I had to step away from the dinner. She’s doing an incredible job talking with my mother and my brother. I can see the times she wants to say something but holds her tongue and listens. I see the times she carefully pieces her words together to get to just the right message, so she doesn’t offend anyone or take sides. Then, she makes sure they are getting the same message she sent. Every day, I love my daughter more and more. Every day, I’m reminded how lucky I am to be her father.
But as amazing as she is, my mother and my brother are like poison in my veins. I need to step away and of course, my daughter being the extraordinary woman she is, tells me to buzz off and go get a drink. After all, she’s driving tonight.
I get to the bar and order the usual. I’m not a heavy drinker. I have one or two drinks on the rare occasion. More often than not, when I do drink, it’s one or two at home with my wife and daughter. Its not the buzz we drink for. We drink because we like the taste. Sometimes we drink a little more, sometimes a little less. But never too much.
I'm not alone at the bar. My nephew, my brother’s son, is also seated here. He’s seated at the edge of the bar area, nursing a pop. I’d noticed he left but didn’t see where he went. I was too focused on protecting a daughter who didn’t need my protection.
This was probably half the reason my daughter sent me here. God, I loved her.
“You haven’t said much tonight.” I say to him, sitting down beside him. He gives me a harsh look, but I don’t meet his gaze. I look straight ahead into the bar mirror.
“There’s no alcohol in this.” He says roughly, taking a sip from his straw.
“I didn’t ask.” I point out.
“Yeah well, you were thinking it.” He mumbles. Once upon a time, I would have wondered if my daughter could have ended up like this, but I’ve learned better. I know the stories behind why people are the way they are. But perhaps more than that, I know who my brother and my mother are.
“What do you think about my daughter?” I ask him.
“Ew. Gross. She’s my cousin.” He says disgusted.
“Ahg, no. No!” I shake my head, equally, perhaps more, disgusted. “Not like that. What do you think about her in general.” I emphasize.
“Oh. I dunno. She’s kinda cool I guess.” He shrugs his shoulders. I’ve known enough teenagers to know more. I’ve been that teenager.
“Oh, come on now.” I give him a gentle push. “I know there’s more than that! I’m your uncle. You can trust me!” He hears the sarcasm in my voice and the tiniest of smiles slips past his defenses. He sighs, straightens his back, then hunches back over.
“She’s cool. Seriously. She’s talking all calm and mature with my dad and grandma but.” He pauses, shakes his head. “I don’t know. I can tell it’s a part she’s playing. A role. I don’t know how, I can just tell.” I smile. A gentle smile.
“So, you think she’s cool because she doesn’t like your dad?” The smile on my face turns back to a simpler one, an amused one, a joking one. He shakes his head and surprises me with genuine honesty.
“It’s not just that. Not exactly. I don’t know how to put it. She’s just…It feels like she sees past him. Past grandma too. It’s like she sees through their words to who they really are.” He’s staring into his drink, trying to find the words. The smile on my lips widens, it spreads almost across my whole face. There’s pride, deep pride for my daughter. And love. Always love for her. But there’s also pride in this boy. In my nephew. Because without realizing it, he too has seen past my daughter’s words into who she really is.
“That’s my baby girl alright.” I take a sip from my drink. I let the warm alcohol spread through my body. It’s not just the alcohol. It’s the swelling of pride in my daughter and my nephew. It’s more intoxicating than any drink.
We sit there in silence for a bit. We each sip slowly from our respective drinks. He probably doesn’t know what to say to an uncle he’s never known. While I’ve been weighing between whether or not to say what I’m about to say.
“Listen, I know what your dad and grandma are like.” He snorts in disbelief. “Hey, don’t forget, I lived with them for almost three decades. That’s longer than you’ve been alive okay?” I laugh, smile at him. Another smile slips past that façade of his.
“Yeah, okay. Whatever.” He takes another sip. I shake my head.`
“I just wanted to say: if you ever need a break or someone to talk to, as someone who knows what they’re like, I’m here to listen. I’m sure my daughter feels the same way.” He takes another sip of his drink.
“Thanks.” He mumbles.
“So, he has a nephew now. Interesting.” Though she says that, I can tell she doesn’t find it too interesting. It’s understandable. It’s hard to find anything from a story interesting if you already know everything.
“Sounds like you’re the one who knows everything.” She says to me.
“Only some. You don’t make much of an effort to hide the truth you know.” I counter.
“Don’t I? I thought I was doing a pretty good job.” She says, feigning wounded.
“You’re ambiguous, I’ll give you that. But that isn’t the same as hiding the truth.”
“And what truth might that be?” The Fool smirks, the Cheshire smile growing on his lips.
“Ambiguous and cryptic as always.” I point out.
“Evading the question, are we? Why not tell me at least one truth I’ve revealed.”
“You aren’t just the Fool.” I say. The Fool smiles, smirks. But doesn’t turn Cheshire.
“Oh-ho?” He begs me to continue.
“Like today. You might play the Fool but it’s only a mask, a disguise you play. Today, and perhaps every day since this began, you’ve also been the Hierophant. The keeper of knowledge. The mentor.” The Hierophant smiles at me. The kind, gentle smile of a sage teaching his students.
“Indeed.” His face turns old, quivering with knowledge. “Now let me tell you more.”
It’s amazing how much a single, simple conversation can change your life.
“Tell me again why we have to clean up the house.” My nephew complains to me. A year ago, I didn’t even know I had a nephew.
“Well, since I can’t cook anything even I want to eat, I made a deal with my daughter and my wife a long time ago. While they cooked, I would clean and do various other home keeping tasks.” I explained to him.
“Well, what if I want to help them cook?” He asks me.
“Then what are you doing here? Go help them!” I smile, laughing. My nephew happily, excitedly throws down the dusting towel I gave him, releasing all the dust he previously gathered. I can hear the excited chattering from the kitchen.
He’s only been with us for a day or two but over the past year, his presence in our life slowly grew. First, it was only to talk with my daughter. Then eventually, he started complaining to me about my side of the family. My wife and I echoed his complaints while trying to help him understand why they were the way they were. It seemed to help.
When he first started coming to us, he was always agitated. Our daughter helped calm him. She was the comfortable, patient bridge for him to join my wife and I. To join our family. Gradually, he began to change. He became more open with us, talking not only about his family, but his life. He shared his interests and his passions with us. He listened to our debates and eventually began sharing his own views with us. We could tell it was the first time anyone had truly heard him. Now, he was the happy, go-lucky boy we were both happy and lucky we were able to spend time with.
He became a second son to us.
*Bang*Bang*Bang* Someone pounded on the door.
“I got it!” I shouted into the kitchen. I looked through the eye piece and saw a face I didn’t want to. We kept the keys beside the door. I took them in hand. Opened the door, stepped out, and locked the door before my brother could step in or do anything.
“What the hell?” Were the first words out of his mouth.
“What do you want?” I asked frankly.
“I know my son is in there. I’m here to take him home.” He stated, thrusting his finger into my face and the door. I really did not do well taking orders. Especially orders from people I didn’t like. I took a deep breath. Tried as best as I could to calm myself. I was, after all, partially responsible for this.
“I should have called sooner to let you know where he was. I apologize for that.” Don’t use the word but. I reminded myself.
“I’m here to take him home.” My brother repeated. His hand moved to the door handle, as if he could unlock it merely by grabbing it. I stepped in his way all the same.
“No.” I stated firmly.
“What.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement.
“I’m not going to let you take him home.” I explained. “He came here for a reason. I’m sorry he didn’t tell you. But he feels at home here. I won’t force him to go back with you.”
“I am his father. His home is with me.” I could hear the rage building in my brother’s voice, but it was building in me too. I could feel my body quivering, could feel it bubbling in my chest. I just hoped our daughter would take her cousin down her ‘secret’ escape route. They had more important places to be than here.
“Even after all this time, after all our screwed-up family has been through, you still don’t get it do you?” I asked in disbelief. It was more a comment to myself, but I realized my mistake too late. I never should have said it out loud.
“Get what?!” He spat. I calmed myself. Took a deep breath.
“Your son didn’t choose to be your son. He didn’t even choose to be born. You made that decision. You are responsible for him.” I realized how badly I worded it the moment I said it.
“Are you saying I don’t take care of him?! Who puts food on the table? Who buys him clothes? Who keeps a roof over his head?!”
“Let me clarify.” I manage to say calmly. My hands are still quivering and I can hear it start creeping into my voice. I have to concentrate on every word just to keep my voice steady. “Those are things you are responsible for yes. But there is so much more than that. You still treat your son, you still treat me like we are so lucky to be part of your family. To be part of this family. We are so lucky our mother is our mother. Your son is so lucky you provide him with all these things. You expect his gratitude for a decision you made.”
“But you are his father by choice. You accepted all those responsibilities when you made that choice. But your son did not make that choice. He didn’t choose to be your son. He didn’t choose to be born into this world. That’s our responsibility. We, as the people who chose to have children, are the ones responsible for giving our kids what they need. Not what we need, or even what we needed, but what they need.” My brother opens his mouth to talk but I cut him off. My voice is louder and more powerful. My words have been building since long before my brother ever came to my doorstep.
“We don’t get to expect their gratitude. Their gratitude is a gift they can choose to give to us. It’s not a right we’ve earned just by passing on our genes to them. It’s a gift we have to always be striving to earn. I would never expect my daughter to be grateful for something I do for her. I would hope for it. But I would never expect it. If my daughter needs a friend to talk to but I’m too busy playing the over-protective father, why would she ever be grateful for me?!”
“He is my son. And I love him.” He states. It’s hard to believe those words when spat so angrily but I know, or at least I hope, there is truth in them. But just like with everything our family has been through, this is part of the issue. I take a deep breath. Calm myself again. I choose my words carefully. Concisely. I hope it’s enough for him to understand.
“I believe you. Do you love him the way he needs to be loved?” I ask. No words are spoken between us for a time. I can hear his heavy breathing. I can feel the rage building in his chest, but it’s largely gone from mine. Instead, I feel a gentle warmth in my own. A warming fire. I feel the love for my daughter and my wife. For my family. And I feel love for my nephew. I let it fill me and calm me.
“I can only do my best.” He finally manages to spit out.
“Then your relationship with your son is going to end the same way ours did. The way mine ended with our mother. Because the sad truth is, and I tell my daughter this all the time too, sometimes your best isn’t good enough.” I shrug my shoulders. My brother shakes his head. Shrugs his shoulders too. I’ve seen him do it so many times before.
“I don’t know what to say to that.”
“Then you’ve already given up. And despite what you may think, your son already knows it. He’s a smart kid. He understands people. If you really care, if you actually want to be a good father to him, then stop doing your best. Do better.” I hope my voice doesn’t sound accusatory or spiteful. I genuinely want him to just do better. I could care less about my brother. The bridge between us wasn’t just burnt, it was blown to bits with excessive explosives. No. I care about my nephew.
“I’m taking my son home.” I throw my hands up in the air.
“No.” I repeat.
“Then what do you expect me to do?” It’s his turn to throw his hands in the air. His voice is accusatory. Or maybe it’s just the way I hear it. “You want me to do better but you won’t let me see him. What do you want from me?”
“I want you to ask the question you still haven’t asked. Why did he come here?” My brother shakes his head, rolls his eyes.
“I don’t know. Because he likes you more than me. Because he kept coming here the past year and he knew you would let him stay.” My brother looks at me. I can see the impatience in his eyes. I calm myself. Breathe.
“When you can answer that question honestly. When you actually take the time to think about it. After you’ve seriously considered that question, I’ll let you talk to him.” He shakes his head, shuts his eyes. He’s given up. I shut him down too hard.
“Then I’ll just get my lawyer and the police involved.” He shrugs again. I return the gesture.
“Go ahead. And you know what, you’ll probably win that fight. You have more resources to fight this then I do. But the fact you would even say that tells me you’re still not asking the questions that matter. Even just suggesting that, you don’t really understand what that will do to your son. You’ll get him back for a while. But next time, he might not run to me. Your son is a smart kid. He wasn’t running from you. He was running to us.” My brother isn’t hearing me. He never has. I see it in the way he shakes his head. In the impatient look in his eyes.
“Whatever. I’ll be back.” He says, then walks away. I watch him go. Part of me is hoping I find some words, something he can hear. This time, it’s not just me at risk. This time, there’s someone else caught on the wayside and I might not be able to pick him up next time. But I don’t have the words.
After a time, my mind returns to the mundane tasks ahead. The cleaning, the eating, the work. I slip the key into the door and hear rustling from the other side of the door. I turn the key, open the door, and a warmth fills me. A refreshing, honest smile spread on my lips. On the other side of the door, my family has been waiting.
“The perfect father who is the perfect mentor. The perfect tutor for his daughter and his nephew.” The Hierophant taps his staff into the ground but I shake my head.
“No. It’s not only not the point, it’s wrong.” I counter. I let the story go, watch as it floats back up into the clouds. I feel the Hierophant growing younger before me even though I’m not looking at him.
“For one, he isn’t the perfect tutor or father. He’s a good one, a great one but knowing there is no such thing as a perfect father is what makes him so amazing. It isn’t his goal to be their father.”
“Its his goal to be theirs.” We finish together. The Fool's hand urges me on. That was only the first part.
“And the story isn’t about his daughter or his nephew. Not directly. It’s a story about a failed mentorship. No matter what he says or does, his brother doesn’t hear him.”
“And thus, he fails as a tutor.” The Fool shakes his head. But I shake mine too. Only for a different reason.
“No. Well, yes. But not entirely. It’s true, he couldn’t find the words to make his brother listen. But the fault also lies with the student. His brother couldn’t, wouldn’t hear what he was being told.”
“And? So what?” A wise smile cracks across the Fool's face, one wise beyond the years of her young façade.
“We all need to learn to listen to each other better. Both as students and mentors.”