Present
He was going to come.
I knew it, even if he was late. Which he never was, until today.
We had a date every first Saturday of each month.
He’d show up armed with a shrewd grin, two biryani bowls, and the latest outrageous office gossip, which was better than any reality TV out there.
I stretched under a cloister overlooking a gothic garden, wiggling my toes in my Prada pumps, my soles kissing a medieval column.
No matter how old I was or how well I mastered the art of being a ruthless businesswoman, during our monthly visits to the Cloisters, I always felt like a fifteen-year-old, pimply and impressionable and thankful for the crumbs of intimacy and affection thrown my way.
“Move over, sweetheart. The takeout’s dripping.”
See? He came.
I tucked my legs under my butt, allowing Dad space to settle. He produced two oily containers out of a plastic bag and handed me one.
“You look horrible,” I observed, cracking open my container. The scent of nutmeg and saffron crawled into my nose, making my mouth water. My father was flushed and shadow eyed, his face stamped with a grimace.
“Well, you look fantastic, as per usual.” He kissed my cheek, settling against the column in front of me so we were face to face.
I nudged the food with my plastic fork. Soft pieces of chicken fell apart over a pillow of rice. I scooped a bite into my mouth, closing my eyes. “I could eat this three times a day, every day.”
“I could believe that, seeing as you spent fourth grade living solely on mac-’n’-cheese balls.” He chuckled. “How’s world domination going?”
“Slowly but surely.” I opened my eyes. He poked his food around. First, he’d been late, and now, I noticed he looked barely recognizable. It wasn’t his form or his slightly wrinkly attire or the lack of fresh haircut that gave it away. It was his expression, which I hadn’t seen before in the almost thirty-two years I’d known him.
“How are you, anyway?” I sucked on the tines of my fork.
His phone, which was tucked into the front pocket of his slacks, buzzed. The green flash shone through the fabric. He ignored it. “Good. Busy. We’re being audited, so the office is upside down. Everyone’s running around like a headless chicken.”
“Not again.” I reached into his bowl, fishing for a golden potato hiding under a mountain of rice and slipping it between my lips. “But that explains things.”
“Explains what?” He looked alert.
“I thought you looked a little off.”
“It’s a pain in the neck, but I’ve danced this dance before. How’s business?”
“Actually, I’d like your opinion about a client.” I’d begun launching into a topic when his phone vibrated in his pocket again. I squinted at the fountain in the center of the garden, wordlessly indicating that it was okay for him to take the call.
Dad pulled a paper napkin from the take-out bag instead, patting it along his forehead. Cloud-shaped paper stuck to his sweat. The temperature was below thirty-five degrees. What business did this man have sweating buckets?
“And how’s Jillian?” He raised his voice an octave. A sense of calamity, like a faint, barely visible crack in a wall, crawled over my skin. “I thought you said her grandma had hip surgery last week. I asked my secretary to send her flowers.”
Of course he had. Dad was a constant I could trust. While my mom was a day-late-and-dollar-short kind of parent—always the last to figure out what I was going through, oblivious to my feelings, MIA during pivotal moments in my life—Dad remembered the birthdays, the graduation dates, and what I’d worn for my friends’ bat mitzvahs. He’d been there during the breakups, the girl drama, and the incorporation of my company, going over the fine print with me. He was a mother, a father, a sibling, and a comrade. An anchor in the troubled sea of life.
“Grams Joy is fine.” I handed him my paper napkins, eyeing him curiously. “Already bossing Jillian’s mom around. Listen, are you—”
His phone buzzed for the third time in a minute.
“You should take that.”
“No, no.” He glanced around us, looking as white as a sheet.
“Whoever is trying to call you is not going to go away.”
“Really, Ari, I’d rather hear about your week.”
“It was good, eventful, and it passed. Now answer.” I pointed to what I assumed was the cause of his strange behavior.
With a heavy sigh and a healthy dose of resignation, Dad finally pulled his phone out and pressed it to his ear so tightly the shell whitened to ivory.
“Conrad Roth speaking. Yes. Yes.” He paused, his eyes dancing manically. His biryani bowl slipped from between his fingers, collapsing over the ancient stone. I tried to catch it in vain. “Yes. I know. Thank you. I do have representation. No, I won’t be making a comment.”
Representation? A comment? For an audit?
People floated along the bows. Tourists crouched to take pictures of the garden. A swarm of children spun around the columns, their laughter like church bells. I stood up and began cleaning up the mess Dad had made on the ground.
It’s fine, I told myself. No company wants to be audited. Let alone a hedge fund.
But even as I fed myself this excuse, I couldn’t fully swallow it. This wasn’t about business. Dad didn’t lose sleep—or his wits—over work.
He hung up. Our eyes met.
Before he even spoke, I knew. Knew that in a few minutes, I’d be falling, falling, falling. That nothing could stop me. That this was bigger than me. Than him, even.
“Ari, there’s something you should know . . .”
I closed my eyes, taking a sharp, before-you-jump-into-the-water breath.
Knowing nothing would ever be the same again.
