I hate waiting. It's cold: I'm pacing furiously to keep my blood from freezing. I’m not used to snow, on a night like this in Boston, I feel like the Little Match Girl. He better show up soon. It’s taken me nineteen years and half the world to track him down: I'm not going home empty handed. The pessimistic side of me knows that his track record is by no means reliable. It starts snowing again, typical. I can see a bar in the distance, calling out to me.
Daddy was barely ever around, being a busy lawyer in the city. He would leave early in the morning and come home late at night. Well after my bedtime, but when I could, I would stay awake until I heard him come in. I would jump out of bed and hug him as he went past my room on his way to the bathroom. He seemed to alternate between smelling nice and smelling awful. I didn't realise that it was either perfume or whiskey until years later. When I was eleven, I waited up to show him a prize I had won at school. I was so excited and I was so sure that he would be proud of me. I waited and waited, but he never came. When I awoke in the morning, I rushed into my parents’ room and lunged at the bed, jumping on it to hug Daddy. I landed on my mother and she was furious with me for waking her up. She turned to her side to get Daddy to yell at me, but he wasn’t there.
I check my watch: it's eight thirty. He said he would meet me at eight o'clock. Perhaps he was delayed: I'm sure Daddy just had to work late. I keep pacing, I see a man approaching in a coat and hat, he could be my Daddy, but I cannot tell. He walks past me. Maybe he doesn't recognise me either. I jump a little at every well-dressed man about the correct age who walks by. One man, overweight, definitely not my father, winks at me as he walks past. I’m not soliciting: walk on, buddy.
Nine o'clock: I try his mobile phone. No answer. Nine fifteen: same again. Nine thirty: yet again, no answer. I give in. I'm going to the bar. I walk in and drop my fat bum on a stool. Through frozen lips, I say "Scotch." The barman can barely hear me over the noise, but I point and mine, and eventually the message gets through. I sit down and numb myself out.
They turf everyone out at midnight. I prise myself off the barstool and force myself out of the bar. I hail a cab back to the hotel. As I stumble inside, the girl at the front desk tells me that a man came by and dropped off a letter. I thank her and hold back my tears. She coughs for a tip, so I slap the last $10 from my purse on the counter. I go back to my room and open the folded piece of hotel stationery.
Dear Maggie,
I must apologize for keeping you waiting, but please understand that I never wanted to be a father. I loved your mother, but after even a single year of marriage – I knew I couldn't be the husband she wanted, let alone the father you needed. I had hoped that the two of you would move on and forget me. Your mother was still attractive: she could have had any man she wanted. I wanted to free her from me. I couldn't live the lie with you and her any longer.
I have my life the way I want it now. Please do not try to find me again. I cannot be the man you want me to be. I could try, but it wouldn't make either of us happy. I am sorry about your mother, but you must go on and live your own life. It was good to see you.
Best wishes,
Elliot.
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