The Lunch Date

I watch him walk away, waiting to see if he will turn around.  He doesn't, of course.  Which I expect.  I am always right about him.  Well, that's not true; Mom is always right about him.  If I were always right about him I would have learned my lesson and I wouldn't be here.  But I am here, watching him leave me.  Again.  He strolls casually, as though the heartbreak he just doled out has rejuvenated him, reminding him to soak in this beautiful day.  He actually has his jacket slung over his shoulder like he couldn't be more at ease. 

The waitress comes to ask me if I'd like anything else.  I do not take my eyes away from the figure of my father, who is now far enough away to have grown smaller, but is still the biggest thing I see. Nor do I bother to wipe away my tears, proof of my losing battle with self-respect.  I don't know if I actually mutter the word no, or if part of her training involves leaving customers alone with their public meltdowns, but she leaves, and for this I am grateful.

I must say this for my father, he is brave.  Most men would have enthusiastically agreed, only to cancel at the last minute via phone or text or email, if at all.  But not my father.  I come from a long line of courage apparently.  He sat right across from me on a sunny Tuesday afternoon at an overpriced bistro, savoring his cappucino while very politely declining my invitation to my high school graduation.  I guess it really is every day that your first-born graduates with honors from the elite private high school you've been subsidizing for four years.  He tells me this despite the fact that I have taken two buses and walked five blocks for this answer.  He tells me this without even seeming to notice that I am skipping the very school from which I'm graduating to embarrass myself for his benefit.

He explains to me that he has to work, which I'm not entirely sure I believe since I haven't told him the date or the time of the graduation.  There is a brief second where I stop fiddling with the now unnecessary admission ticket.  This makes him aware of his mistake; he is not a stupid man by any means. Apparently work has been very stressful and he has been under the gun so he's been doing nothing but working, though the freshness of his suit and the lack of dark circles under his eyes identify a calm, well-rested man.  He throws out the term "Morgan merger" for good measure.  I do not know exactly what he does - I once had to google his name and company to learn that he is the Assistant Vice President of Finance - but I am too tired to be anything but grateful for this lie.  It occurs to me that perhaps I should not have ambushed him at work, that perhaps I should have made an appointment like any other client.  After all, he does not need his entire office reminded that once upon a time he went slumming in a dive bar on the wrong side of town.  It then occurs to me that I should not care how my showing up unannounced affected him, but I already know that for years to come I will wonder if I'd acted a little less desperately if he would have come. 

I decide it was the secretary. She forced him to acknowledge me at his office, thus giving him no incentive to repeat this performance in a stadium full of others.  She is new, I did not know he had a new one.  But why would I?  I haven't been to this building since I was thirteen.  She was oblivious, until I said I would like to see Mr. Dalton and she asked who I was and I said Clarissa Dalton.  She missed a blink, as she registered that the girl standing in front of her had the same caramel skin and gray eyes and wide smile as her boss.  She called him on his private line, and announced that he had a Clarissa here to see him.  I don't know who she was covering for, but I flashed her a small smile of thanks in case this was done for me.  I will never know, her face revealed nothing in return. 

He greeted me and gave me a big hug.  For a few seconds, I cherished the belief that this was genuine.  It seemed extravagant, even for a man given to keeping up appearances.  When he introduced me as his oldest daughter, I was almost giddy.  Of course, he was merely stating a fact, and any idiot can see that we are related, but he claimed me, proudly, in public, and this is all I have ever needed.  I could not stop grinning, knowing that I seemed pathetic to this woman.  She knew he was putting on a show of course; after all, I'm sure she has never heard of me, or has only heard about me via idle gossip from the other secretaries.  She could not have known whether or not I was aware that this was an act, but she pitied me either way.  I didn't care.  For one moment I had the everyday pride of a father. 

But that was 30 minutes ago, so very long ago now.  In that time he has shuffled me off to a quiet bistro, bought me a sandwich that I am too nervous to eat, rejected being further associated with me, and gone on about his day.  The waitress has brought me a glass of water and an irrational stack of napkins.  I want neither, but I take a respectable sip of water and stuff some of the napkins in my purse.  There is no sense in me disappointing anyone else today.

The top of my head still tingles from where he kissed me before walking away.  I replay the promise he made, that we would celebrate some other time, "sometime soon".  He even patted my hand when he said it.  Yes, I should have just called; I embarrassed him.  But it doesn't matter.  We will celebrate soon.  He promised.