Page 151 of Craving Poison Ice

Dr. Ono’s office smelled of lavender and old books.

It was on the fourth floor of a brick building downtown, with a waiting room full of magazines and a fern that had seen better days. I sat on a blue couch beside my father, on the Thursday after the squash court, with my hands between my knees and my leg bouncing.

He’d driven me there himself. Nobody had asked him to. He’d shown up at the front door at nine sharp, in his gray coat, and said “Alexander. The car,” and I’d gone, because I’d been raised to.

We hadn’t spoken in the car. The city slid past the windows, all gray glass and wet pavement. I watched his hands on the wheel: large, dry, neat, with the gold ring on the fourth finger. I’d never noticed before that he drove with his thumbs tucked in. I’d never noticed that he checked the mirror four times at every turn.

Now we sat in the waiting room, and neither of us looked at the other.

The clock ticked. A door opened somewhere. A woman came out, dabbing her eyes, and went to the elevator.

“Alexander,” said my father.

“Yeah?”

“I would like to say something.”

I looked at him.

He was staring straight ahead at the fern. His profile was rigid. His hands were flat on his knees, and I saw that they were trembling.

“When you were young,” he said, “and you played at the rink, I did not attend your games.”

“I know, Dad.”

“You thought I did not care.”

My throat tightened. “I didn’t think that.”

“You did. Do not lie. It is beneath you.” He drew a shaky breath. “I sat in my study. On the nights you played. I had the radio on. Channel eleven. The sports station. I sat with the volume low, and the clock going, and I listened.”

I said nothing. I could not.

“I could not go to the arena,” said my father. “I could not sit in a seat and watch. I was afraid. Every time you took the ice, I thought, this is the time. This is when he hurts someone, or is hurt. And I could not do a thing about it.” His voice caught. “So I listened. To every game. Every season. Eight years. I have the stats. I have your goals. I have a folder in my desk with every article ever written about you. I have the ticket stubs. I never used them. I bought two for every home game.”

Two.

Something in my chest cracked wide open.

“I was going to tell you when you were older,” he said. “When you were strong. But I have watched you these last few weeks with that man, and I think you are strong enough.” He turned, at last, and looked at me. His eyes were red. “I love you, Alexander. I have never known how to say it. I am saying it. Badly. In a waiting room.”

I couldn’t speak. I put my hand over my mouth.

“I am proud of you,” said Richard Pendleton, stiffly. “That is all.”

I made a sound.

I’m not sure what it was. It came up from somewhere very deep, and it was half a laugh and half a sob. He watched me with an expression of stricken alarm, and I reached over and took his hand off his knee. It was cold and dry and shaking. I held it. He let me.

We sat there, the two of us, in a waiting room in the city, holding hands like idiots, while the fern drooped in the corner and the clock ticked.

“Thanks, Dad,” I said, finally.

“Do not thank me.”

“Okay.”

“It is a father’s duty.”