IVY - Part VIII

Green Light

This is the eighth chapter in my fiction novella IVY. You can read the previous chapter here.

I needed to visit my father.

With my tumultuous college path, I’d run out of savings to cover my next tuition. Still, hope wasn’t lost. My family, luckily, was rather well-off, my father owning a beach house he’d moved into after he and my mother had separated. Father had the means to pay for more schooling. I’d just have to suck it up and speak to him again.

This conversation was one to hold in person. He was still family, and I felt obliged to respect that, regardless of past tensions. It wasn’t about me anymore. Arthur needed a better role model.

I had grown up living as a permanent resident in the vacation town of Ocean City, New Jersey. Though Father had tried to teach me about the plight of those less fortunate, it only served to make me feel guilty.

He was a progressive trailblazer. His wealth, his marriage, had come from a stunt to boost the public image of his campaign for governor. Once the act landed him in office, he was one of the first figures to push for freedoms I was just young enough to never remember lacking. I may as well owe him my life.

I still didn’t know what he’d think of me after hearing I’d gone to seminary. And I still didn’t pick up protest signs enough to feel like I’d honored him properly. And he still didn’t get me.

I shielded myself in my Ivy League jacket, telling myself our meeting would be over quickly.

The beach house hadn’t changed since I left it. There was a fresh coat of spray paint splattering the fences, but that was typical for my father. The door was still chipped, the flagpole still dented from when I’d torn its contents down all those years ago. Now, I felt a pang of guilt seeing it left empty. He’d always loved that banner with my high school’s colors we used to hang…

I tapped my knuckles on the door, cautiously. He answered. Like usual, he had some new date over, but like usual he told the man to wait a moment while he spoke to his son. He invited me inside, but I lingered in the doorway.

I wasn’t the only one whose hair had turned gray since we last spoke… But aside from that, Father almost looked younger than me, his boardwalk hoodie still decorated with lively tourist trinkets.

I launched right into an apology, "Dad! I'm sorry. I shouldn't-"

He cut me off. "Water under the bridge, son. I don't care! You didn't get my letter?"

I had never read it. But with a dry shrug, I recited the obvious, “ ‘Seph, I wanted you to know I love you, and I will always support you, no matter who you are.’ "

"You didn’t finish…" he sighed. "Nevermind. Son. I'm the one who owes you an apology. You ran away, and I- Well, I’ve failed you. I’m sorry. I'm sorry for- Whatever it was- For everything!"

Much as I appreciated the kind gesture, I doubted Father knew what he was talking about. What had turned me away was Father demanding I express myself, so much so it felt as though he had wanted me to cry more often. My heart never longed for what he expected it to… I was an academic, but in me, he saw the scared, hiding young boy he used to be, and that was the man whom he was trying to tear out of his shell.

So I came out of it - in a nerve-tensing, awkwardly obligated, cry-fest I only performed as a rite of passage.

I tensed. "...You said you hated having a son who couldn't be himself.”

I loved my books the way he did boys. But he wouldn’t understand that. I’d come to accept that now, him too old and burdened, me too young and naive, the generational gap between us too vast to bridge.

"And I couldn’t see you for who you were! I know that now," He was crying. "Seph- Seph! I love you! I-I would've loved you even if you had stayed with the seminaries! Did… Were you feeling guilty because of what happened with your grandfather and me?! No, no, Seph! That's my problem!”

I never tried telling him what was wrong. Father wasn’t a bad man. If only I had stopped and listened to him, stopped and trusted…

I let him pull me into his arms, as he said, “I told you all of that, in my letter, that I'm sorry. I love you. And, I miss you!"

This was far from the first time I had been dragged into one of his hugs. His doting embrace was enough to choke me. And I’d sorely forgotten I should’ve used the restroom before this…

But it was the first time I returned it.

"So, Father," I said, after he released me, displaying my Ivy League jacket. "Do I have your blessing?"

"Are you happy, son?" he asked.

"Yes, very happy," I answered.

"Then that's all I need to hear."

***

A warm cup of tea was swiftly brewed for me by my father — I never liked coffee. I stood on the beachhouse balcony contemplating Arthur’s situation over a peppermint blend and a lakeside sunset.

A parent’s love. It was a vital need of a child. Things had not turned out well between me and my father, but, this was the fault of nothing other than our personality differences. I always had my mother to fall back on. Had she been more involved in my life, perhaps I would not have sunken so deeply.

A child could not be raised alone. If I wanted to ensure the best for my boy, I first needed to build him a stable home. I compiled a mental checklist of what I needed for my future son: A job, a house, and…

A marriage.

Marriage?

So, such was the plan.

Maybe it would be years before I saw Arthur again. Maybe it would change me in ways I couldn’t possibly prepare for. Certainly, I had no clue what I was doing.

But I would come back for him.

For now, though, there was one last thing I needed. I headed back inside the beachhouse, back through my childhood room. The shelves were still packed with jewelry-making kits, SAT prep books, and my old best friend’s basketball.

And lying right in the center of the floor was the item I was looking for. Silly me, I’d lost its case.

I strung my banjo over my shoulder, and headed out.