I don’t want to watch her strangle him, so I walk downstairs to put an end to this.
“Hi, Dad,” I say, taking my mother by the elbow and moving her out of striking distance. “What are you doing here?”
He reconfigures his face to something approximating the serious, self-important expression he wears signing books.
“Hello, Molly.” He gestures out at the lilies. “I brought you flowers, but your mother threw them in the driveway.”
“She has a severe lily allergy. You should know. You were married for twenty years.”
He ignores this and reaches into his breast pocket. “I also brought your Christmas present.”
He produces a check, folded in half.
I don’t take it. “No thanks. I have my lucrative Mack Fontaine kill fee, remember? Why are you here?”
He sighs in a long-suffering way. It’s like he’s imagining there’s an audience observing us who’s on his side, ready to sympathize with him for the hostile reactions he’s getting from these two women he was obviously justified in leaving.
“I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry you’re upset about the movie,” he says.
It is not my job to train him how to apologize without blaming the injured party for their feelings, so I just give him my best dead-eyed stare and say, “Do you really think this is about the movie?”
“It’s about you being a terrible father, Roger,” my mother says, shoving her head back into his eye-line.
“Mom,” I say, “why don’t you get back to hanging your tinsel and let me talk to Dad?”
“Fine. But don’t let him bring down your mood.”
That’s pretty close to impossible, given that my mood is about a one out of ten already.
“I love you, Molly,” my father says, in the stern tone of someone correcting a dog that won’t be trained. “And I know you are struggling in your career—”
“Oh my God—”
“But you can’t expect special treatment. How does that make me look, to keep you on out of nepotism when you weren’t cutting it? There are other ways I can help you. If you need money—” He holds out the check again.
“For fuck’s sake,” I explode. “You truly don’t get it, do you? I wasn’t excited about the movie because of the money. I was excited because I thought it meant you respected me. That you were acknowledging my existence as more than someone you’re obligated to take out to lunch when you pass through LA.”
“That’s not fair,” he says. “I want to see you. You’re my daughter.”
“I’m your daughter on your terms when it suits you. Have been since I was thirteen.”
His distinguished crow’s-feet pinch together in agitation.
“Look, Molly,” he says. “I know you think I wasn’t there for you, but I did try to visit you when you’d let me. I paid for your schooling. I allowed you to stay in my ski house by yourself after graduation.”
My impulse is to slam the door in his face. But I think of Seth. Of how he forced me to articulate my feelings.
“Is this supposed to be your vindicating little speech before our tearful reconciliation?” I ask. “Because I think you’ll need to do some more soul-searching.”
He runs his hands through his iconically messy white hair, making it even more iconic.
“Fine,” he says. “You know what? You’re right. After a while, I didn’t try as hard to see you. Perhaps that was a mistake. But you disliked my wife, you were sour with me whenever you agreed to meet, and I thought I’d do us both a favor and not force it. Frankly, I thought you wanted it that way.”
“It’s not just in the past, Dad. You hardly ever contact me, and when I reach out, half the time you blow me off. It hurts me when you do that.”
“Well, then you should understand that it hurt me when you blew me off.”
“Do you mean when I was in middle school?”
“I’ve said that I’m sorry, Molly. I don’t know how many more times I can.”
I’m over this. I want him to leave.
“Okay,” I say. “I accept your apology.”
He nods nobly. “Good. I appreciate that. Moving on, let’s try a fresh start. Why don’t you come over for brunch tomorrow? We can take the sailboat out. A new tradition.”
I wince at how badly teenage Molly would have wanted him to think up this idea.
But this Molly—grown-up Molly—isn’t risking herself for a dollop of his attention.
And she fucking hates sailboats.
“It upsets me to see you right now,” I say. “It’s not a good time.”
He purses his lips. “That’s your choice. But remember it next time you want to fling my so-called neglect in my face.”
“Will do. Bye.”
