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Book: Emily Franklin - Principles Of Love 06 - Labor Of Love by Emily Franklin
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Authors: Emily Franklin
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cloth, and bring it over with the bottle of oil, to the counter.
"She's not here. Love?"
"Uh-huh." I sponge clean the counter, dry it, then set to work. First you douse the top with oil--not so much that it
+, :b^an;gVc`a^c
puddles, just enough to spread a sheen over the entire thing, including the sides. I rub hard, putting my shoulders into it.
"She's not here."
"Yeah," I say, nodding as the wood drinks in the mois ture."I'm getting that feeling."
"So I came. . . ."
I stop and look up. "You came to rescue me. Again." I swipe at the counter, checking in the light to see if I've missed any spots."You can't keep it up, Dad."
"What do you mean?" He rakes his hands through his thinning hair. Louisa has encouraged him to keep the top a little longer, which suits him. Now he looks like all the other boys on campus, only the sides of his hair are flecked with silvery gray. Gala's never seen him with anything other than deep brown hair. I wonder what it would be like to see someone after so long.To see me as anything other than an infant.
"Did you send her pictures?" I look at him. "Of me, I mean?"
Dad shakes his head while he answers."No. I think I told you I have no contact with her. Zero." He pauses, pressing a fingertip into the counter and feeling the slick of oil.
"It's not supposed to be so slippery," I say and wipe at it again."I put too much on."
"It's not supposed to be like this at all," Dad says. He
+- AVWdgd[AdkZ
looks at the counter and then at me. "I didn't come to save you. I came to tell you. . . . Okay, maybe I did want to save you. But not from her. I can't do that. One person can't con trol another person's actions."
"You're doing it," I say and he knows just what I mean. I loathe when he brings his job home--when he uses head master speak to talk normally with me.
"Sorry. But you know what? Being a headmaster is part of me. It's part of my identity. You'll learn that what you do--your job or career or occupation, whatever you call it, leaks in. Or maybe who you are leaks over to the job side."
"You're losing me here, Dad." I hold the rag in my hands, surveying the kitchen and the living room for signs of life. The shades are drawn.
"She left." Dad's voice is big, almost like the stage voice I used when I first shouted hello.
"Left the cottage or left--" I catch Dad's glance. "Oh. She's gone, you mean."
"Left. Gone.What's the difference?" His shoulders slump. "She's a producer--that's what she does. She finds talent, slicks it onto a record. . . . Maybe that's making light of her job. She's good at it, I know. Successful. I guess what I'm getting at is that once a record is complete, it's over. At least her part of it. She doesn't tour, she doesn't travel with the band selling T-shirts."
+. :b^an;gVc`a^c
"So you're saying her job is segmented."
"Yes. I've thought a lot about her--Gala." He says her name and I can tell from his tone how long it's taken the ocean of sadness he had surrounding his breakup with her-- or his desertion--to recede."She's a leaver."
"It seems like she stuck it out in LA," I say."I'm not try ing to defend her, but I'm just saying. She clearly jumped ship with us, but it's not like she changed jobs every two seconds or lived in a motor home."
Dad rubs his eye and yawns.This is probably more taxing on him than I can imagine--his own past whipping him in the face, plus his daughter's heart on the line.
"I can't judge her life now.You're right. My mistake. All I can tell you is that it's my belief that once someone proves to you that they can--and will--leave you, they will do it again."
Suddenly I get it. Possibility springs up."Wait a minute." I watch his face for signs he knows I'm onto him."You saw her again, didn't you?" Dad puts his lips together like he's going to whistle, but no sound comes out.
"What do you mean?"
"After. After she left that first time." I step forward to ward him."She came back?"
Dad clears his throat as
"She's not here. Love?"
"Uh-huh." I sponge clean the counter, dry it, then set to work. First you douse the top with oil--not so much that it
+, :b^an;gVc`a^c
puddles, just enough to spread a sheen over the entire thing, including the sides. I rub hard, putting my shoulders into it.
"She's not here."
"Yeah," I say, nodding as the wood drinks in the mois ture."I'm getting that feeling."
"So I came. . . ."
I stop and look up. "You came to rescue me. Again." I swipe at the counter, checking in the light to see if I've missed any spots."You can't keep it up, Dad."
"What do you mean?" He rakes his hands through his thinning hair. Louisa has encouraged him to keep the top a little longer, which suits him. Now he looks like all the other boys on campus, only the sides of his hair are flecked with silvery gray. Gala's never seen him with anything other than deep brown hair. I wonder what it would be like to see someone after so long.To see me as anything other than an infant.
"Did you send her pictures?" I look at him. "Of me, I mean?"
Dad shakes his head while he answers."No. I think I told you I have no contact with her. Zero." He pauses, pressing a fingertip into the counter and feeling the slick of oil.
"It's not supposed to be so slippery," I say and wipe at it again."I put too much on."
"It's not supposed to be like this at all," Dad says. He
+- AVWdgd[AdkZ
looks at the counter and then at me. "I didn't come to save you. I came to tell you. . . . Okay, maybe I did want to save you. But not from her. I can't do that. One person can't con trol another person's actions."
"You're doing it," I say and he knows just what I mean. I loathe when he brings his job home--when he uses head master speak to talk normally with me.
"Sorry. But you know what? Being a headmaster is part of me. It's part of my identity. You'll learn that what you do--your job or career or occupation, whatever you call it, leaks in. Or maybe who you are leaks over to the job side."
"You're losing me here, Dad." I hold the rag in my hands, surveying the kitchen and the living room for signs of life. The shades are drawn.
"She left." Dad's voice is big, almost like the stage voice I used when I first shouted hello.
"Left the cottage or left--" I catch Dad's glance. "Oh. She's gone, you mean."
"Left. Gone.What's the difference?" His shoulders slump. "She's a producer--that's what she does. She finds talent, slicks it onto a record. . . . Maybe that's making light of her job. She's good at it, I know. Successful. I guess what I'm getting at is that once a record is complete, it's over. At least her part of it. She doesn't tour, she doesn't travel with the band selling T-shirts."
+. :b^an;gVc`a^c
"So you're saying her job is segmented."
"Yes. I've thought a lot about her--Gala." He says her name and I can tell from his tone how long it's taken the ocean of sadness he had surrounding his breakup with her-- or his desertion--to recede."She's a leaver."
"It seems like she stuck it out in LA," I say."I'm not try ing to defend her, but I'm just saying. She clearly jumped ship with us, but it's not like she changed jobs every two seconds or lived in a motor home."
Dad rubs his eye and yawns.This is probably more taxing on him than I can imagine--his own past whipping him in the face, plus his daughter's heart on the line.
"I can't judge her life now.You're right. My mistake. All I can tell you is that it's my belief that once someone proves to you that they can--and will--leave you, they will do it again."
Suddenly I get it. Possibility springs up."Wait a minute." I watch his face for signs he knows I'm onto him."You saw her again, didn't you?" Dad puts his lips together like he's going to whistle, but no sound comes out.
"What do you mean?"
"After. After she left that first time." I step forward to ward him."She came back?"
Dad clears his throat as
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