Page 10 of The Moon Also Rises
Yes, practically every day.
“Not much,” I mutter.
“Did you try reaching out to him?”
Every single time I thought about him. Even picked up the phone a few times.
“Not really,” I mumble.
And every other week, eventually Anita figures out I’m holding out on her. “Why didn’t you call him, Jake?”
Time to start telling the truth because I’m running out of excuses. “Because it’s his turn to contact me? Nothing but a happy birthday text for a year. You’d think he’d at least like to know if I’m alive.”
“Are you regretting not going up to visit at Christmas last year?” Anita asks, her soft calm voice a sharp contrast with my acidic tone.
“He didn’t invite me,” I snap back.
“That’s not exactly what I asked,” Anita says in that careful air of hers that somehow both placates and irritates me.
“Fine. I am regretting it. Sort of. But I didn’t want to go without Jenna.” I shrug. “And it was nice being in Dublin with her and Marty, and his family.”
It really had been. Almost too nice. How was it that being with my sister’s partner’s family felt better than most of the days I’ve spent with my father in recent years?
“Why do you think your father doesn’t get in touch much?” Anita asks, and not for the first time. After many long months of therapy, we’ve reached a stage where she often wants me to do my own psychoanalysing, which begs the question why I pay her hundreds of pounds I can ill afford every month. But I do know why she does it and arguably that is evidence enough that these sessions are going somewhere, if rather slowly and expensively. Anita wants me to remind myself that my father and I are not wired the same. She wants me to admit that if I want a relationship with my father, it’s possible I’m going to have to put in more effort than he does. And if I don’t want to do that, well, then I have to let that dream die and find some peace with it.
Just like I have to make peace with the fact I will die in debt, single and alone, and always, always wondering if there was more I could have done to save my mother.
Hmm. Time to change the subject.
“You know, something interesting did happen at work,” I say crossing my legs in the opposite direction.
Anita’s face freezes for a split second before it relaxes into a kind smile.
“What’s that?” She indulges me.
“We’ve got a new Head of Events. Rami, his name is. He’s been sharing my office for just over a week now, much to my dismay, but I’m trying to be civil and accommodating. He just never has anything amusing or interesting to add to a conversation, and he thinks too much before he speaks, which as you can probably imagine I am both envious of and enraged by. But anyway, funny story, he offered to be my plus one for Lionel’s wedding. Isn’t that ridiculous?”
“Lionel as in your ex-lover?” Anita asks, as sharp-eyed as ever.
“No, Lionel as in Lionel Richie,” I reply. I figure I pay her enough for her to forgive my sarcasm. “Did you not know we were long-lost friends?”
Anita’s smile is brief and tight.
“Yes, Lionel, my err… ex, I suppose,” I concede.
“How are we feeling today about Lionel getting married?”
I wince. I hate when she phrases things in the first-person plural. It’s terrifying to think of there being more than one me.
It’s my turn to indulge her. “We’re feeling… a little dejected, a bit sad and very regretful.”
“Regretful, why?”
“Because I often wonder if he was my…” I pause when I realise how wet and hot my eyes have become. “I often think about how I was wrong to push him away in the way that I did.”
Anita waits as a couple of tears spill over and she watches me as I wipe them away before they get very far.
“Do we think going to Lionel’s wedding is a good idea?” she asks.
