moment.
“So,” I say. “The bus.” For some reason I can’t stop thinking about Morgan Freeman’s ride to freedom on that bus in the movieThe Shawshank Redemption . Well, I guess it isn’t too surprising. Morgan Freeman had been a prisoner, too. “Isn’t that like a parole violation? I mean, for you to leave the state of Florida?”
“Don’t worry about me, kiddo,” Dad had said, patting my hand. “I’ve got things under control. For a change.”
“Great,” I say. “That’s great, Dad.”
“So what do you hear from your mother?” he wants to know. I notice that he doesn’t make eye contact when he asks this. He busies himself adding more half and half to his coffee.
“Well,” I say, “you mean since she took off for Buenos Aires with the contents of my bank account?
Not a whole heck of a lot.”
Dad purses his lips and shakes his head. Now he makes eye contact. “I’m sorry about that, Heather,”
he says. “You can’t know how much. Your mother isn’t like that. I don’t know what could have come over her.”
“Really? Because I have a pretty good idea,” I say, as the waitress comes back with his soup and my hot chocolate.
“Oh?” Dad digs into his soup like it’s his first food of the day. For such a skinny guy, he has a pretty good appetite. “What’s that?”
“Her meal ticket lost her recording contract,” I say.
“Oh, now, Heather,” Dad says, looking up from his soup. “Don’t say that. Your mother loves you very much. She’s just never been a strong woman. I’m sure it wasn’t her idea—taking your money, I mean.
I’m positive that Ricardo character put her up to it.”
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And I’m positive it was the other way around, actually, but I don’t say so, because I don’t feel like getting into an argument about it.
“How about you?” I ask instead. “Have you heard from her?”
“Not in quite some time,” Dad says. He opens one of the packs of crackers that came with his soup.
“Of course, given the way I let her down, I don’t suppose I deserve to.”
“I wouldn’t beat yourself up over that one, Dad,” I say, feeling that twinge in my stomach again. Only this time, I realize the twinge is actually north of my stomach. It’s more in the vicinity of my heart. And it appears to be pity. “She hasn’t exactly been Miss Parent of the Year herself.”
Dad shakes his head over his soup. “Poor Heather,” he says, with a sigh. “When they were handing out parents up in heaven, you certainly got the short end of the stick.”
“I don’t know,” I say, surprised to find myself prickling a little. “I think I’ve done all right for myself. I mean, I’ve got a job, and a nice place to live, and…well, I’m getting my BA.”
Dad looks surprised…but pleasantly so. “Good for you!” he says. “At New York College?”
I nod. “I get tuition remission through my job,” I explain. “I have to take this remedial math course before I can start taking real courses, but—”
“And what are you going to study?” Dad wants to know. His enthusiasm about the subject takes me aback, a little. “Music? I hope you’re studying music. You’ve always been so very talented.”
“Uh,” I say. “Actually, I was thinking more of criminal justice.”
Dad looks startled. “Good heavens,” he says. “Why? Do you want to be a policewoman?”
“I don’t know,” I say. I’m too embarrassed to tell him the truth…that I’d hoped, with a BA in criminal justice, Cooper might take me on as a partner in his business, and the two of us could detect crimes together. LikeRemington Steele. OrHart to Hart.
It’s a little sad that all my fantasies are rooted in eighties television shows.
“You should study music theory,” Dad says firmly. “To help with your songwriting.”
I flush. I forgot that I sent Dad a tape of myself singing some of my own stuff for
“So,” I say. “The bus.” For some reason I can’t stop thinking about Morgan Freeman’s ride to freedom on that bus in the movieThe Shawshank Redemption . Well, I guess it isn’t too surprising. Morgan Freeman had been a prisoner, too. “Isn’t that like a parole violation? I mean, for you to leave the state of Florida?”
“Don’t worry about me, kiddo,” Dad had said, patting my hand. “I’ve got things under control. For a change.”
“Great,” I say. “That’s great, Dad.”
“So what do you hear from your mother?” he wants to know. I notice that he doesn’t make eye contact when he asks this. He busies himself adding more half and half to his coffee.
“Well,” I say, “you mean since she took off for Buenos Aires with the contents of my bank account?
Not a whole heck of a lot.”
Dad purses his lips and shakes his head. Now he makes eye contact. “I’m sorry about that, Heather,”
he says. “You can’t know how much. Your mother isn’t like that. I don’t know what could have come over her.”
“Really? Because I have a pretty good idea,” I say, as the waitress comes back with his soup and my hot chocolate.
“Oh?” Dad digs into his soup like it’s his first food of the day. For such a skinny guy, he has a pretty good appetite. “What’s that?”
“Her meal ticket lost her recording contract,” I say.
“Oh, now, Heather,” Dad says, looking up from his soup. “Don’t say that. Your mother loves you very much. She’s just never been a strong woman. I’m sure it wasn’t her idea—taking your money, I mean.
I’m positive that Ricardo character put her up to it.”
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And I’m positive it was the other way around, actually, but I don’t say so, because I don’t feel like getting into an argument about it.
“How about you?” I ask instead. “Have you heard from her?”
“Not in quite some time,” Dad says. He opens one of the packs of crackers that came with his soup.
“Of course, given the way I let her down, I don’t suppose I deserve to.”
“I wouldn’t beat yourself up over that one, Dad,” I say, feeling that twinge in my stomach again. Only this time, I realize the twinge is actually north of my stomach. It’s more in the vicinity of my heart. And it appears to be pity. “She hasn’t exactly been Miss Parent of the Year herself.”
Dad shakes his head over his soup. “Poor Heather,” he says, with a sigh. “When they were handing out parents up in heaven, you certainly got the short end of the stick.”
“I don’t know,” I say, surprised to find myself prickling a little. “I think I’ve done all right for myself. I mean, I’ve got a job, and a nice place to live, and…well, I’m getting my BA.”
Dad looks surprised…but pleasantly so. “Good for you!” he says. “At New York College?”
I nod. “I get tuition remission through my job,” I explain. “I have to take this remedial math course before I can start taking real courses, but—”
“And what are you going to study?” Dad wants to know. His enthusiasm about the subject takes me aback, a little. “Music? I hope you’re studying music. You’ve always been so very talented.”
“Uh,” I say. “Actually, I was thinking more of criminal justice.”
Dad looks startled. “Good heavens,” he says. “Why? Do you want to be a policewoman?”
“I don’t know,” I say. I’m too embarrassed to tell him the truth…that I’d hoped, with a BA in criminal justice, Cooper might take me on as a partner in his business, and the two of us could detect crimes together. LikeRemington Steele. OrHart to Hart.
It’s a little sad that all my fantasies are rooted in eighties television shows.
“You should study music theory,” Dad says firmly. “To help with your songwriting.”
I flush. I forgot that I sent Dad a tape of myself singing some of my own stuff for
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