Page 114 of Rewrite the Rules

My dad’s visit has been a happy distraction this week. On his last night in town, he sits at my kitchen island sipping through a bulbous wineglass flipping through the local newspaper. I stare at his hair quizzically.How?

“Pourquoi me regardes-tu comme ça?” he asks why I’m looking at him like that.

“Papa,Anglais,” I respond, reminding him to speak in English. I’m the only one of my siblings fluent in both French and Italian. My older brothers speak broken Italian and my sister speaks too much, too fast—like a damn chipmunk, but all in English and Thai.

“Why? Who’s here?”

“No one. You just sound like you’re giving a lecture.” My dad is a French literature professor at the university I opted not to go to. I could’ve gotten free tuition as the child of a tenured professor, but the school was pretentious and way too close to home. I hightailed it to University of Alabama, where I met Cody. Best decision I could’ve made.

“Well, your French is choppy, Joel. You should practice more.Tu perds la main.”

“I am not losing my touch, Dad. At least I can understand you. That’s more than your other kids can say.”

“That’s why you’re my favorite, my boy.”

“You say that to all your sons. Sometimes while we’re in the same room, so it loses its impact. And we all know Cami is your favorite.”

My dad shrugs, not bothering to protest. “She’s my baby girl.”

“Mhm,” I say. “Hey, I want to show you something. Come with me.”

My dad follows me to my wine room. It’s more of a closet, but every wall is lined with lattice-style shelves. I’ve created quite the collection and no one can appreciate this accomplishment like my dad. I inherited my wine snobbery from him. I scour the shelves trying to remember where I placed the bottle I’m looking for.

“Wow. You’ve created such a life for yourself.” He grips my shoulder and squeezes. “Do you know how proud your mother and I are of you? We brag about you all the time.” I pause my search and turn to face my dad. “What?” he asks.

“It’s just weird to hear you say ‘your mother and I’—like it’s natural you two are talking.”

“Joel, it’s your mother. We’ve always talked.”

“The last thing I remember you saying to Mom wasleave your ring on the counter you ungrateful—”

“Hey, hey. Tensions were high that night, okay? Oh Joel…” He reaches out to pat my cheek. “I know your mom and I didn’t always shield you kids from our rough patches. You were always my sensitive one and maybe we should’ve been more careful. For that I’m sorry.Fils, j’aime ta mère.”

“English! And you say you love Mom, but you guys were miserable together. I was relieved when you got separated.” I continue to scour the shelves.Where the hell did I put it?

“I have not been miserable with your mom. Don’t get me wrong, she challenges me. She boils my blood and there have been times…” He blows out a frustrated breath and makes a strangling motion with his hands. “But she’s my everything. I came here to see you because I missed you but there’s also something important I needed to say.”

“What’s that?” I ask over my shoulder.

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?Thereyou are!” I say as I locate the wine bottle in question. I hand my dad the bottle with the burgundy label and the wispy silver lines outlining feathers. “I guess this is perfect timing. You can give this to Mom.”

“Ohmon Dieu! Where did you find this? I haven’t seen this bottle in years.”

“My assistant—former assistant.” I let out a breathy laugh at the memory of my discussion with Adler about fine wines. “She calls this the duck wine.” My laugh weakens and I shake my head as the once-sweet memory now tastes sour.

“Well, that makes sense seeing as there is a duck on the label.”

“What? Dad, it’s a swan.” I grab back the bottle, examining the silver figure on the label. Why does everyone think this is a damn duck? It’s a three-hundred-dollar bottle of wine. It’s fancy—it’s a swan.

“We were friends with the owners of the vineyard before it was lost. Hugo dedicated this wine to his wife. He used to call her ‘Ducky’. It’s a duck.” He twirls the bottle in his hands.

“Well I’ll be damned.”A fucking duck.I immediately want to call her. I want to tell her she was right about the wine, all along. She was right about everything. But it’s too late. “I really fucked up.”

His face pulls in confusion. “Over a duck?”

“No—Adler. My assistant. She quit and she won’t talk to me.” I suddenly feel claustrophobic. I need to get out of this room. My head begins to pound and I feel nauseous. I make a beeline to my fridge and reach to the far back to fetch the coldest bottle. I begin to chug as my dad stares at me, concerned.

---