The break, part I
October. Mother takes the bull by the horns.
After years of denial, but now actively bullied by her friends, our mother agrees to call our father on his affair. One weekend, while he’s off again with his mistress at the Montreal Ritz, mom goes to stay at a friend’s house. As instructed, she leaves behind a note saying, ‘I’ve left. Do not come after me.’ Then adds: ‘Should you want to talk, I’ll be at M’s.’
Arriving back late Sunday night, dad finds the note. He has a few drinks, then goes to bed.
Late Monday morning, he calls her. She confronts him about his mistress – only the latest in a steady string over the past 10 years, but they won’t ever talk about that – saying either stop or their marriage is through.
He takes a slug of scotch. Inhales, exhales. ‘Well, if that’s what you want,’ he says, then hangs up.
Then he’s on the phone to his children. He calls me at work. I’m 17, but have already left home, going to high school in the morning, and waitressing the rest of the day and on weekends. He asks me to make my way up Yonge Street until I run into him.
We find each other about a block away from the street where my childhood was spent, from the same old house where he’s still living, and which is still the dark mazy diorama of so many of my dreams.
He’s drunk and dazed, slow and heavy stepping under a cloak of sorrow and guilty relief. I know what he’s about to say; it’s been a long time coming. ‘Your mother has left me.’ And he needs and we want him to be the good guy – years of family mythology are hard to shake – but still I’m glad to hear his voice catch on the words; it stops me from saying brutal obvious things. He tells me how sad and he’s feeling so lo– then pauses, aware that the crowd’s not rooting enough for the home team. I don’t want to cry, only kick him in the shins, but he takes me in his arms and whispers, ‘Oh, sweetie, couldn’t you at least act surprised?’
Then I cry. Then he turns and is gone, and I go back to work.
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