Where’s Dad?

Uploaded April 10, 2023

“Mum, where is dad?”

I stand in the kitchen, catatonic, obsessing over that little bomb from earlier.

When she asked, I didn’t know how to answer. I sent her to bed with eyes full of things she wanted to know. Any answer would have been better than none, but I wasn’t going to lie to her, not even for comfort. Delay bought me time to deal with the truth myself. There is the question of truth: what truth, whose truth, how much truth? Whenever someone says ‘I can’t deal with this right now’, I think that’s a hollow, shameful excuse. ‘Yes you can’, I always think, ‘you’re just childishly avoiding. When can you deal with it? Are you going to call me tomorrow and deal with it then?’

Still, sending her to bed like this, we’re both awake and plagued by uncertainty.

Last week I had a fight with him. It didn’t feel like anything serious at the time. He’d brought flowers to apologise for coming home late again, and I’d said that I didn’t want flowers, I wanted him to come home at a reasonable hour and spend time with his family. He said he was putting food on the table and in this economic climate, that meant he had to work long hours. I remember there was something in the way he looked at me that should have been a warning of what was to come. I don’t know what I said but I clearly remember thinking that maybe he was having an affair, maybe I should check. I could have accused him of cheating on me right then and there, but I didn’t. We must have been shouting because Susie came down to see what was going on. I made him sleep on the couch that night. I wanted to punish him, but without bringing our troubles into Susie’s world. It was all so cliché. It was all such a failure.

But that’s not got anything to do with what happened. I don’t think so anyway. I don’t know why it was in my mind just now.

The next morning, Susie found him on the couch. He told her that he had to leave early and didn’t want to wake me, but that made no sense because I’d already been up for an hour and had made breakfast. For once, Susie didn’t ask any questions.

He came home early that evening. We had a nice family dinner and pretended like everything was back to normal. He suggested we allow Susie to have an extra scoop of ice cream. I pushed down my arguments about sugar and bedtime and relented. I wanted her to think that everything was back to normal. That mummy and daddy were not having a big fight. She probably knew that we were. You never hide things from children as well as you think you do.

The fight about him spending time with us has become metronomic, with a new downbeat at the end of a financial quarter. I’ve noticed that with each repeat he looks more haggard. I’d never had the brutality to ask him what was really going on. I’m not sure if the real reason was my own cowardice at not wanting to share his burden. Something was collapsing. When he finally did tell me what was going on, I wished he hadn’t. I didn’t want to be complicit.

I look around the kitchen. Am I the kind of person who is so in love with things that I don’t care what it costs the person providing them? I want him, I’ve always wanted him. But I can’t deny that the lifestyle he has afforded me is comfortable. Or to be more honest, it’s luxurious. Would things have gone differently if he’d felt less pressure from me? I can’t take responsibility for that. He could always have come to me with his tragedy. I would have listened. I would have.

The coming home late and rejected flowers, that was all just a storm in a teacup. We talked after the ice cream. He’s doing the best he can. I allowed him to sleep in our bed that night. I hadn’t slept well without him anyway. It felt unnatural. Like trying to sleep like a bat, hanging from your feet; or with the temperature just a bit too hot or too cold. It didn’t make sense. It won’t make sense.

I boil the kettle. I take out a bag of green tea from the intricate box on the marble counter. Holding the bag in one hand, I pick up the box with the other. I stare at the envelope underneath. It has funny bulges in it. Wouldn’t that be easy? None of this would be my problem to deal with anymore. I don’t know if I’m brave enough for that, and anyway, what would happen to Susie? I replace the box on the envelope. It’ll be flat in a couple of days. I make myself green tea.

A while ago, Susie had an ingrown toenail. Her distress ran me ragged. Once we’d managed to trim it, she forgot all about it but until it was better, she’d cry well into the night. I sat with her on the edge of tears myself. I read her stories. Eventually I was so sick of children’s books that I read to her from the Economist. That put her to sleep. It’s the most valuable thing to come from my subscription. I had to have something in the house for adults.

I want the phone to ring. For it to be him saying that he’s fine, that everything worked out, nothing to worry about. It could be the other call, the call I’ve been rehearsing. My close-up, Mr DeMille. I wonder if I’ll know the difference between pretending and feeling. There have been studies which show that if you smile, no matter how bad you’re feeling, it improves your mood. Somewhat. That must mean that making yourself cry makes you sad even if you’re not. Somewhat.

If you cut yourself to create the illusion of an accident, you’ve still cut yourself.

He used to be so dapper. Effortlessly charming was what mum called him. By that, mum meant he was handsome and rich and trouble. She approved of this combination. He proposed in the Bath Botanical Gardens. It was a miserable day. We’d been talking about how beautiful Monkshood was. He started growing it in the garden afterwards, some kind of talisman of our connection to each other. I never liked the symbolism.

Susie pads into the kitchen, holding her blanket. It desperately needs a wash but separating her from it is a trial for another time. The kettle must have woken her. Or she was never asleep. She sits at the table, and I get her a glass of milk.