No Slave To Destiny

We walked Mark out to his car and waved goodbye from the porch as he drove off through a cloud of dust towards the highway.

"I need to get the driveway paved one of these days," I said. "I promised your Mom for years I'd get it done."

"That's what I want to hear, Dad. Making plans. I need to hear you talking positively about all the tomorrows ahead of us. That would be a good thing to hear," replied Jen.

At first her words somehow rang hollow for me. I thought I understood what she was trying to say and I pretended to care, but I really didn't. Then I realized she had meant it would be good for her to hear me talking positively.

She was crying again two days later as she made preparations to leave. We had visited Peg's graveside, whispered private words at the plaque to express our sorrows and did a lot of consoling of one another. I assured her that Peg was looking down and would help her cope with getting back into a routine.

"I believe that, Dad. Which means she will be doing the same for you. I'll call you when I get home. Make sure you eat properly. I've prepared some meals for you and put them in the freezer. All you have to do is nuke them. You know how to do that, right?"

"I can figure it out," I replied with a forced smile. "Don't worry. Get going now". As she reached for the door of the cab waiting to take her to the station, she turned and blew me a kiss.

I figured her smile was much braver than the one I had managed and in that instant, I knew she would eventually learn to cope with the death of her mother. I was surprised at the relief I felt then. Mark was always the stronger of the two emotionally. If Jen was going to make it, then they were both going to be fine.

I went back into the house, closed the door and walked to the wet bar in the living room. A small drink. Just one to set up the rest of the day and I'd be okay too. Later I might take a long walk to the park and feed the ducks. And think about Peg.

****

Mark and Jen showed up for their weekend visit, and every weekend after that for some months. We discovered that protracted conversations about Peg and our communal loss was quite therapeutic and over time, we learned again to smile and occasionally laugh while in each other's company.

Behind the scenes, however, it was quite a different story. At least for me. The nights in particular were long and especially lonely. The house was too quiet. I kept the TV and radio turned off, unsure whether the blanket of silence was consoling or simply adding to my depression.

I returned to work but my heart and, often, my head were not there. I was drinking heavily all the time, whiskey at night, vodka during the day. There was a never ending supply of scotch at home. I carried a hip flask everywhere I went. And a mickey of vodka lay in a desk drawer at the office, replenished several times a week.

Arthur let me know that my work performance was slipping, badly. I had botched two important accounts in the past month, was a no show at more than one important sales meeting and was impatient with other staff members whenever anything went wrong.

He knew I needed the job but my liability to the business could not go on for much longer. Eventually, he gave me an ultimatum. He shared with me that everyone knew about my drinking and that my behavior was untenable over the long-term. I had a month to straighten myself out or he would be obliged to take action.

Arthur's words hit me like a two-by-four across the forehead. I considered that these were words of advice coming from a friend and at first they had the desired effect. I made a conscious effort to regulate my drinking and refocus my efforts at work. With each day's passing I felt like I was gaining confidence, convinced that I once again had everything well enough under control. Until that fateful meeting where I lost it completely with a potential new client.

The contract negotiations had stumbled not over money or resources, but over deadlines. Under the circumstances, what I considered unreasonable time constraints and the pressure to deliver was the one criterion most likely to press my hot button.

"Okay, time out," I yelled. "That's just plain unreasonable!"

Arthur turned to me, startled by the outburst. "Dave, Mr. Hayworth is only saying that he needs the equipment installed by the end of next month. That gives us six weeks. I know it's a push but, frankly, we've done it before."

"Yes, we have. And look at the problems that caused," I returned, feeling the anger still rising. "Talk about your after-sales catastrophe. Costs ran through the ceiling. The techies did a sub-par installation, it took forever to figure out what the problem was and when we finally got it all working right, the client refused to pay the overtime."

"Settle down Dave," replied Arthur now with urgency in his voice. "We won't make the same mistakes. Plan the installation better and put our best people on it." He turned to Hayworth. "I don't doubt that we can meet the time lines, Chris. Consider it done."

"Good, that's what I want to hear," replied Hayworth as he leaned forward to gather the papers on the desk before him.

I felt slighted by Arthur's very public rebuke and I was not about to let it slide. "No," I said. "I won't be a party to this."

Hayworth stopped his shuffling in mid-action, his hands still hovering over the desk. Arthur looked at me in stunned silence. "I can't be a party to this," I repeated. My name will also be on this contract and I have no confidence that we can deliver by the deadline. Simple as that."

Arthur asked Hayworth to remain in the conference room as he motioned for me to follow him into an adjacent office. He made an effort to moderate his voice, but his words were blunt. "Dave, you're out. I am going to sign the contract without you. You're done. I'm sorry it's come to this but you need to understand that I no longer have any choice."

"You're firing me?" I asked tentatively.

"Let's call it a prolonged leave of absence for now. Unpaid of course," he replied. "You need to take a long, hard look at yourself. Go home. Get some grief counseling, or something. I'm telling you this as someone who cares and empathizes with what you're going through. I'll be in touch to see how you're making out but for Chrissakes get some help before it's too late."

With that he left the office to return to business with Hayworth. He did not wait for a response from me, and I had none to offer.

****

I went directly home from the office and hit the bottle, hard. It was only Wednesday. I figured I had a couple of days to sober up for the weekend and the kids' next visit. I lost track of time. Jen called on Friday afternoon to let me know that Mark had been trying to reach me. He couldn't make it home. When she arrived on Saturday morning she walked into a house that was nothing short of a disaster area.

"Oh my God," she exclaimed. "The place looks like a hurricane went through it. What the hell happened Dad? And look at you. You look like shit, pardon my language. What is going on here?"

She was angry, very angry. I didn't know whether to apologize first, or to explain about my job. In my hesitation I decided to say nothing and began instead to pick up the discarded newspapers, food containers, sofa cushions and miscellaneous paraphernalia strewn about the living room floor. Jen grunted, dropped her bag at the front door and began to help with the clean-up. We were not done to her satisfaction until late in the afternoon. No words had been exchanged in all that time but her glances in my direction spoke volumes.

We ordered in and were finally able to sit down to dinner in the kitchen. 'I have to tell her,' I thought. 'Now is the time. It's better she knows.' I threw back the last of a tumbler of whiskey, which I had modestly laced with soda water to imply a new-found sense of responsibility, and turned to her: "Jen. Don't be mad. I know I'm out of control. And now I've lost my job, too."

The tears must have helped to moderate her response. I was sobbing, my head down as I stared resolutely at the floor. I had never felt so ashamed in all my life. She came over to me, put her arms around my shoulders and held me against her for a long minute.

"I was worried this would happen Dad. It wasn't my place to say but I could see it coming," she said, a little exasperated. "Have you figured out what you're going to do? You can't keep on like this. You'll lose the house. Everything. Everything you and Mom built together."

She was referring to our house of cards. I had no answer to give her. In any case, not one I thought would make her believe in me again. "I'm trying. I'll keep trying," I said lamely.

"Dad, you don't have to do this on your own," she replied.

"I know. I've got you and Mark to lean on. But I don't want to be a burden."

"Of course you can lean on us. But that's not exactly what I meant," continued Jen. "Have you thought about grief counseling?"

"My boss suggested that, too. I just don't think I need to go there," I said to explain why I hadn't followed up on Arthur's advice.

Jen would not let the matter rest. "I'm not going to tell you how you should grieve, Dad. Everyone mourns in their own way. No-one can decide for you how to get through it. But it's essential that you do. Talking to a professional might just help. It could give you some direction, something that works for you. Will you at least give it some more thought?"

I nodded. I had no intention of booking an appointment with a psychologist or psychiatrist. I had the inner strength to deal with my problems in my own way. Seeing a specialist was a sign of weakness that I was not ready to admit. I stood up and walked unsteadily to the bar to refresh my drink. As I stood there, swaying slightly on my feet with my back towards my daughter, I heard her take a short, deep breath. As I turned to go back to the table she said: "Dad, I need your help."

I stopped momentarily in mid-stride, shocked by the expression I saw on her face. Quite suddenly she appeared to me to be in real pain. Not physically, but emotionally. It was not unlike Jen to ask for assistance when she needed it. She was not as independent as Mark and it was one of the qualities I really loved about her. But to ask for help at that moment was oddly out of context. It suggested to me that she was truly in need.

For the first time in a long while I looked at her closely and saw the girl I had helped to raise and who was always so easy to read and understand. The depth of unease in her eyes was apparent and discomforting.

"What is it, Jen? You know I'm always here for you. Anything, anything at all you need. Just tell me."

"Dad I came to see you this weekend, of course. But I also came to ask for your advice." She hesitated then, looking directly into the dimly lit interior of the hallway behind me.

"Go on," I encouraged, taking my seat with tumbler in hand and searching once more to draw her eyes to mine. Instead she continued to stare intently ahead.

"I was going to tell you when you were more sober," she continued finally.

I sat silently, absorbing the significance of the word 'more' she had used. She didn't say 'When you haven't been drinking' or 'When you're sober.' Just 'more sober,' implying her lack of confidence that total sobriety was likely to be an opportunity any time soon. I deliberately pushed my drink to the center of the table, folded my hands, and waited for her response.

"I have a confession, something I need to share with you Dad," she began. "I don't really know how to say this. It was as much a surprise to me as it will be to you."

"I generally don't like surprises," I volunteered, smiling and trying to sound encouraging.

"You're not helping," replied Jen, though not very harshly. "Okay, well here it is. Dad, I'm ... I'm pregnant."

I could see how relieved she was to have finally broached the subject. As she began to cry, the tears welled up in my eyes in sympathy with her distress. She looked at me then, noticed my compassion and reached for me. We sat there, hands locked, while she gathered her courage to go on.

"I've only just found out. I'm about seven weeks along. It came as such a shock. I just wasn't expecting it. A moment of carelessness. That's all it took."

"Who's the father?"

"Sam," she replied.

"Sam!" I snorted.

"Yeah. Sam. Mark's friend from work."

"Well, there's no point in asking if you love him. You've only met him once," I exclaimed, a little too loudly.

"Twice," she corrected me. "He came to see me unexpectedly on one of his business trips. I'd been invited to a party with the girls from the office and I didn't think it polite to leave him out of the arrangements. I'd had a few drinks. I needed to try and forget about Mom for a little while. One thing led to another and, well.... I guess I was vulnerable to a little attention that night."

"So, what now?" I asked.

"That's what I want to ask you about Dad. Like I said, I need some advice." She drew another deep breath. "Should I keep the baby?"

I took a moment to compose my thoughts: "It's not for me to say, Jen. But let me ask you. What are your plans with Sam?"

"We get along well enough, but we're just friends. It couldn't ever be anything more. He's not in my future, not as a husband, if that's what you're asking."

"In other words if you decide to keep the baby – and it is your choice to make – you'll be a single parent, at least for a while," I concluded.

"Yes, until the right guy comes along. He hasn't yet. I want to get married one day and have children but ..." Jen paused, not sure how to proceed.

"Have you told Sam?" I asked.

"Yes, of course."

"And what does he have to say?"

"He's scared. He doesn't want the responsibility of parenthood. He thinks I should have an abortion but he'll support whatever decision I make. So, Dad. What do you think I should do? I know you said it was my decision but I want your advice before I do anything."

"Whatever you decide, I'm completely behind you, Jen. You know that," I said.

"Yes, but what do you want me to do?" she pleaded desperately.

"I'm not gonna say, Jen. And I'll tell you why. In years to come, when you look back at this time in your life, you'll have to be totally comfortable with knowing that you chose a path without others unduly influencing your choice.

"All I will say is that you were a surprise for your Mom and I. I don't think we ever mentioned that little secret. True, it's not the same thing. We were married and already had a little money behind us. But that aside we didn't think we were ready to be parents either. The worst decision we thankfully never made would have been to give you up."

We sat silently at the table, hands still clasped, each of us wrapped in our own thoughts. The minutes passed and we felt comfortable just being there together.

"Let's watch some TV," she said suddenly. "Maybe there's a movie on or something." She let go of my hands and pushed the tumbler of whiskey towards me. "I'm not encouraging you," she said simply. "It's your choice." I left the glass on the table and followed her out of the kitchen.

On Sunday afternoon as she was preparing to leave, I asked Jen if she had made a decision.

"No, not completely," she replied. I have to talk to Sam again. But do you remember what I wrote in your Father's Day card a few years ago, Dad? I wanted you to know how much I loved you and what I have learned from you.

"I wrote: 'You never told us we were wrong, just made us see what was right.' That has always been one or your most endearing qualities as a father. I also said that you have 'taught me to honor family first as well as myself, my integrity and my judgment.' I know you'll be there to help me every step along the way whatever I decide. That's one of the reasons I love you so much."

Jen could not know at that moment how terribly I was going to fail her just when she needed me the most.

****

A week followed during which I had seldom felt more alone in my life. And that weekend I remained alone in the house as neither Mark nor Jen were able to make the trip. Once more the bottle was my only companion. I drank heavily not because I needed to, I rationalized, but because the booze would even out my mood swings caused by the heart-wrenching loss I still felt. I only had to keep my drinking a secret from everybody else.

Early Monday morning, as I sat looking out my bedroom window at the neighborhood traffic passing by on the distant highway, a thought dawned on me as gently as a Spring sunrise. Jen's decision might mean a new lease on life for me. She would look to me for support and her child would need a grandfather. Perhaps that is what she meant all along by asking for my advice. I had been too blind, or rather too drunk, to see it.

That evening I determined a cross-town trip was necessary. I needed to know what she was thinking and feeling. I needed to hear from her the words that would bring new meaning to my existence. Yes, I was also afraid. Afraid that if her decision was to abort the baby or give it up for adoption, that lifeline would be taken from me. Afraid that this alone might be enough to push me over the edge and into a free-fall from which I would not be able to recover. My daughter, who had always trusted and depended on me, now in a very real sense had my future in her hands.

I left home for the long commute about mid-morning to avoid the rush-hour traffic and perhaps catch Jen at the office in time for a late lunch. I did not think to call ahead. Or, perhaps, I had unconsciously chosen not to let her know of my plans in case she tried to discourage me from coming. In huge measure I was being driven by faith and hope. These alone would need to sustain me until I learned her decision.

The receptionist looked up from her desk as I entered the office suite where Jen worked. "Welcome to Wadkins, Walden & Associates. How can I help you?" she began. Then, without pausing: "You must be Jen's Dad. I can see the resemblance. I'm Julie."

"Very astute," I complimented her. "Yes, in fact I am. I'm Dave. Never thought Jen and I looked that much alike, actually."

"Well I can see it," said Julie, smiling.

"Is she in?" I asked.

"Hold on and I'll check," replied Julie as she punched an extension number into the switchboard. "Is she expecting you?" she asked me.

"No," I replied. "Just came in on the off-chance she could use some lunch. I thought..."

Julie raised her hand. "Hi, Jen. Your father's here to see you. Yes, now. He's standing right here at reception. Uh huh. Oh, okay. How long? Right, I'll let him know. Just come on down when you're ready. 'Kay, bye."

"She'll be just a few minutes, Dave. Would you like some coffee while you wait?"

"No, I'm good thanks. I'll wait over there if that's okay," I said waving to a handful of chairs arranged along one side of a low coffee table strewn with magazines and literature. I sat down, picked up a company brochure and began reading.

As I read the corporate profile I contemplated my desperate financial situation. I had already used up a large part of my savings and severance to make mortgage payments and to cover an assortment of never-ending bills. I was maxing out my credit cards at the liquor store, too, only making the minimum interest payments to keep from defaulting. Assessing my world through more sober eyes, I didn't like what I saw. Not at all.

Jen came down the stairs about then and walked briskly towards me. "Dad! What a lovely surprise. I wasn't expecting you. What are you doing down this way?"

Mindful of Julie's close proximity, I was careful in my response. "Just in the neighborhood, is all. Thought you might like to go to lunch."