Page 105 of The Write Track
Dad seemed to consider it. “Perhaps that came out wrong.” He looked annoyed at himself as he sat on the couch. “I need to start over.”
“You need to start over?” He was off-the-wall nutty today.
“Well, maybe not over. My therapist gave me talking points to get through this, but I’m already off the rails.”
Those were words I’d never expected to hear from him. “Your therapist? Since when do you have a therapist?” I was going to spiral soon. I recognized the signs.
“Getting diagnosed changed my perspective on a great many things,” Dad explained. “I realized I had nothing to show for my life but work. That’s all my obituary would say.He worked hard.”
I opened my mouth to ask the obvious question but his shaking head stopped me.
“I am not dying,” he supplied. “At least not right now. I’m in full remission and I get regular scans. I’m fine.”
“But you went to see a therapist anyway?”
“Yes. I became very morbid for a few months. I was convinced I was going to die, and I needed somebody to talk to. Eric Pierson—he works with me—went through something similar after having a heart attack. He pointed me toward Shelby Withers. She’s my therapist.”
“And she told you what?” I asked, honestly confused.
“She told me that it wasn’t too late to get my life in order. She even called me on my shit. Do you know what an askhole is?”
The question was so jarring it took me several seconds to respond. “Yes. It’s somebody who asks a lot of questions but already has answers in their head and they refuse to stray from their preconceived notions. We have them in the author world too.”
Dad nodded. “I guess that makes sense.” He managed a wan smile, but he was obviously struggling through this conversation. “She said I was one. I asked her how to make things better in my life and then fought her on every turn when she made suggestions.”
“That actually sounds like something you would do.”
He laughed as if I was suddenly doing a stand-up routine. “Yes, well, nobody had ever talked to me like that. Eric saidshe was blunt, and I thought I would like that. Then I initially didn’t.”
“And now?”
“And now I think she’s a miracle worker.”
I was starting to wonder if she was one too. My father had never been this open and honest with me before. I was lost in a sea of emotions, and I had no idea where to go.
“What did she teach you?” I asked finally.
“That, more often than not in life, I’ve been wrong.”
My eyebrows moved toward one another. “Wrong about what?”
“All of it.” Dad took a deep breath. “I loved your mother. I know you don’t believe that—and I don’t blame you—but I loved her more than anything. I was just taught that relationships should always be proper. Do you remember your grandparents?”
It wasn’t a great transition but I could see where this conversation was going. “I do,” I confirmed. “I used to hate going to their house.”
“Yes, they didn’t believe in toys. We made you leave your matchbox cars at home. Your mother fought me on that every single time we visited. She said there were no other children, and expecting a five-year-old to be quiet and do nothing in a corner was imbecilic.”
“And what did you say?”
“That since it was expected of me when I was a child, there was no reason you couldn’t do it as well.”
“Grandpa died when I was seven, and then we rarely saw Grandma.”
“She moved to Paris. She was much happier there. She actually learned to loosen up once my father was gone. I looked down on her for that, and I regret it.”
He was all over the place now, and I had no idea what to say. “Dad?—”
“I’m not done.” Calmly, he raised his chin. “I loved your mother, but I did things a certain way because I thought it was how ithadto be. I was wrong—so very wrong—and my biggest regret is that I didn’t realize that sooner.”
