk to him.”
“That’s what I’m talking about!”
“But before I do, I’ll have a plan. I’m going to think things through and not just drive over there in a flurry, on a high from selling an assload of Diazepam. I don’t know exactly when I’ll dust off my balls and go over there, but I will!”
“You and the dusting of the balls,” I say with a laugh.
“I sure as hell can’t carry on like this, Hals. All lovesick and stupid. Won
dering what if.”
I turn on Netflix, and Marian asks what I’m up to for the night.
“What we’ve always done best,” I reply. I find Friends. “Binge-watch our favorite TV show, bemoan men and wacky love, and pretend that Friends equipped us with all the right and realistic life lessons a girl needs.”
“Hey, out-of-work actors and coffee waitresses can totally afford big Manhattan apartments,” Marian says, situating herself next to me.
“Or,” I say with a grin, “best friends can wind up married and happily ever after.”
Four back-to-back episodes of Friends don’t quite do the trick I’m hoping for. It is some nice escapism, and it helps lull Marian into sleep. She beats herself up pretty hard after the second episode, when we pause our binge-streaming to take off our makeup and get into our pajamas—our roommate reunion is an eerie reflection of our first time living together. Marian gets really upset, calling herself names and saying she deserves to feel this way, that she deserves for Cole to potentially break her heart, the way she broke his. Then she gets really downcast and considers forgetting about seeing him again, talking to him. It is time for some roommate cheering up. I tell her to put the entire idea of Cole to bed for the night, sleep on things, and let Friends take care of the rest.
Our TV night doesn’t bring the calm I’m looking for after an emotionally difficult day, however. So with Marian sound asleep on the sofa, lights out, I tiptoe into the living room and retrieve my laptop from my workbag.
It’s been years since I got out of bed, either straight out of a dream or because I couldn’t fall asleep, and picked up a notebook or sat at my computer to write. In college, because I had the spare time and lofty career ambitions that hadn’t yet had the chance to be diminished by the real world—gotta get that job that offers benefits!—I’d do it all the time. I actually wrote a couple of novellas and even a novel back in college. When an idea would strike and I thought I’d found gold, I’d rush to my notebook or sit in front of the screen and go to work. The inspired moments didn’t amount to much, as all that writing just sits dusty on disks today, and I left many stories untold, breaking off somewhere halfway through when I grew tired of the characters or couldn’t figure out where the plot was going. It was a hobby I enjoyed, nevertheless.
Everything the Heart Wants Page 19
