This is absurd but very satisfying, and I giggle.
“Secondly,” she goes on, “if my daughter wanted to see or speak to you, she would have replied to your text. If she did not, we can both safely assume she doesn’t want anything to do with you. And after that stunt you pulled on Thanksgiving, I can understand why.”
“I did not ‘pull a stunt,’” he says, using exaggerated air quotes. “I addressed a simple business matter. But I admit it was poor timing, and I’m sorry she got her feelings hurt.”
“You’re sorry she ‘got her feelings hurt’?” my mom asks, returning his air quotes. “What a heartfelt apology. I’m sure she’ll be very touched.”
I don’t want to watch her strangle him, so I walk downstairs to put an end to this.
“Hi, Dad,” I say, taking my mother by the elbow and moving her out of striking distance. “What are you doing here?”
He reconfigures his face to something approximating the serious, self-important expression he wears signing books.
“Hello, Molly.” He gestures out at the lilies. “I brought you flowers, but your mother threw them in the driveway.”
“She has a severe lily allergy. You should know. You were married for twenty years.”
He ignores this and reaches into his breast pocket. “I also brought your Christmas present.”
He produces a check, folded in half.
I don’t take it. “No thanks. I have my lucrative Mack Fontaine kill fee, remember? Why are you here?”
He sighs in a long-suffering way. It’s like he’s imagining there’s an audience observing us who’s on his side, ready to sympathize with him for the hostile reactions he’s getting from these two women he was obviously justified in leaving.
“I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry you’re upset about the movie,” he says.
It is not my job to train him how to apologize without blaming the injured party for their feelings, so I just give him my best dead-eyed stare and say, “Do you really think this is about themovie?”
“It’s about you being a terrible father, Roger,” my mother says, shoving her head back into his eye-line.
“Mom,” I say, “why don’t you get back to hanging your tinsel and let me talk to Dad?”
“Fine. But don’t let him bring down your mood.”
That’s pretty close to impossible, given that my mood is about a one out of ten already.
“I love you, Molly,” my father says, in the stern tone of someone correcting a dog that won’t be trained. “And I know you are struggling in your career—”
“Oh my God—”
“But you can’t expect special treatment. How does that make me look, to keep you on out of nepotism when you weren’t cutting it? There are other ways I can help you. If you need money—” He holds out the check again.
“For fuck’s sake,” I explode. “You truly don’t get it, do you? I wasn’t excited about the movie because of themoney.I was excited because I thought it meant yourespectedme. That you were acknowledging my existence as more than someone you’re obligated to take out to lunch when you pass through LA.”
“That’s not fair,” he says. “I want to see you. You’re my daughter.”
“I’m your daughter on your terms when it suits you. Have been since I was thirteen.”
His distinguished crow’s-feet pinch together in agitation.
“Look, Molly,” he says. “I know you think I wasn’t there for you, but I did try to visit you when you’d let me. I paid for your schooling. I allowed you to stay in my ski house by yourself after graduation.”
My impulse is to slam the door in his face. But I think of Seth. Of how he forced me to articulate my feelings.
“Is this supposed to be your vindicating little speech before our tearful reconciliation?” I ask. “Because I think you’ll need to do some more soul-searching.”
He runs his hands through his iconically messy white hair, making it even more iconic.
