Page 72 of Then and Now
“Thank you for meeting me, honey.”
With the initial shock of seeing him over, I register more details. He’s thin — too thin — and his skin looks sunken somehow. This is not the vibrant man I remember. His voice sounds weak, but his grip on my hand is strong as we sit down.
“Do you want something to drink?”
He shakes his head. “No, I just want to look at you for a minute. Is that okay? You’ve grown into such a beautiful woman.”
I cast my eyes down at the table. This is just as uncomfortable as I thought it would be, but not for the reasons I expected. There’s a heaviness to my dad’s demeanor. A weight that goes beyond guilt. Suddenly, I wish I had asked Leo to come with me.
“I’m not sure what your mother told you about why I left, but I assume you know the basics.” He looks almost hopeful, as if he doesn’t want to rehash everything, but too damn bad; I need answers.
“She told me you had a gambling problem and almost lost my money for ballet school,” I say bluntly, staring him in the eyes. “But she didn’t say why you disappeared from my life and never even reached out.” I tug my hand free of his, bringing it to my cup of tea, steeling my heart against the pain etched on my father’s face.
“That’s… Yes. That’s most of it. I’d like to tell you everything, if you’ll listen.”
I nod. Isn’t that why I’m here, to finally get some closure on why he left?
“Right. It started when the company I was working for when you were just starting high school did some restructuring. Your mom and I didn’t want to let you know, you were so young, but I ended up with double the workload and no extra time to do it. The stress spilled over and became unmanageable. I knew your mom was handling everything for you and ballet, so I started going to the casino after work to unwind. At first, it was just one or two poker games a week. Nothing major, just a way to leave the stress of work behind before I headed home to you and your mom. I would win quite often. Just enough to get me hooked on the thrill of it. But after a few months, well, I guess you could say it started to get out of control.” He drags in a ragged breath, his hands twisting together. “I’m simplifying things, but let’s just say I quickly fell into a habit of hitting the casino almost every night. Your mom thought I was working even longer hours, but I wasn’t. Quite the opposite. I was neglecting work, dropping the ball on all kinds of things just so I could escape everything and play poker. I was good, too. I won more than I lost. That was the problem. The high of winning became my driving force. Even when your mother found out and told me to stop, I couldn’t. I just got better at hiding it.”
“Dad,” I murmur when I see the shame etched all over his face. The pain and guilt he has been carrying is obvious, and makes my own pain pale in comparison.
He holds up one shaky hand. “Let me finish, sweetheart, please. I need you to know it all before you decide if you can forgive me. You were in grade eleven when I lost my job. Your mother and I told you it was cutbacks, and everything would be fine. After all, we had the money from your mom’s parents for ballet school already set aside, plenty of savings, and of course I was confident I’d find another job. But I didn’t. I told you that I did, but the truth was, I lied to your mother, and you, for almost a year or so. In reality, I was at the casino. I burned through our savings, racked up debt, but still, I couldn’t stop. I’d win enough to pay things down, then lose it all the next month. I fooled myself into thinking I could handle it; if I could just win big once to get things stable for us financially, then I’d quit. But that day never came. It never does with gambling. When your mom found me about to withdraw money from your ballet school fund, she forced me to see what I was doing. I was destroying our family, and I was about to destroy your future.”
His eyes are watery, and I’m sure mine are, too.
“You were the one thing that could get through my fog of addiction. I couldn’t take away your dreams. When your mom handed me the brochure for a rehab facility in Alberta, I made plans to go as soon as possible. I stayed there for two months, signed the divorce papers your mom sent me, and promised her I would neverevertry to take anything from you again.”
He stops talking and slowly the sounds around us — the other patrons in the café, the noise of the espresso machine — it all filters back in.
“But why did you stay away?”
Such a simple question, and after everything he’s shared, maybe I shouldn’t ask. But I need to know.
“Because for years I was terrified I wasn’t strong enough. Addiction is a lifelong sentence. A disease. My brain is forever changed from it. It might not have been drugs or alcohol, but it had much the same effect. I have to live every day of my life avoiding temptation, reminding myself why gambling is so dangerous for me. And I didn’t know if I could withstand your rejection if I reached out and you wanted nothing to do with me.”
“You’re my father. And you left me.”
“I know. And I’ve lived with that guilt, and an emptiness in my heart, ever since.”
“So why now? Why did you finally reach out now?”
Dad shifts in his seat, reaching down to the bag I didn’t even realize he had with him. He pulls out a folder, placing it on the table between us.
“I know I can never make up for leaving, and money is the most trivial way of trying to apologize. But I’m a dying man, Serena. This is all I have to give you.” He slides the folder over to me, and I pull out some paperwork. My eyes skim the top that readsLast Will and Testament of Gareth Matheson.
“Daddy. What is this? What do you mean you’re a dying man?” My eyes are filling rapidly.
“Liver cancer. Such a joke since I was never a drinker. My doctor estimates I’m down to weeks left.”
He says the words so quietly, so clearly, yet it takes me forever to absorb them.
“Weeks.”
“Yes. Oh Serena, I’m so sorry I didn’t reach out sooner. I wanted to. But I was so scared. It was my sponsor through Gamblers Anonymous who told me not to put it off any longer if I wanted any time with you at all.”
The tears spill over, streaming down my cheeks. I push back my chair and bolt out the door of the Starbucks. Somehow over the last hour it started to rain; one of those late summer storms where the air is humid and warm.
I let the droplets hit my face and mix with my tears. When I sense my dad come up behind me, I spin around, letting my fists hit his chest.
