Page 92 of Host for the Holidays
“Right,” he says, apparently understanding that it’s complicated. “Listen, I got your message, and I . . . well, I thought it might be easier to talk than text.”
I nod as though he can see me.
There’s silence for a few more seconds, but it’s not because he’s waiting for me to answer. I can hear him clicking a pen in the background. I had forgotten that sound, but it’s one that takes me back to my childhood—a nervous habit of his.
“To answer your question”—he sighs— “I guess we don’t talk much mostly because I didn’t know youwantedto talk more.”
I’m still quiet becausewhat? “You’re my dad.”
“Believe me, I know that. I think about it all the time, Rémy. More than you realize. But both of us know your mom doesn’t particularly welcome my influence in your life.”
I don’t respond because he’s right. Whenever he comes up in conversation, she gets this look on her face—it’s the same one she gets when we talk about my career teaching English. She won’t outright say what she’s thinking, but her opinion comes through loud and clear in the way she talks about Americans and in the way she refuses to speak English at all.
“Anyway,” he continues, “I guess I got it into my head that you felt the same way as she does. So I’ve tried to let you set the pace and depth of our relationship.”
“How could you think that I feel the same way?”
If you look back at my text conversations with my dad, I’m always the first one to text. I feel like I’ve spent my whole life trying to impress him, trying to do things that would make him more interested in me, more proud of me.
“Do you remember when I left, Rémy?”
“Yes.” I couldn’t forget that day if I tried. And I’ve tried hard. I held out hope until the very end that he’d change his mind and stay. He didn’t.
“I told you what time I would be leaving so we could say goodbye after you were done at school for the day. And I waited—almost missed my flight because of it—but you didn’t come.”
I swallow, memories from all those years ago flooding me. “I said goodbye to you every other week for most of my life, Dad. That was hard enough. I didn’t want to say goodbye again, this time for real. I was young and mad and hurt. I thought you were leaving because—” I can’t even say it. I breathe deeply, trying to rein in my emotions, but they’re chasing me like a swarm of bees whose hive I just knocked down. “Why do you think I’ve focused so hard on English all my life, Dad? I just wanted you to be proud of me, to”—I lift my shoulders—“notice me.”
He clears his throat, and I could swear I hear a sniffle. “Ihave, Rémy. I couldn’t be more proud of you. Ask anyone who works with me. I talk about you all the time. I check your school’s website for news on you and your students every week. I printed out a picture of you holding that award you got last month. The one where you’re standing with your students? It’s sitting right next to my desk. Right here.”
I’m silent. I had no idea. And it makes no sense. Why is he going on the lycée website and cyberstalking his own son when he could text me? Call me? “Why haven’t you said anything? Why not just askme?”
“I’m not there, Rémy. And I haven’tbeenthere. In a lot of ways, it feels like I don’t have a right to know what’s happening in your life.” He sighs. “But I probably should have told you. I shouldn’t have assumed you knew I wanted to be in your life more. I’m your dad, Rémy. Of course I want to be in your life.” The pen clicks more. “I just worry that encouraging you in your teaching and in your English will hurt your mother, that she’ll feel I’m trying to . . . I don’t know, drive a wedge between the two of you.”
We’re both quiet because, once again, I can see why he would think that. It’s a distinct possibility.
He continues. “I haven’t handled all of this well, as you see. The point is, Idowant to talk to you more, Rémy. I’ve thought a hundred times about coming there or flying you here. But I should have told you that myself, and that’s on me.”
My voice is shaking like it’s trying to set a record on the Richter scale. “It’s not just on you, Dad. It’s on both of us.”
We sit in silence for a few seconds, and I watch my breath come out in a puff, then disperse and disappear.
“Well,” he finally says, “tonight is as good a night as any to change things. So . . .” I hear the muffled squeaking of a chair, like he’s getting comfortable. “Why don’t you tell me about life, son?”
I clear my throat. “Aren’t you at work right now?”
“It can wait.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
RÉMY
Pure adrenaline takesme up the flights of stairs at André’s apartment building, but adrenaline cannot make up for the fact that my lungs are not used to this type of exercise. I rest a hand against the door frame for a second before pulling out the keys.
If Marion had any shred of interest left in me before I took the call from my dad, it was shot to heck when I came back only to inform the group that I was leaving. But I had to.
Talking to my dad made it clear how much regret both of us had. So many years where both of us wanted more but feltunwanted. All of it could have been solved with some honesty, some vulnerability. And I don’t want any more unnecessary regret like that.
I unlock the door and open it, not even sure yet what exactly I’m going to say to Madi. I just think it’s best if we can be clear with each other. I should have been more upfront with her about why I chose to spend the day away from her instead of letting her draw her own conclusions. Once she knows how I feel, if she prefers, I’ll go and stay at my mom’s. I just want to be forthcoming.
