Whatever has just unfolded between Dad, Jason, Marie and Shannon over the past few minutes, it appears that Marie and Shannon are ready to listen and process and problem solve this emotional nightmare.
What planet are they from?
Shannon carefully sets down the water sprayer and takes a few steps closer to Dad. She reaches out with a feathery touch and rests her hand lightly on his forearm. His suit is wrinkled and his cuff link has popped off that cuff, leaving the shirt a mess.
“James, I can’t imagine the kind of grief you felt that day.” Her eyes are warm with feeling, and I can tell there are unspilled tears pooling in them. “No one here is judging you for what you said that day.”
Dad looks right at Marie and ignores Shannon, though I can tell from the way he holds his shoulders that she’s softening him.
“Marie is,” Dad says.
“I don’t judge you for what you said that day, James. But I do judge you for spending all these years blaming Declan and making him carry that burden. I’ve been incredibly imperfect as a parent—”
Shannon and Jason’s very loud, shared snort makes Marie jump a little.
Dad buries a smile and so does Andrew. I see it all peripherally but I’m so focused on Shannon. She’s like an emotional SWAT team negotiator.
“Anyhow,” Marie says primly, “it’s the years of blame that you have to let go of if you don’t want to lose Declan.”
If you haven’t already, her eyes say as she looks at Dad.
Andrew and I say nothing but I can feel his eyes shift over to me, a quick glance meant to convey solidarity.
Dad sighs and looks at Shannon’s hand, still touching him. “I know what I remember about that day. I remember abject horror. The crush of phone calls from law enforcement and medical authorities no man should ever experience.”
Jason’s eyes flicker with sympathy and what seems to be a quick, sick recognition that what Dad went through could happen to any man with a spouse and family. Any.
Dad looks at me and I force my eyes to join his. “You were a panicked mess, Declan. I’d never seen you like that. Even as a child you were composed. Calm. Cool. Unflappable. Your mother and I used to marvel at your composure, and wonder if you were hatched and sent to us from some otherworldly place.” His face twists into a wistful, morbid grin.
“By the time I found you at the hospital you were wild-eyed and messy, hands covered in dirt and face streaked with tears. You begged me to make them save her. Begged me.” He shakes his head. “I barely recognized you. My wife was dead, one son’s life hung in the balance and you weren’t you. Some unseen hand in the universe had dismantled my life as easily as one sweeps a hand across a messy desk and clears it.”
I close my eyes but get no relief from the memory. The flash of images behind my eyelids is a movie I never want to see again. Dad’s right. I remember the begging. The bargaining. The need to be told that Mom wasn’t dead, but even more, the need to be told it wasn’t my fault.
“And I snapped,” Dad said, looking away. “I’m not proud of it, and while I do doubt that I said exactly what you claim I said, I don’t doubt that the emotion behind my words was pretty much the same.”
I’m holding my breath without realizing it. So is Andrew. We both exhale at the same time.
Dad’s right about one thing: my composure level. A friend in college once told me I’d be the perfect Chief of Staff for a high-level politician because I can stay cool under any situation. And I generally can, because when other people experience stress it doesn’t rub off on me. I just watch it unfold and experience it from a distance.
That day when Mom died, though, it was like God himself grabbed a hammer and shattered the snow globe I’d been living in for all my life.
Somehow, I managed to re-instate the composure, but it came at a price. A really big one, involving my dad. He had to be walled off. Contained. Viewed as a benign threat (I know that’s a contradiction, but it works). I’d be friendly. Prove myself to him. Gain his admiration.
But I’d never trust him again.
All eyes are suddenly on me, like I’m expected to say or do something.
No. Dad has to take the first step. Not me.
We wait. And wait. And wait... Shannon gives Dad’s arm a light pat and then steps back, embracing me from the side. Her small act of affection conveys so much more to everyone in the room. It’s all about solidarity. Validity.
Andrew takes a few steps closer to me, too.
Dad notices it, and he looks at me and opens his mouth to say something at the exact moment someone knocks on his office door.
“Come in,” he barks, blowing out a held breath that tells me how tense he really is.
It’s Becky. “Mr. McCormick, the FTC officials are here.”
Andrew grimaces, and he and Dad share a look. “I forgot today’s the day,” Andrew says, giving me an apologetic look. “Routine business, but we can’t delay.”
Marie edges toward me and puts a steady hand on my shoulder, pulling up on tiptoes to kiss my cheek. “Come over for dinner tonight, you two.” She turns back to Dad, who is white-knuckling the entire situation from his desk. “You’re invited, too.” She gives him a smile without teeth and walks over to Jason, her hand linking through his suit-covered elbow.
“You know, I’d like to take you up on that invitation,” Dad says while looking down at the papers on his desk, searching for something. He picks up a metal object and fiddles with his wrist, inserting the cuff link expertly. His demeanor has changed. Whatever chance I had at openness or basic emotional recognition is gone.