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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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though that will distract me from uncovering the unsaid part of the past."It's complicated."
,% AVWdgd[AdkZ
"Well," I say matter-of-factly, "my shift's over, I've had lunch, and apparently I have nothing on my social calendar, so I'm all ears."
Dad sits down next to me so we're side-by-side at the counter on stools that belong in a diner circa Grease. We don't look at one another; we just rest our elbows on the wood and stare at the sink, the drying rack, the fruit bowl filled with peaches, plums, and mottled nectarines. "You were tiny, when she took off.You know that, I think." He sighs."I spent a few months wallowing until all of a sudden I imagined her plotting. That's the difference between life in prison and a long sentence, right? Intent? I realized she had the intent to leave. She didn't lie there in our bed, with you in the bassinet in the other room, and spontaneously decide--oh, hey, I think I'll take off in the middle of the night."
It's weird to hear all this. Like that film, Rashomon, which I saw for my film elective at Hadley. I've been told the details of that night from another source. From Mable. All narratives are like that, I guess--different viewpoints depending on your context in the story. It's easy to forget I wasn't the only one left. Sometimes I think about my dad and how his heart was shattered into a billion fragments, or how Mable lost her best friend. But right now, I think of her. Of Gala, lying in her nightgown or T-shirt or pajamas,
,& :b^an;gVc`a^c
whatever she wore, tired, and I finally see her as miserable. Trapped.
"She must have really needed to go."
"That's part of what I'm getting at. I don't think she took leaving lightly. I believe--and maybe it's partially my mind's way of rationalizing the event--that she thought it over for a long time. Looking back over the weeks and months before, she distanced herself from me, from Mable." Dad keeps his upper body straight but turns his head and via peripheral vision I can see him looking at me. "I used to think that premeditation made it worse. Only now I think . . ."
"That she must have weighed in on the damage she'd do?"
Dad agrees, nodding."Exactly." He puts his hands on the stool and turns it so I'm now facing him, interview style. "She's not a bad person.This whole thing would be easier in some ways if she were--"
"Less complicated.Then we could just sit around bitch ing about her."
Dad studies me, thinking."You're pretty wise, you know that?"
A smirk is my only reply. I take his hand and play with the loose skin around his knuckles the way I did as a kid. Back then, his hands seemed so large and strong I figured they could protect me from everything that might try to
,' AVWdgd[AdkZ
harm or hurt me. "You're a good dad. A lot of people can't say that about their fathers. I'm glad I can."
I leave the kitchen and wander around the small living room, wondering about Gala, about this place, about Sadie. "Dad?"
He talks from his stool."Yup."
"Work with me for a second--where'd she go? Seriously."
"Back to Los Angeles."
Familiar sinking feelings tug at my arms. Did she pre judge me like those college essays? "Wasn't my allure strong enough?" I make a joke out of it, doing a grandiose model ing pose as though Gala might choose to cast me in some thing. Oh, yeah, her life.
Dad stands up and takes a set of keys from his pocket. "Here."
"What's this?" I reach for the keys and hold them, won dering if they'll unlock some treasure chest or if Dad's chang ing the locks on our house at Hadley for some reason.
"Gala is selling her house."
"I know. I was there, remember?" I flash to that monstros ity of a mansion, my brief stay, how empty the house was, how devoid of personality. The opposite of Mable's apart ment. Not that I should keep comparing Gala to Mable, but it's built into me."And Arabella's still there.With . . ."
,( :b^an;gVc`a^c
"Love.A couple of things before we talk the sun down."
"Okay."
,% AVWdgd[AdkZ
"Well," I say matter-of-factly, "my shift's over, I've had lunch, and apparently I have nothing on my social calendar, so I'm all ears."
Dad sits down next to me so we're side-by-side at the counter on stools that belong in a diner circa Grease. We don't look at one another; we just rest our elbows on the wood and stare at the sink, the drying rack, the fruit bowl filled with peaches, plums, and mottled nectarines. "You were tiny, when she took off.You know that, I think." He sighs."I spent a few months wallowing until all of a sudden I imagined her plotting. That's the difference between life in prison and a long sentence, right? Intent? I realized she had the intent to leave. She didn't lie there in our bed, with you in the bassinet in the other room, and spontaneously decide--oh, hey, I think I'll take off in the middle of the night."
It's weird to hear all this. Like that film, Rashomon, which I saw for my film elective at Hadley. I've been told the details of that night from another source. From Mable. All narratives are like that, I guess--different viewpoints depending on your context in the story. It's easy to forget I wasn't the only one left. Sometimes I think about my dad and how his heart was shattered into a billion fragments, or how Mable lost her best friend. But right now, I think of her. Of Gala, lying in her nightgown or T-shirt or pajamas,
,& :b^an;gVc`a^c
whatever she wore, tired, and I finally see her as miserable. Trapped.
"She must have really needed to go."
"That's part of what I'm getting at. I don't think she took leaving lightly. I believe--and maybe it's partially my mind's way of rationalizing the event--that she thought it over for a long time. Looking back over the weeks and months before, she distanced herself from me, from Mable." Dad keeps his upper body straight but turns his head and via peripheral vision I can see him looking at me. "I used to think that premeditation made it worse. Only now I think . . ."
"That she must have weighed in on the damage she'd do?"
Dad agrees, nodding."Exactly." He puts his hands on the stool and turns it so I'm now facing him, interview style. "She's not a bad person.This whole thing would be easier in some ways if she were--"
"Less complicated.Then we could just sit around bitch ing about her."
Dad studies me, thinking."You're pretty wise, you know that?"
A smirk is my only reply. I take his hand and play with the loose skin around his knuckles the way I did as a kid. Back then, his hands seemed so large and strong I figured they could protect me from everything that might try to
,' AVWdgd[AdkZ
harm or hurt me. "You're a good dad. A lot of people can't say that about their fathers. I'm glad I can."
I leave the kitchen and wander around the small living room, wondering about Gala, about this place, about Sadie. "Dad?"
He talks from his stool."Yup."
"Work with me for a second--where'd she go? Seriously."
"Back to Los Angeles."
Familiar sinking feelings tug at my arms. Did she pre judge me like those college essays? "Wasn't my allure strong enough?" I make a joke out of it, doing a grandiose model ing pose as though Gala might choose to cast me in some thing. Oh, yeah, her life.
Dad stands up and takes a set of keys from his pocket. "Here."
"What's this?" I reach for the keys and hold them, won dering if they'll unlock some treasure chest or if Dad's chang ing the locks on our house at Hadley for some reason.
"Gala is selling her house."
"I know. I was there, remember?" I flash to that monstros ity of a mansion, my brief stay, how empty the house was, how devoid of personality. The opposite of Mable's apart ment. Not that I should keep comparing Gala to Mable, but it's built into me."And Arabella's still there.With . . ."
,( :b^an;gVc`a^c
"Love.A couple of things before we talk the sun down."
"Okay."
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