Elephant in the Sky (9 page)

22

The next few weeks flew by at lightning speed. Work escalated and became frenzied, and my family bounced back into the normalcy of routine. With Nate's ankle growing stronger every day, much like his demeanour and behaviour, I was able to return my focus to my career and give Jack the drive he was looking for.

“Mom?” Nate asked. He walked into the kitchen early one Sunday morning without even the slightest trace of a limp. “Can we have pancakes?”

“Can we have pancakes …?” My voice trailed off as I waited for him to finish the sentence.

“Can we have pancakes,
please
?”

“We sure can, Bean. How about chocolate chip?”

“Yeah!” Nate pumped his fist into the air. I took that as a good sign.

While I pulled out all of the ingredients to make my family-famous homemade chocolate chip pancakes, Pete walked lazily into the room. He looked tired, as if his full night of sleep hadn't fixed his exhaustion.

“Coffee?” I asked him. He nodded sleepily in response, before coming up behind me to give me a hug and kiss my cheek.

“So gross!” Nate jumped in. “Take it somewhere else, would you?”

“Go wake up your sister and tell her to get out of bed. And if she threatens to throw you out, tell her there will be no bacon for her unless she's down here in ten minutes to help.”

Nate bounced from the room.

“It's nice, right?” I asked Pete, turning to face him.

“What's nice?”

“This. Us. Our family. It's wonderful for everything to feel
nic
e
again.”

He nodded, handing me the eggs for the pancake batter. He had already put the bacon into the oven, and the intoxicating smell of Sunday morning started to fill the house.

A few moments later, Grace came into the kitchen and asked if she could go over to Emma's house that afternoon.

“Nope. Not today, hon. It's Nate's first hockey game since he sprained his ankle, and we're all going as a family to watch him play.”

“Come
on
… really?!” Grace retorted. Clearly she'd had other ideas about how she was going to spend her afternoon.

“Yes, really.” I ignored the dirty look she shot my way. I didn't want to ruin my feeling of nice. “Now, why don't you help me by setting the table?”

“Well … can I go over to Emma's
after
the hockey game?”

“If you help me set the table, we'll see.” I'd learned a long time ago to accept the fact that bribery wasn't beyond the scope of my parenting tactics.

“You ready for the big game today, bud?” Pete asked, taking the plates from the cupboard to help Grace set the table. She was the proverbial daddy's girl in every sense of the phrase, and Pete was constantly helping her when I asked her to do something around the house.

“I guess. I just hope my ankle doesn't hurt too much.”

“It looks good as new to me, bud. I think you'll be okay.” Pete winked at Nate. “Now, who's hungry? These pancakes look fantastic!”

I poured the kids some orange juice, and within minutes, they'd scarfed down six pancakes each.

After everyone helped to clean up, Nate and Grace bounded upstairs to get ready for the day. We planned to run errands before lunch, yet another thing Grace had to complain about.

We took the kids to our favourite place for lunch, an old-school pizzeria with black and white tiled floors. They served their steaming pies on high stands.

Once we'd ordered, Grace catapulted into her never-ending narrative, chattering on about who she might see at Nate's hockey game, and asking if her hair looked okay in case it was Devin, the cute boy she had met there the last time we went to Nate's hockey game. I assured her it did. The half-pepperoni, half-Hawaiian pizza that arrived was the only thing that seemed to halt our talkative daughter in her long-winded tracks.

“Are you excited about your game today, Bean?” I asked Nate. He shrugged, pushing at the pizza on his plate.

“Aren't you hungry?”

He shrugged again, before answering, “No. Not really.”

“Well eat up, little man,” Pete interjected. “You've got a big game in front of you!”

Nate begrudgingly ate the half a piece we forced him to have before we paid the bill and returned to our car. By the time we made it to the parking lot at the arena, I couldn't help but notice that Nate seemed quieter. Eerily silent, in fact, and even more so than he had been at lunch. I wondered if he was nervous about getting back on the ice. But when I asked him, he simply shook his head and said that he felt tired.

“You sure, Bean? You're sure everything's okay?” Panic tainted my voice, but I couldn't help acting paranoid. Even the slightest twist of energy in Nate was enough to start the crackle of my nerves.

Nate shrugged. “I don't know. I told you before that no one likes me on my hockey team. I'm not sure that I want to play anymore.”

“But you've always loved hockey! And of
course
the guys on your team all like you. I'm sure they've missed you while you've been gone.” It was a white lie. The boys on his team didn't have the same bond with Nate as they did with each other. But the strict no-bullying rules of the league ensured that no one would say one mean word to any other player, and I'd always hoped that, over time, the kids on Nate's team might think of my son as their friend.

Pete slammed the car door shut and threw Nate's hockey bag over his shoulder. He whisked our son up in the air, and called out that he thought Nate would be late unless they moved quickly. Within seconds they were gone, and Grace and I went to buy hot chocolates before taking our seats across from Nate's team's bench.

“Let's gooo, Naaate!” Grace called out as Nate stepped onto the ice. Her indifferent attitude from breakfast had taken a back seat to the sisterly pride I knew she always felt when she watched her brother play hockey. Despite his lack of kinship with the team, Nate was good at the sport, particularly for his age, and typically scored the majority of the goals.

About halfway through the game, Nate skated off the ice and benched himself for no reason. The whistle hadn't even been blown. I strained to see what had happened, but couldn't make out what Nate was doing or saying on the bench.

“I'm going to see what's up,” I murmured aloud to no one in particular. Pete shook his head in disagreement, but he knew not to try to hold me back.

When I made it across the arena, I called Nate's name, and motioned for him to come and see me. He ignored my plea, and turned his attention back to the game.

“Nate!” I called out, this time louder. He turned, finally, and looked blankly through me. His eyes seemed hollow again. Empty. He refused to come talk to me, no matter how many times I called his name or waved him over.

When I started to feel like I was making a fool of myself, I gave up and went back to sit in my seat. Nate didn't play again that day, and when I was finally able to ask him why he'd left the game, he said simply that his ankle was hurting and he hadn't felt like playing.

Our drive home was quiet, and I stared out of the window, lost in thought about what had happened in the middle of the game. The more I thought about Nate's behaviour, the more I was convinced that something had snapped in him to make him slip back into the odd behaviour of recent weeks. He had regressed.

With every block we drove, my fearful thoughts became so rampant they almost took on a hyper state, and I made a mental note to book a doctor's appointment for Nate the minute the office opened the following day.

~

“Ashley! You're crazy. There is nothing wrong with Nate. Why are you saying this
again
?” Pete practically snarled at me while brushing his teeth. We were getting ready for bed, and I had brought up what had happened at Nate's hockey game earlier that day. Pete spit into the sink and put his toothbrush back into the holder before walking around me to retreat to our bedroom.

“Pete … you're not
listening
to me. There's something wrong with Nate. I know it sounds extreme because he's been so good the past few weeks, but I know what I know. I can't explain it. Every motherly instinct is telling me there's something up with him. Something's not right.” I followed Pete into our room and sat beside him on the bed. He clicked on the TV and switched it to sports highlights.

“Don't be rude, Pete. I'm trying to talk to you about our son.”

“Yeah … I heard what you have to say. And I responded. So we're done talking about it. Got it?” Pete turned the volume up on the TV, which increased at about the same speed as my rage.

“No. You're not ignoring me this time. I'm seriously worried. What if Nate leaves in the middle of the night again?”

“That's why we got the alarm,” Pete responded. We'd installed it shortly after Nate had broken his ankle. I couldn't deal with another episode of Nate deciding to go on a joyride in the middle of the night.

“That's not the point, and you know it,” I retorted. But I was getting nowhere. I paused, searching my husband's blank face. “Pete, I think we should take him to see a doctor.”

“He doesn't need a doctor, Ash. He's a
boy
who's acting perfectly normal. So he has a few mood swings … so what? It's not a big deal. Nate said his ankle was bugging him today, which is perfectly understandable, so why don't you just drop it already?”

“But —”

“Look, I don't want to talk about it anymore. He's fine. Now drop it.” Pete turned the volume on the TV even higher, as if to make a point, and I gave up trying to pursue the conversation. Instead, I walked into our bathroom and purposely locked Pete out, just as he was doing to me, before drawing myself a bubble bath.

Frustrated by my husband and feeling very much alone, I sank deep into the searing fizzy water, which bit at my skin and caused it to turn a deep shade of red. The sting of the heat was prickly and somewhat painful, but it was enough to finally disrupt the raw, maternal panic that I otherwise couldn't seem to shake.

23

I kicked off my Cole Haan flats and tucked my feet up underneath me. I was flying to New York for the Amex meetings, and was taking the nine p.m. Sunday flight out of Toronto. Sitting on a black leather chair in the Maple Leaf lounge, my heart was heavy. The deep navy sky provided a backdrop to the polka dot lights that lined the runway, and an oversized plane lazily taxied into its spot before being connected to a gangway.

Pete and I had lived through another tense day, snapping at each other far too quickly about things we both recognized as being unimportant. I knew our bickering was the symptom and not the cause, but it didn't make it any easier.

Nate had continued to walk about the house in a fog all week. We had taken him to another hockey game earlier that day, and he had begged to be benched. When the coach said no, he actually sat down on the ice and refused to move until the coach let him sit out.

I was grateful when the other mothers tried to make light of the situation by saying he was probably just not feeling well or his ankle was probably sore. I appreciated the gesture, but couldn't help but feel judged as they sipped at their fat-free lattes and occasionally cheered for their own sons.

When we got home from the game, Nate asked if he could take a nap.

“A
nap
?” Grace had chided Nate. “What are you? Like
three
or something? What a wittle baby you are.”

And Grace wasn't far off in her assessment. Nate had bawled like a newborn when the town car had pulled up to our house to take me to the airport that night. When he realized I wouldn't give in and stay, he threw an unreasonable temper tantrum, kicking his feet and smashing his folded fists into the ground. Pete had to pick him up and carry him to his room; our son flailed his arms and legs the entire way up the stairs, drool dribbling down his cheeks and mixing in with tears. I had barely been able to force myself into the waiting town car.

Sighing, I pulled out my laptop at the airport and tried to read through a creative brief I needed to review. After reading the same paragraph eight times and not remembering what was in it, I gave up and wandered to the bar. After the day I'd had, a glass of Monte Bello would hit the spot. But when I got to the small self-serve counter, I realized I'd have to make do with a glass from the bottle of unknown red sitting by itself.

I helped myself to a wineglass, filled it too full by the standards of any wine snob and returned to my chair. The wine was bitter and too warm, but it was better than nothing.

As I swirled the wine in my glass, I looked around me. For the most part, the lounge was pretty quiet, with a few lone business travellers speckled throughout its seating pods. Every one of them had his or her nose buried in a laptop or smartphone, and none of them seemed interested in what was going on around them.

Several rows away, sitting next to one of the glowing lamps, a tall man with silver hair punched away at his keyboard. At almost the same moment my eyes found him, the man looked up and momentarily gazed out the window.

I froze. I was staring at my father. The very same father I hadn't seen or talked to in almost three years.

When I could finally muster up the ability to control my actions, I forced myself to switch seats so my back was to him. I spilled some of the nameless red wine on my light blue scarf as I moved, and internally cursed my father's name for ruining my favourite winter accessory. I gulped at the bitter wine and tried to think of a plan. I didn't want to see him, that much was for sure, and I feared he would be on the same flight as me.

As a global jetsetter, it wouldn't be unusual for my father to be going to New York City. He had an apartment there, after all, and was likely meeting one of his too-young companions so he could take her for dinner at Le Bernardin and drape her in jewellery from Tiffany's. The whole thought of it made me want to gag.

After my mother died when I was seven, my father changed dramatically. It took six weeks for him to emerge from the dark and dismal guest bedroom so he could end his leave of absence from work and finally greet the dawn, only to decide that his career in law was over. He quit practising, despite the fact it was always something he loved, and further outsourced his life by hiring a second nanny to help keep me fed and clean during the day. The night nurse stayed with me while I slept, and the tutor he'd hired helped me with my schoolwork.

With a full-time support system in place, and a previous inheritance that guaranteed he wouldn't have to worry about the decision to walk away from his life, Todd Blakeley was free to gallivant around the world, leaving the only reminder of his beloved wife behind.

Me.

It got worse as I grew older, his trips becoming longer and more frequent. He always returned with extravagant gifts, shipping home the bigger ones, which often greeted me at the door long before he arrived home. He must have convinced himself that a good dad would make it home for the holidays, because he forced himself to fly in just before Christmas Eve every year. Except for four.

At first I cherished the rare moments together, taking in every minute with him as I begged him to play with me or let me sit on his lap. But in my later teen years, I started to like it when he just stayed away. His trips home from whatever ski lodge or golf resort he had been at were usually accompanied by some woman who didn't want to be there. And I'd grown in independence. I didn't
need
him to be there.

After I graduated from university, my involvement with him stayed about the same. We rarely spoke, and when we needed to connect about something, it was mostly over email. He never let me know where he was in the world, except for when he'd show up unannounced to shower his grandchildren in extravagant presents they didn't need.

Our conversations during his awkward short visits were curt, almost tense. And we never, ever, spoke about my mother. I knew I contributed to a lot of the tension during those visits; I'd never forgiven my father for abandoning me when I needed him most, and even my years of therapy couldn't help me feel warm and fuzzy when I was around him.

The biggest bomb came when he unexpectedly showed up on Christmas Eve, three years prior. We were just about to leave for church, when he literally fell through the door, dressed as Santa and reeking of single malt Scotch. He carried a sack full of unwrapped gifts, including matching orange T-shirts for our children that read “Grandpa Loves Me
.
”
As he passed the gifts out, disgracing his dignity with each garbled word, I thought about the irony in the words on the T-shirts; my father didn't know how to love. He knew only how to buy presents.

“Just like old times … right Asheeey? I looove … uh … what was I going to say again? Oh. Right. I love Christmas … with you. You my little girl, sweetie Ashley. Forever … ,” my father had slurred, wrapping his arm around me and dragging me down with him. Literally. His heavy frame sunk into my shoulders, making me collapse on the kitchen floor underneath his drunken body. In front of my children.

I immediately kicked him out and slammed the door, silently begging for my children to forget such a horrific display of alcoholism.

I didn't hear from him after that. He was sending me the loud and clear message that we were officially estranged — which I had no problem with given that he'd never been there for me anyway.

Now, three years later, I was going through much bigger problems with Nate, and the last thing I needed was another encounter with my father. I slipped out of the Maple Leaf lounge to the bustle of the general airport and called Pete on my cellphone to tell him my news.

“You'll never,
ever
believe who's here. My
father
! Can you believe that?! I mean, seriously. What are the odds?”

“Really? Are you sure about that, Ash? Did you … did you talk to him?” Pete's voice seemed puzzled. Almost uncertain, like he didn't believe me.

“Yes, of course I'm sure. It's my father. Right there in the airport lounge, working on his laptop.”

“His laptop, Ash? I've known your father a long time, and I've never seen him with a computer. How close were you to him?”

“I don't know. Maybe twenty feet away or so?”

“That's pretty far. To be sure, anyway. And you haven't seen him in three years. Honestly, it probably wasn't him.”

“I know, but …” My voice trailed off as Pete's hesitation began to play on my certainty.

“Don't sweat it. There are a lot of guys who look like him out there. Go get on your plane. And try to relax before you hit the chaos of your week. It sounds to me like it will be pretty insane with all of those meetings.” His insistence won, and I started to second-guess my previous conviction.

“Maybe you're right. My plane is boarding anyway so I guess I should run. I'll text you when I land.”

“Sounds good,” Pete replied. “And, Ashley? Don't worry about your father. I know how upset he makes you. Just focus on your meetings this week and then come home to us. We love you, you know.”

I smiled, trying to let Pete's words make me feel better. But unfortunately for me, all it did was remind me that I needed to be away all week from a family who actually
wanted
to be around me instead of jet-setting off to the next adventure and leaving me behind. It had taken me a lifetime to find it, but I was finally in a family that was built on loyalty and love.

When I took my seat on the plane, I pulled my laptop open and forced myself to focus on the creative brief I still needed to review. I managed to get through half of it before the flight attendant gently reminded me that I would need to put it away for takeoff.

As I zipped up my red bag, the silver-haired man from the airport lounge scurried onto the plane, narrowly making the flight. He smiled at me as he passed, like he was apologizing for holding up the plane, and I realized immediately that he wasn't my father at all. Just a man who looked an awful lot like him.

As I returned the man's smile, feelings of relief fused with confusion, and I tried to convince myself that what I
wasn't
feeling was disappointment. But if I was honest with myself, I knew that a small part of me had hoped to see my father. To run into him. To talk to him — even hear about how he was. To find out about what he had been doing for the past three years. No matter what he had done, or
not
done as the case might have been, he was still my father, and I missed him.

I closed my eyes, squeezing out the tears and quickly wiping them from my cheeks. I told myself that I didn't need my father anymore. I was the parent now, not the kid. And I was a
good
parent. I was there for my children — even if work trips occasionally took me away from them.

As the plane took off, leaving Toronto behind me, I tried to bury all images of my father. Somehow Pete knew that man wasn't my father, and I didn't know how he'd done it. Maybe his instincts about my reaction to Nate's situation were correct, too?