Size 14 Is Not Fat Either (Heather Wells 2)

“Right,” I say sarcastically. “She couldn’t just get a job as a receptionist in a doctor’s office somewhere. She had to parade her freakishly musical kid around in front of the masses at various malls.”

Dad makes a tsk-tsking sound.

“Now, Heather,” he says. “Don’t try to rewrite history. You loved performing. We couldn’t keep you off the stage. Believe me, I tried. Your mother only did what she felt she had to…and you certainly never complained.”

I lay down my fork. “Dad. I was eleven. Do you really think that was the kind of decision that should have been left to me?”

Dad looks down at his food. “Well, that’s an issue you’re going to have to work out with your mother. I’m afraid by that time, I was no longer in a position to be actively involved in your parenting.”

“True,” I say. And fat chance of me ever having an opportunity to “work out” my issues with Mom. That’s something that’s a little hard to do over the phone. Though Dad seemed perfectly willing to try. “So. Did you find the number?”

“Yes,” Dad says. “It was in your address book. Some of the addresses in there are quite old, you know. You should think about getting a new book. If you want, I could do that for you tomorrow.”

I ignore this offer.

“Did you call her?”

“I did,” Dad says.

“And did you make amends?”

“I tried to,” Dad says. “But your mother can, as you know, be very difficult. She refused to admit that I had hurt her in any way. In fact, she reminded me—as you did, just now—that it was she who left me, and that if anyone should be making amends, it’s her. But that she doesn’t care to, because, according to her, I deserve everything I got.”

I nod. “Yeah, that sounds like Mom, all right. It really sucks when you say I’m like her, by the way. If you tried to make amends with me, I’d be much more receptive.”

“Well,” Dad says. “That’s good, because you’re next on my list.”

I shrug. “Amends accepted.”

“I haven’t even made them yet.”

“Yeah, you have,” I say. “This dinner is enough. It’s totally delicious.”

“This dinner is hardly enough,” Dad says. “You were basically deprived of a father figure during your formative teen years. That’s the kind of hurt that can’t be cured with a single steak dinner.”

“Well,” I say, “now that you’re living here, maybe you can cure it with multiple steak dinners. Like every Friday night, or something. Although you might want to vary the menu a little. I like pork chops, too. Oh, and fried chicken.”

“Heather,” Dad says, sounding sad. “Food can’t serve as a balm for all the harm I’ve caused you. I understand that, of all the people I hurt when I broke the law, you are the one who suffered the most. Leaving you alone with your mother, who then put you on that mall tour. Even if you did enjoy it, that’s no way for anyone to spend her childhood, living in a trailer and traveling from mall to mall, being exploited by the one person who should have been looking out for your best interests.”

“It was more fun than going to school,” I point out. “And, like you said—it was hard to get me off the stage back then.”

“But you were deprived of the normal joys of childhood. And I can’t help but feel that that deprivation is partially responsible for the way you are today.”

I stare at him. “What’s wrong with the way I am today?” I ask.

“Well, for one thing, you’re nearly thirty and you don’t have a husband or children. You don’t seem to realize that family is the most important thing in the world—not that guitar I hear you plinking late into the night, and not your job. Family, Heather. Take it from someone whose lost his—family is what matters.”

I lay my fork down again and say gently, “There are lots of different types of families nowadays, Dad. They don’t all consist of a husband and wife and kids. Some of them consist of a girl, her dog, a PI, her dad, her best friend, and the various people she works with. Not to mention the drug dealer down the street. My feeling about it is, if you care about someone, doesn’t that person automatically become your family?”

“But don’t you worry,” Dad says, after he spends a moment digesting this information, “that if you don’t have children, there’ll be no one to care for you in your old age?”

“No,” I say. “Because I could have children, and they could turn out to hate me. The way I see it, I have friends who care about me now, so I’ll probably have friends who’ll care about me when I’m old, too. We’ll take care of each other. And in the meantime, I’m putting the max into my 401(K), and setting aside as much as I can into a SEP IRA as well.”

Dad gazes at me over his steak. I’m disturbed to note that there are tears in his eyes.

“That’s very profound, Heather,” he says. “Especially since I sense that, in many ways, these so-called family members of yours have been kinder to you than your actual blood relations.”

“Well,” I admit, “at least none of them has stolen all my money and fled the country. Yet.”

Dad raises his Diet Coke can. “I’ll drink to that,” he says. I clink his can with my wine glass. “So you really don’t mind,” he says, when we’re done clinking, “if I stick around and try to make amends—even though you say I don’t have to?”

“I don’t care,” I say. “Just so long as you aren’t expecting me to take care of you in your old age. Because I’ve only been contributing to my 401(K) for a couple of months. I don’t have enough money in it to support myself, let alone an aged parent.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Dad says. “Why don’t we agree to support each other emotionally only?”

“Sounds good to me,” I say, spearing the last of my steak.

“Looks like you’re ready for salad,” Dad says, getting up and going to the fridge, from which he takes the salad bowl into which Jordan did not, thankfully, barf. In it is what appear to be various types of lettuce, some cherry tomatoes, and—much to my delight—croutons.