Make or Break

After speaking with Jimmy I’d sat on the sofa at home and thought about my father. Really thought about him, as a person. I tried to imagine a life that he wasn’t part of and if that was what I wanted. I put myself into future situations, like having a baby. I forced myself to imagine that future day; me sitting in bed holding my new-born, looking around the room at my husband (he was totally hot), at Annabelle, Hunter and Katie, and perhaps Marcus (in my mind I’d re-dressed him), at Mum and then at the gap next to her where Dad should have been. And I realised, although I was still very angry, and I didn’t know how it would all work out, that I didn’t want that gap beside Mum. I didn’t want that future . . . But I also didn’t want that gap filled by a lie. Dad needed to tell the truth. Then we could all learn to live with whatever our new reality was. It took me another two days to pick up the phone and arrange to meet my father.

‘You have to make a decision,’ I said. ‘It’s not fair to any of us. To Mum, to me, to Annabelle, or to Hunter and Katie.’

Dad’s face softened at the mention of the kids.

I swallowed. ‘And it isn’t fair to your other family either.’

My exhale was wobbly but I held it together. That sentence had been hard to say. I didn’t know if I’d actually be able to form the words ‘your other family’ without crying or fainting or vomiting.

Dad looked at me across the old wooden table, then his anguished gaze fell to the hot chocolate sitting untouched in front of him. I’d chosen a quiet spot at the very back of a local café. A shaft of afternoon sun fell across Dad’s right shoulder, highlighting the silver hair at his temple.

‘You married Annika,’ I said, making Dad look up, surprised, I presumed, that I knew her name. Or surprised that I’d used it. ‘In good faith you promised to love her forever and never cheat, and obey her rules about where the kitchen utensils go and which towels are for guests only, or whatever you say in wedding vows.’

I’m always completely bored by that part of a wedding and will usually be glazed over, running The Rocky Horror Picture Show through my head to keep from napping.

‘The point is, you have to make a decision because . . . because you just have to. You can’t avoid it because it’s difficult. And also . . .’ I paused, looking at my father, hanging on my every word. ‘You may have told us the truth but you’re still lying to your wife and daughter.’

Dad winced, like it caused him physical pain to think of his wife and daughter hurting. His face was a terrain of suffering.

‘I think it’s time for a new start. A truthful start.’ I bit down on my lip, pressing hard with my teeth to stop it from trembling.

‘I’m—’ Dad began, but the words got stuck in his throat. ‘I’m afraid if I tell the truth I’ll . . .’ He studied his hands for a while, then raised his gaze and looked directly at me. ‘I’m frightened I’ll lose everyone.’

‘Well,’ I drew the courage in as I took a deep breath, ‘I’m still really, really angry but . . . I’m here, aren’t I?’

Dad blinked for a few seconds then he grasped my hands across the table and nodded.

‘What’s your . . . other family like?’ I asked, as we walked across Streatham Common towards the car on the other side of the park, Dad slow and considered and me fidgeting and double-stepping beside him. ‘No, don’t tell me! I’m not ready.’

Dad nodded.

‘How . . . how did you meet your wife?’ I asked. ‘Don’t tell me!’

Dad frowned, nodded and continued putting one deliberate foot in front of the other. He had an unhurried way of walking, an unhurried way of talking. Next to him I was a flibbertigibbet.

‘Is your daughter . . . is she anything like me? Don’t answer that!’

‘OK,’ Dad said, looking distressed.

‘Do I look like her? Don’t tell me,’ I said, my head swimming.

Dad stopped and held me by the shoulders, a look of torment on his well-weathered face. ‘It hurts me that I’ve done this to you. Sometimes . . .’ He shook his head, more to himself than to me. ‘Sometimes I can’t believe what I’ve done. How I let it all happen. How did I let it all happen? I’ve never considered myself a dishonest person,’ he paused. His gaze drifted over my shoulder and he seemed to go within himself. ‘But . . . I guess I am . . .’ His attention was caught by a group of primary school kids running past us, swinging each other round by their backpacks and using language I hadn’t even heard of till I was in my teens, then he blinked and brought his eyeline back to me. ‘Lying to people I love . . . And walking away . . .’ His eyes watered. ‘Walking away each time and saying goodbye, I knew it meant I was going to see my other family but the disgust I felt for myself, that I was happy . . . happy and at the same time so very sad . . . it tore pieces off my heart every time.’ He swallowed. ‘But I promise you, it will be OK one day. We just have to get through this tough part. As a family.’

I wiped away a tear. ‘A family. Yeah, right.’

‘We are a family, Jess,’ he said, looking into my eyes with his brown dependable ones. ‘An unusual one, which is going through something that I . . .’ he faltered. ‘Something that I’ve done to you all and I can’t ever take it back.’ A tear ran down his cheek, following the groove of a well-used smile line. ‘But we’re a family nevertheless and I love you with all, ALL of my heart, Plum.’

He looked so very tired as he eased himself down on an ornamental rock.

I stood watching him for a moment then sat down next to him and contemplated my shoelaces.

‘Your mother was fine,’ he continued. ‘She was always off doing things, seeing people, doing courses. Busy, busy, busy, your mother.’ He looked up at me with a fond sparkle in his watering eyes. ‘She’s always had so many interests. She’s been fine. She’s always been fine.’

‘But she isn’t fine, Dad. She’s signing herself up for weird mind-altering retreats, she’s mono-mealing, and now she’s talking about going on a road trip to Vegas. She’s never even been to Brighton and she wants to go to Vegas!’

Dad looked shocked at this information.

‘She knows she’s losing you,’ I continued. ‘And I don’t know what this is going to do to her. I just can’t see how either of you thought this was ever going to be an acceptable situation for anyone.’

Dad studied me for a moment, then rubbed his chin and looked at a mother chasing a runaway toddler. ‘And I regret that. I do.’

‘It doesn’t help, though, does it?’ I said.

‘No, Plum. It doesn’t.’

‘I feel like an accomplice to your big lie and it makes me feel terrible about myself. And so, so angry.’

Dad looked at his hands.

I sighed. Regrets wouldn’t help but I realised, with a maturity I was really quite chuffed with, neither would my anger. We needed to find a way through this or the resentment would destroy what had been, up until now, a loving family unit. Family . . .

I turned to Dad, ready to ask my questions. ‘How can someone love two families? Why couldn’t you stop yourself? Why didn’t you use a frigging condom? Why didn’t you use a frigging condom after NOT using a condom and ending up with Annabelle?’ I stopped and thought for a second. ‘Did they have condoms in your day?’

‘Well yes, actually,’ Dad said, taking on his you-may-find-this-interesting-to-know fact-regurgitating voice. ‘They’ve been around for quite a while. In France, after the syphilis outbreak in the fifteenth century, they used a linen sheath soaked in chemicals, which they tied on with a ribbon. It was called a “glans cover” as it only covered the . . . ah . . . the tip. They used a variety of other materials around that time; like leather, intestines and bladder. These were mostly used to protect against disease, though, not birth control. The first rubber condom was produced in the 1850s. The earliest ones had to be made to measure for each individual . . . ah . . . man, by a doctor. Latex condoms were made a little later and were given to soldiers in the war. Again, mainly to protect against disease. Durex made the first lubricated condom in 1957, I believe, and by 1960 Japan used more condoms per capita than any nation in the world. Although the French were the first to add texture to the condoms.’ Dad stopped, seemingly only just aware he’d been talking about condoms, rather loudly and near mothers and toddlers, to his youngest daughter for going on two long minutes.

‘This conversation has taken a very weird turn,’ I said.

‘Yes, Plum, I agree.’

‘And I’m still the same amount of angry and also now a little grossed out from the penis and intestine talk.’

Dad nodded.

Again we sat in silence.

‘I can’t tell you how someone can love two families,’ Dad said after a moment. ‘I can only tell you that I do. I love you all very much – equally, if that is possible to understand. How could I stop myself loving your mother? I’ve loved her since I was sixteen years old.’

‘But . . .’ I sniffed back a threatening sob. ‘But I thought we were an open family. People who shared everything, and now I find out that half of your life you kept hidden from us.’ I started to cry. ‘And it hurts so much.’ Heavy sobs shuddered themselves out of my body.

Dad’s hand hovered near my shoulder. He was frightened to do what he’d done for so many years without thinking. Everything may have changed, but I didn’t want that to. I leant towards him, giving him permission, and his warm hands pulled me closer and gripped me in a strong, honest embrace. He smelt like Dad. He smelt like home. I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed.

I don’t know how long it took me to get my crying under control. It could have been a matter of minutes or I could have been there for half an hour, unleashing the hurt and confusion from the past couple of weeks. I pulled back from Dad, all cried out. He ran a thumb across my damp cheek, his face familiar and full of tenderness.

I blew my nose on his offered hanky. ‘I just want everything to go back to normal,’ I said once I’d got myself under control. ‘And I’m afraid that will never happen. I know that will never happen because . . . because it wasn’t normal to begin with.’

Dad drove me back to my flat in silence. But a less prickly silence than before. I sat in the passenger seat of his very tidy Mercedes contemplating the fatherly face that I’d thought was all mine, but had also been some other child’s all along. He was still my Dad. Just not all mine.

We pulled up outside my flat and just as I was about to get out of the car Dad’s hand fell on my arm.

‘Will we be OK?’ he said. ‘Do you think you’ll ever be able to forgive me?’

I looked at my father’s troubled face. ‘I want to,’ I said. ‘And I think if you want to then that’s a good place to start.’

Dad’s eyes softened. ‘It is a good place to start,’ he said in a quiet, almost relieved voice.

‘I don’t think I’ll ever get over the art, though.’

‘The art?’

‘Why vaginas, Dad?’ I said, shaking my head. ‘You were great at landscapes.’