Chapter_39_Richard

The most vivid memory of Richard/my father/Dad took place in a car. I was six or seven years old, I think. I vaguely remember going to this local elementary school, which was—at the time—a three-story brick building with giant pillars out front.

It was before he left us and we were forced to move to a less expensive part of town.

Every Sunday morning, the four of us would pack into the car and go for a drive. Mom and Dad in the front seats, and me and Alex in the back of our tan Volvo station wagon with matching tan cloth seats.

It was my dad’s day off from the bank. I never really knew what he did there. Mom always said he was “down at the bank,” or “going off to the bank” and “thank god the bank’s closed today.”

We usually took a leisurely spin around suburban Boston—literally Sunday drivers—looking at houses bigger and fancier than ours, trying to imagine other people’s lives. In retrospect, this was when my mom’s real estate expertise was born because she always knew where to find the biggest, most interesting houses.

One particular Sunday, after seeing all the houses, my dad announced we were going on a secret impromptu road trip. Even Mom didn’t know about it.

One hour and two naps later, we arrived in the bustling city of Boston. The skyline was aglow with the magic of city life. We had a late lunch at a popular waterfront place. I remember my dad pretended it was my birthday (which was probably months away), so we had free chocolate cake with a candle while the entire restaurant sang to me. I was full of joy; I couldn’t stop laughing.

Afterward, my parents took us to a magnificently restored art deco movie theater with its signage jutting up into the purple night sky. They were showing a Hitchcock classic, one of my father’s favorite movies: Vertigo. The red curtain opened to reveal the magical moving images as I sank into the plush red seats.

My brother and I didn’t understand any of the movie, but in between popcorn, peanut MM’s, Twizzlers and Coke, I became moved by the experience. I’d occasionally look up at the projector, wondering where those magical images came from. That movie and that theater became the birthplace of my desire to be a director.

I guess in a weird way, I have my father to thank for that.

While sitting in the passenger seat as Biz drives us toward our final destination of Palm Springs, I decide to do something as spontaneous as my father did that day. A chance to create an unexpected memory with Biz.

“Let’s go to the desert,” I suggest.

Biz tries to keep his eyes on the road. “What do you mean? We are going to the desert. Palm Springs.”

“Forget Palm Springs. I want to do something off the beaten path.”

Biz glances at me and thinks. I can tell he’s immediately game for something spontaneous. “Okay, where? We can’t just find a place in the desert.”

“Why not? Let’s just go hang somewhere in the middle of nowhere. Clear our minds,” I suggest.

“Like Joshua Tree?”

“Or somewhere deeper in the desert. Quieter. More remote. Not obvious,” I say.

“Quieter than Joshua Tree? Okay, you wanna look up something?”

“Nope. No planning. Let’s just fucking go.” I want to chase the free feeling my father brought that day on our trip to Boston. I realize now that this is the spirit Biz brings to, well, everything.

Biz’s mouth curls into a smile as he steps on the gas.

Twenty-five miles later, the rattling from Virginia Woolf is now too consistent to ignore as we head toward an undetermined spot in the desert. We decide to find the closest mechanic to figure out the problem if we want to make it there safely without worry.

There was no room in the car for Biz’s crutches, so he’d returned them to the hospital. With the dogs and eventually a baby, something had to go. The doctor gave Biz the option to use crutches or not, and it wasn’t a problem for him to hobble around in his medical boot.

We wait at a car repair shop in the middle of nowhere. A dusty, family-owned operation that looks like it was established in 1802, but we don’t have too many options.

According to the name tag stitched into the mechanic’s greasy, navy blue coveralls, his name is Dale. He looks like he eats cigarettes whole—with his severely purple smoker lips and sallow complexion. Dale is friendly and likes to overshare, spending more time talking about himself than actually working on our car. It’s not like being a mechanic was my dream—I played ball in college till I busted my ACL. I tried living in Reno once but those big cities ain’t for me.

He says something about fixing the engine belt, or taking a look at the suspension system—maybe it was the rear axle? While we wait for the expert to do his thing, we reflect again on the meeting with my father, feeling conflicted but mostly good about the whole experience.

“I seriously cannot believe he’s gay. I mean, I can believe it. But I can’t,” Biz says, leafing through a ten-year-old Car and Driver magazine in the wood-paneled waiting room. There’s even a small convenience store that houses guilty pleasure snacks and, of course, a wall of slot machines. Only in Nevada.

“You and me both,” I say, still wrapping my head around the entire idea.

“Your mom never said anything?” he asks.

“Never. I don’t think it even crossed my mind either,” I say.

“It’s bizarre how much he looks like you too,” Biz says about my father. “I just can’t believe your mom kept all of this hidden for so many years.”

“I know but I’m not going to blame her. We all have our traumas to work through. She saw him more as a man who betrayed her and not the father of her kids,” I say.

“Ironic that you’ve wanted kids your whole life,” Biz says.

“That’s probably why I want kids. To be the dad I never had.”

I decide to go outside to call my mom while Biz stays inside the mechanic shop, buying snacks and bottles of water from the vending machine.

I have to tell my mom that I just reunited with my father; it’s time she knows.

But first, I remember the wooden box my father gave me. I walk to the side of the shop and open it. Inside are a few treasures: several photographs of Richard holding me as a baby, a necklace with my name in gold, a pair of bronze cuff links and a beautiful silver ring.

I hold the ring up to the sun, matching the perfect circles.

I pace the unpaved road just outside the repair shop, waiting for my mom to pick up the phone. I hang up—deciding maybe it’s better if we could see each other—and FaceTime her. After one second, she picks up. She isn’t her usual coiffed self: no makeup, hair twisted into a knotty, messy bun on top of her head and... a sweatshirt?

“Are you okay?” is the first thing I can think of, seeing her this out of character, dressed so casually. At least it’s a sweatshirt with her real estate company logo embroidered on it and not a bargain-basement number with pizza stains, otherwise I’d have to fly home.

“Hi, baby,” Mom says, looking tired.

“Everything okay?” I ask. She spots the dry, dusty background.

“Where are you?” she asks, ignoring my question.

“Nevada?” I say, testing her.

“Nevada? I thought you were going to Palm Springs.” For the first time, I see the web my mom has spun all these years. She never knew how to tell me that my father is living in Las Vegas, trying to connect with me.

“Actually, Mom, you probably know the reason why we’re in Nevada,” I say, waiting for a response. Absolute silence. Her face says it all. She does know. Moms always know. “We came here because... I wanted to meet him.” I pause. She’s letting me have the floor, staring at me with sympathetic eyes. “All those letters in my boxes... I had to track him down and see him again.”

“Oh, honey.” She sits on the sofa and hugs her legs. “I think that’s wonderful.”

“You do?”

“Of course I do.” She softens. “I think it should’ve happened a long time ago.”

I’m not sure if I heard that right. I think this through, shifting the phone from my left hand to my right hand. “What do you mean? Then why didn’t it ever happen?”

She sighs. “I’ve thought about this for a long time. All those years I went back and forth, do I or don’t I want him in the boys’ lives. For me, I couldn’t separate the husband from the father. He wasn’t a good husband to me back then. And, honestly, he wasn’t the best father to you both. I did all the work when you were babies.”

I sigh, feeling terrible for my mom.

“He didn’t want to be married to me and he wanted children even less. It was the fair-weather father that I didn’t want in my life and your lives. You were too young to remember but he wasn’t committed to any of us. I didn’t think it was fair to you and Alex. I wanted stability for you both. So I cut off our relationship completely.”

I take this all in. “But when did you know? I mean, when did he tell you that he was gay?”

“I was naive. I always knew things didn’t feel exactly right with him. But I didn’t know if that was how relationships were supposed to be. Or maybe I blamed myself.”

I feel bad for all of us.

“Sorry. But it’s true. When you were in high school and Alex was in middle school, he contacted me to tell me he was living with another man. It was before you came out. In hindsight, I should’ve done things a lot differently.”

I spot an abandoned rickety old rocking chair on the sidewalk and take a seat. I nod, trying to understand. “Honey, I was so hurt when he left me. I was a single mom. I just had to keep moving forward and start my business. For you guys.” She collects her thoughts. “I’ve only always wanted the best for you two. And remember, your father didn’t reach out until you were in college. It would’ve been a distraction.”

In the distance, I look up and see Biz slapping the broken vending machine inside the repair shop with his palm while the dogs run in circles around him. Our little family, holed up together at the end of the earth.

That’s when I decide not to let any of us stay trapped by the past. “Mom,” I interrupt her. “It’s okay.” I fill with a sudden lightness. “You did your best, which was more than we could’ve asked for. And he... it sounds like he needed to figure some things out, especially with his health.”

Mom wipes her teary eyes with her sleeve. “How does he look?”

“Honestly? Like an old gay,” I say, as we both laugh a little. “He’s in an electric wheelchair. But he can move around better than me.”

“Is he doing okay?”

“The MS has caught up with him for sure. But he’s living through it.” I’m not sure if I should say this next part but our wounds need to heal completely. “And we met his husband.”

“Oh...” she says, trailing off into silence. She stares off. “You know, in the past, those words would’ve been hard for me to hear, but with you, Wyatt...” She feels relief, connecting with me through our screens. “I never imagined talking about this with you could be so easy.”

“It’s not easy, Mom,” I say. “I want so badly to be angry with you for omitting so much and hiding those letters, but you gave us so much more in return. Maybe it’s the desert air talking but I don’t want to be mad at you. Because we’re in this together,” I say.

Mom shakes her head, shuts her eyes tight, trying to will away her tears. She can’t help but let them flow. Through her sniffles, she manages a warm, appreciative smile.

“Thank you for saying that, Wyatt,” she says, wiping her nose with a tissue, trying to compose herself. “What’s his husband like?”

“Nice. Artsy. Actually, he’s literally an artist. Talented. Great guy,” I say. “I don’t know if we’re all going to have Christmas together anytime soon but...” I trail off with a small laugh, thinking of the absurdity of it all.

“I’m happy you’re in touch,” Mom says. “It’s long overdue that I support you no matter what kind of relationship you want to have with your father. I hope you know that.”

My heart fills with love. There’s one more thing I have to know. “Did you...” I hesitate. “I mean, the boxes you told me to sort through...” I wait for her to interject but she’s wondering where I’m going with this. “I found Dad’s letters in those boxes. Is that why you kept telling me to go through them?” It feels weird for me to call him Dad but it’s okay for me to try. I’ve never had the chance to call anyone Dad. Why can’t I now?

“His letters were in those boxes? I must’ve forgotten. There’s just a ton of crap in that basement I gotta go through.” She waves this off.

Mom claims she didn’t tell me to go through my boxes so I could find Dad’s letters. But maybe she did too. I know the truth is probably somewhere in the middle.

We say our goodbyes and I hang up after promising to call her once the baby arrives.

Biz saunters out of the repair shop with a smile on his face, snacks in hand, followed by the dogs running after him. I feel okay with my mom and the situation with my dad, not sure where the next phase will lead us.

Now it’s time to focus on building the family I’m about to have.