Page 22 of Never Tear Us Apart
‘Oh, that’s good! You talk to your daughter then. I’ll FaceTime you later,’ Vanessa says, hanging up before my father can protest or get out of talking to me by making me small talk with his fourth wife instead. In all honesty, I feel as aggrieved by her evasive tactics as he does.
We observe each other for a moment with apprehension.
‘How are you feeling, Dad?’ I ask from the doorway. It’s the best I can come up with. I look at him, and I want to feel love. The best I can manage is a sort of vested interest. He is half of me, after all.
‘Like I’ve been in a car crash,’ he says dryly.
Over his bed, there is a whiteboard with his full name written on it in capital letters:david simon saviour michael jeremy borg.Jeremy? I’m pretty sure that’s not on his Wikipedia page.
‘I’m sorry.’ I don’t want to apologise. I hate apologising, especially to him. But itwasmy fault. And I never back away from things I’m responsible for, even when there is no way to repair them. He taught me that by doing the opposite.
‘You should have looked,’ he agrees, but his tone isn’t combative. He looks weary, almost defeated. ‘But it wasn’t just your fault. I brought you here. And I . . . failed at making it what you wanted it to be, which in turn made you feel angry and hurt, which meant you didn’t look.’
The insight and generosity of this comment can only have come from Vanessa. Even so, that he listened, retained and spoke it aloud to me is something unexpected.
‘Thank you,’ I say, taking a few hesitant steps into the room. ‘I expected you to be angry. I deserve it.’
‘I’m not a monster, Maia. I’m . . .’ He lets out a long, wistful sigh. ‘I don’t know what I am – only that what other people find easy, I find hard. I know you wanted a reunion, a moment where I apologise to you for not being the father you deserved, where you forgave me, and we healed the past. I wish I was that man, but I suspect, if I were, then we would not be here in the first place.’
‘That’s not quite right,’ I say, choosing my words carefully. ‘In an ideal world, yes, I’d love that scenario. But the world is not ideal. It’s broken and painful.Weare broken and painful. All I wanted was to try to understand you.’
‘Hm.’ He shrugs, leaning back into the pillow. In the afternoon light, he looks so old: small and frail and impossibly mortal. But my dad can’t be mortal, can he? Not this man who has strode across decades, a thousand feet tall. ‘I’m not that interesting.’
‘Well, for someone who’s not that interesting, you’ve had three books written and one documentary made about you,’ I say, tentatively taking a seat at the side of his bed. Any conversation with my father involves an invisible hair-trigger, and you are never sure when or how you might trip it.
‘They are all about my paintings,’ he says, with a wave of his hand. ‘Not me. I’m not important. I’m nothing.’
That isn’t true, and he knows it isn’t. My father has been a celebrity since he hung out with Andy Warhol. His various addictions, affairs and marriages have been as enduringly fascinating to the world at large as his art. Even I, the child he never wanted, have been a hot topic for debate on Radio Four art shows. It’s strange, to say the least, when the world wants to know all about the absence of someone in your life. I have never commented, despite dozens of requests – not out of respect for my father, but just because I don’t know how to explain what I don’t understand. And because I wanted to be someone apart from him. Look at how I’ve succeeded, despite you, I wanted to say.
Then something terrible happened, and instead of building a life of my own, I imploded on myself.
‘Dad, can I ask you one question?’ I phrase it as if I expect never to speak to him again.
‘You can ask,’ he says, with a shrug. His eyes are closed, a frown stitched between his brows.
‘Did you call me Maia after the star? The Pleiades?’
‘Good Lord, no,’ he says. ‘Only a mawkish idiot would do such a thing.’
‘Then why did you?’ I ask him. ‘Mum said it was the only thing you fought for when it came to me. You fought for my name. And I just want to know why.’
‘Honestly?’ When he looks at me, I see genuine sorrow in his face. His hand, frail and spotted with age, touches the back of mine, just for a second. ‘I’m afraid I don’t remember.’
Chapter Fifteen
The heat of the day has subsided into a gentle warmth. Somewhere, fireworks are lighting up the sky with crackles of glitter. Boats bob in the harbour, illuminated by fairy lights and lanterns. It makes me think of what Christina told me about the first night she entered the grand harbour. Perhaps that came from looking at this view – it would make sense.
Kathryn pours me a glass of ginger ale over ice. We have decided against wine, at least until I can be really sure that I am as fine as I told the good doctor I was. It seems prudent to be cautious, which does not come naturally to me. I have always been inclined to risk. The more I’ve seen, the more I’ve risked, as if I might be able to barter myself in exchange for a better world.
‘Is that a wedding?’ I ask Kathryn as we watch red and silver lights blossom in the lavender sky. Each display is followed by a deafening boom, and I have to hold myself very firmly not to flinch.
‘Afesta, for a saint,’ Kathryn tells me. ‘We have afestaevery month here, sometimes twice,’ she says. ‘A parade, flags, food, fireworks. Our cities and towns are always dressed to celebrate. We take our dedication to the saints seriously.’
‘Are you a very devout Catholic?’ I ask, tilting my head in query.
‘Not really.’ Kathryn scans the gold horizon. ‘I don’t suppose I am, by traditional standards. But then the women in our family have never really been traditional.’
‘You mean our grandmother?’ I ask, intrigued.
