8 comments/ 7414 views/ 0 favorites No Slave To Destiny By: Litbridge I'm talking to myself again. So what? Who else would listen? God, it hurts. It hurts so bad. I knew it was coming. But there's no way I could have prepared for this. The pain's deep down inside my fucking chest. The feeling of emptiness is unreal. The loneliness. I'm gonna lose it. I just know I'm gonna lose my mind. They're going to put me away somewhere. A place where the world can forget about me. But I won't forget. I can't. Maybe I should just end it. It? Yes, it. End it all. It can't be that hard to do. It would be a relief. Forever. Why not? I can't face tomorrow. Heck, I can't even face today. Look at my hands. They're shaking. I'm tired. So very tired. I can't take this anymore and there's fuck all I can do about it. That's the worst part of it. I've always been able to do something about it when shit happened. All I know now is what hollowness feels like. A great big fucking void sucking everything out of me. That's all that's left. A lifeless, useless shell of a man. My thoughts are only for myself. It's a gray September day. I'm sitting on a park bench with weeping willows (what else) on either side and a small pond directly ahead surrounded by manicured lawns. The pond water is dark and still. No sunlight reflects on it. Nothing disturbs the surface. I'm tearing loaves of stale French bread into too-small pieces trying to make it last so I don't have to do anything else for a while. The Mallards gathered before me are eager for the feeding ritual to continue. I don't even notice their spirited antics as they jostle for the morsels I toss nonchalantly in their direction. There's no-one I know around. That suits me just fine. The last thing I want now is company. Even the presence of strangers is more than bothersome. I glance to either side with bowed head. I see pedestrians everywhere – children walking to school, housewives with strollers or puppies on leashes. Businesspeople hurry to their first appointments of the day. Each carries a sense of their own self-importance in conspicuous briefcases or laptops clasped tightly in clenched fists. Don't dare disturb me. I feel my utter despondency radiate out towards them, driving them away. Good. I don't want to see anybody smiling. I don't want to hear them laughing. Or even see them going about their daily routines. Because, whatever their personal difficulties, I envy them. Do you know how lucky you are, just to have normalcy in your lives? I'd give anything to have that again. But you can't help me. It's been three days, do you hear? Three days and two very long fucking nights since the funeral. And I haven't stopped crying. Yeah, I know. Who cares? Damn it, Peg, why did you have to leave? Why? I know, I know. It wasn't exactly your fault. You didn't plan it this way. But, still. Fuck it. I was supposed to go first. Remember, I told you I wanted to go first. I'm no good without you Peg. Sounds like a cliché. But it's true, especially after 36 years. More than three fucking decades. A damned lifetime. All we had, just disappeared in the blink of an eye. All those years spent building a life together. Caring. Hoping. Modest dreams. Shit. Turns out our efforts built nothing more a fucking house of cards. All gone. Replaced with nothingness. Maybe one day I'll again appreciate what we had. Right now, I just hurt so much. Sorry. That wasn't very fair. Some kinda man I turned out to be. Just a 58 year-old has-been without a future. Fuck, all married people lose a spouse. Eventually. Some sooner than others. Most everybody else seems to be able to cope. What's wrong with me? God but it hurts. I glance up at the sky. Huge, dark cumulus clouds block the sun and promise yet another day of relentless rain. The ducks don't mind at all but the threatening weather just adds to my despair. How fitting. Gun-metal gray day. Wish I had a gun. Well, fine then. Let it rain. Forever. I don't give a rat's ass. Something to wash away the tears so no-one will notice. But it won't take away the fucking cold. It's too damn fucking cold for September. Even the weather is against me. Thanks, God. That's really kind of you! Fuck it. At what stage of grief am I right now? What did I read about that once? Oh yeah, five stages... something about denial, then followed by anger. I guess I'm at anger. Mad at me. Mad at Peg. Mad at God. Especially mad at God. Why me? And where the hell are you now anyway God? The funeral kinda took care of denial. Not much choice in that one. Oh shit, next comes depression. I'm not going to make it. There's no way I can get past depression. Oh God, help me! That's right, bargain with God. Talk to God. Maybe then yours won't be the only voice in your head. Forget it. Fat chance God is talking to anyone. You're such a jerk Dave. Remember what you always told others about mourning? C'mon big hero. You remember. 'After a time, grieving becomes self-pity.' You aren't feeling sorry for the person who died. They no longer feel anything. 'You're feeling sorry for yourself, that's all.' Brave words, even if they are true. Well, almost all true. Memories of how much the person suffered. Memories not yet been buried. Regret for their lost years, for the life they might have had. Opportunities to love and be loved. There's reason enough to feel sorry for the one who has died. But mostly it's self-pity. Right? Right? Right. What I need is food. Can't live on coffee and whiskey. Did I say 'live'? Shit, Dave. Get a grip. Have another cigarette. Peg's only vice. She gave up dozens of times but kept coming back to it. Her dependence was more psychological than physical. Growing up we smoked because cigarettes were cheap and smoking was the socially acceptable thing to do. Even expected. A real ice-breaker when making or greeting friends. 'How are you Bob? I'd like you to meet Rachel. Like a cigarette? What you been up to? Have another cigarette. Don't mind if I do. Thanks.' I never could give up the weed either. Not permanently. Cancer? Yeah, well, bring it on. Got nothing to live for anyway. No great loss. Since when did a person dying ever mean anything in the greater scheme of things? Unless you were some big wig or something. And even then the world just keeps turning, spinning along on its merry way. Never mind the daily misery of millions and millions. Thanks again, God. Nice work. Oh God, help me. If you do I won't drink anymore. Peg? Can you hear me? Someone! What am I gonna do? It's early, but there's a bottle of Jack Daniels at home. Fuck it, that's one way to cure another hangover. I need to be home. With a bottle. As I stand up from the bench and prepare for the long walk back the rain begins to fall, gently at first and then, quickly, in flooding torrents as if the clouds are intent on crying harder than the grieving mortal beneath their smothering blanket of gloom. The ducks know the free meal is over. They make their way to the water's edge, at first in ones and twos, and then in random groups. I want to follow them. To just keep on walking into the murky depths. But there's a bottle waiting for me. I'd rather drink whiskey than pond water. For now, anyway. It won't help me to forget. Not completely. But at least I won't have to deal with today for a few more hours. Instead, I'll keep filling the glass and think morbid thoughts about my own misery and mortality. **** Peggy and I were high school sweethearts back in the 60's. We grew up in the era of flower power and free love, beliefs that would redefine how the world works. Or so we thought. "There's a whole generation, with a new explanation..." sang The Byrds. We were in love with being in love. And Peg was so easy to love. She was gorgeous. Vivacious and innocent with a passion for living life to the fullest. Tall, she carried herself with pride, a certain laissezfaire exhibiting her independence and self-confidence. She had long, brown shoulder-length hair, Azure blue 'deeper than the ocean' eyes, generous lips, a winning smile and an honest, unbridled laugh. Her slim waist perfectly complemented her overly-broad hips. Ordinary? Hardly. This girl was the complete package. As I got to know her better I discovered her physical attractiveness was exceeded only by the beauty of her inner self. Me? When dripping wet I weighed 135 pounds and wore a mullet that my kids, viewing our wedding photographs, would tease me about for years. Undershot jaw, immature beard, chewed fingernails, a problem wrist and bad ankles (the result of falling out of trees and off motorcycles in my spirited youth). Bespectacled, quiet and reserved. Peg's parents accepted me, which was kind of them. They had likely wished better for their daughter. I always wondered what Peg saw in me. Of her many suitors I was the one she chose, though she never did tell me why. We didn't completely buy into the hippie culture but we wore the clothes, spoke the language and danced to the music of the times, losing ourselves in the promise of the future. As with most of our experimental generation, we were determined to let our imaginations and the nurturing environment of our peer group help us bring change to the world order. Big drugs and big dreams, both of which died a natural death when we realized that the only way to really make a difference was to become part of the establishment. We were married in 1971 on a sunny July day. Peg was radiant in her homemade wedding gown. The bridesmaids, resplendent in red, carried bouquets of Flame Lily and White Orchids, Peg's favorite. My parents, who had not yet met the bride because of an extended overseas posting, were a surprise show at the wedding and fell in love with her immediately. There could not have been a more auspicious beginning to our married life. Post-secondary education complete and with degrees in hand, we boldly stepped out into the real world to begin our careers, Peg in marketing and me in the IT industry. We traveled extensively in those early years, both for pleasure and on business. Then, as throughout our married life, we were inseparable so that in time we learned to read each other's thoughts and predict one another's needs. We became a true family in 1982 with the arrival of Jennifer and, two years later, son Mark. Jenny was a surprise; Mark we really had to work for although I can't say either of us minded in the least. Life was so uncomplicated back then. All we focused on was being there for each other. Peg excelled at taking care of me and the children. She was truly special that way. As the years slipped by she became increasingly driven to do something with her life that would fulfill her natural maternal instincts. When the opportunity arose, she went back to school and ultimately traded selling consumer products for a career in mentoring the health and well-being of humankind's most precious of all resources – children. Our photo albums overflowed with her images, but not because she necessarily enjoyed being a model. She was simply everywhere the kids were. And, invariably, the camera caught her smiling or laughing. There are only so many Christmases and birthdays in a couple of short decades and while our family enjoyed celebrating these special occasions together, time dictated that eventually the spell would be broken. Children have a habit of growing up. Soon, all too soon, they were college graduates and had moved out on their own. Mark had an environmental engineering degree and joined a construction company in a neighboring state. Jen's qualifications were in Financial Planning. That left Peg and I working diligently towards our retirement. 'We had earned our stripes' and were entering our 'golden years'. **** "Hey, hon. Wazzup?" I remarked casually one fine day in late Spring. I kicked off my shoes and walked over to the kitchen table where she was sitting. Studying her more closely I thought she looked unusually tired. "Nothing," replied Peg in an off-handed manner. "You look exhausted," I observed as she sat holding her head in her hands. "We should order something in and get an early night." "It's nothing," she said again, getting up to begin dinner preparations. "Headache?" I inquired. "No. It's my back. There's a pain in my upper back," said Peg. "It's been there for weeks it seems. It won't go away. Just keeps getting worse. And I'm short of breath all the time." "Have you taken anything for it? The pain I mean." "No. Not yet." Peg had hurt herself as a competitive diver at school and occasionally needed to take a couple of aspirin to relieve chronic pain in her back. More frequently she availed herself of chiropractic services to 'get everything back in alignment.' "When's your next chiropractic appointment?" I asked. "If it's next Tuesday, maybe I should come with you. I think I need an adjustment too." "Actually, yeah. Next Tuesday. Maybe that will help. I haven't had anything pinching in that part of my back before," explained Peg. The visit to the chiropractor didn't help. We liked Peter well enough. He had done wonders for Peg over the years keeping her mobile and relatively pain free but this time his manipulations had no effect. As the pain worsened, I suggested she make an appointment with the family doctor. It was months later by the time she got around to making the initial appointment, followed by a series of tests. A curtain of early-morning snow on a mid-November morning obscured the roadway on the day we were scheduled to get the results. Plows were everywhere and driving was hazardous. Still, we were expected at the doctor's office at 8:30 and somehow we managed in the blizzard to find the entrance to the office suite where Dr. Norman Kazowski had his practice. "Do you want to go in together?" asked the receptionist. I looked at Peg but we already knew the answer. We waited only a few minutes before Dr. Kazowski came into the office holding two files, both pregnant with papers, well-organized with section tabs and bound with paperclips. "Morning," said Norman as he seated himself behind his desk. There was a moment of silence. "In my profession," he began then, "it's inevitable that sometimes we have to share bad news with our patients. I"m sorry, but this is one of those times. "Peg, you remember we took x-rays of your back? And nothing showed up, right? Then we did a CT scan. I've got the results here. I don't how to say this any way but straight out. It looks like cancer, I'm afraid. Lung cancer." He was silent, then, though his eyes remained fixed on Peg waiting for her reaction which, presumably, would tell him how to proceed. Peg and I were holding hands. I did not realize how vice-like my grip had become. On hearing Norman's words she sat still for a long moment, looking directly at him. Finally she said, simply, "Oh." Then she turned towards me. "Dave, your hand. You're hurting me." I relaxed my grip but not my gaze into her eyes, pleading for her to stay connected with me in this way. She was the first to look away. "What's the prognosis, Norm?" she asked. "We've known each other for a long time. I trust you'll honor our friendship and not sugar-coat your answer." "Well," replied Norman. "We have to run quite a few more tests before we can be certain, of course. I can't say too much now but it doesn't look very good. I'm sorry. The specialists believe the cancer is already pretty wide spread. The back pain you've been having means it's probably gone beyond the lung lining into your bones. A bone marrow biopsy and MRI will tell us more. If it has spread, that limits what we can do from a treatment standpoint," he continued. "I've been in touch with Oncology at the hospital. Surgery doesn't appear to be an option I'm afraid." "I see," said Peg quietly. "Then what's left?" "Chemotherapy is the standard," he replied. "Followed by a course of radiation. We can perhaps slow the cancer down somewhat, but that's likely all we can do. I wish you had come in to see me sooner Peggy." "Would it have made a difference?" I asked, having finally found my voice. "Seriously. Would it?" "Perhaps. It's hard to say. But the earlier we find the cancer the more options we have," explained Norman. "And the better the prognosis," added Peg. "Yes but to be honest, with lung cancer it's often pretty aggressive and in the end we're mostly just buying time," Norman responded. "Peg, I'm writing you a script for some more painkillers and I need for you to make an appointment with the clinic downstairs to have some further tests run. More blood work, the MRI, a bone-marrow biopsy and so on. Once we get those results in, we can discuss more definitively what course of action is best to take. The sooner we begin the better." While Peg did well on the painkillers over the next few weeks, she tired more easily than ever before. She lost her appetite and was sometimes unsteady on her feet. The cough she'd had for quite some time got progressively worse. Still, she found reasons to get out of the house as often as possible whenever she felt well enough. She especially enjoyed short trips to the corner store or going to the mall for an hour or two. Occasionally, on a warm evening, I would drive her to the park where we would sit on a bench by the pond and keep company with the ducks. But most days she was just as happy staying at home, curled up on the couch in the sun-room passing the afternoon quietly with a good book close at hand. The kids began visiting on weekends even though for Mark this meant a five-hour interstate drive. Jen had moved to an apartment across the city to be close to her work but was within a relatively easy commute on public transit. Family chatter was awkward at first. Mostly we limited our conversations to how the kids were doing at work or what movies they had seen. Yet as cautious as we were our discussions inevitably included some reference to the future. Whenever that happened we would sit in embarrassed silence, painfully aware of how our enthusiasm inevitably cut through Peg's heart like a knife. She never failed to put us at ease, however, with a smile and an encouraging word. Often she would ask questions so that we could continue our conversations. She was determined to help us get past the feelings of anguish or despair that invariably arose. "I'm really looking forward to next May," said Mark innocently. His company had planned a weekend trip to Rhode Island for a handful of their best performing employees and Mark eagerly anticipated the opportunity to spend some relaxation time with his colleagues and immediate supervisor. As he finished his statement, he looked directly at his mother and winced. "Sorry, Mom," he said. "Nothing to be sorry for, Mark. If I can, I'll come and caddy for you," teased Peg. "Who's all going?" "Well, my boss of course," explained Mark. "And four other junior engineers ... Jack, Paul, Sam and Sean. Sounds like a comedy team, doesn't it? Anyway, Sam was a real surprise choice. No one figured him for one of the top performers but he's really come along and seems to be enjoying the work now that he's had a year under his belt." "You should bring him with you one of these weekends," continued Peg. "You talk quite a lot about Sam. I'd like to meet him sometime." "Okay, that's a great idea," responded Mark. "If you and Dad don't mind. I know Sam's very partial to road trips." "But not next weekend," I interjected. "Mom's chemo starts on the Monday and I want her fully rested." "Sounds like a plan," said Mark. "In a couple of weekends, then." **** It was early morning shortly before Christmas when we arrived for Peg's first treatment at the chemo day-ward. As I took her arm to walk into the Oncology Center I was struck with how sparsely the foyer and reception area were appointed. No Slave To Destiny "Pretty clinical," I observed. "Here, take a seat and I'll check in at the desk." Peg was casually flipping through a news magazine when I returned. "The nurse said she would call us in about 15 minutes. We go through those doors to the right. Nervous?" I asked, trying to act casual. "A little," she smiled at me. "They were pretty good about telling us what to expect today. What I'm more nervous about is how I'll react to the drugs. I'm really not looking forward to adding nausea and hair loss to my pain and fatigue." "I know, hon." I tried to sound encouraging. "But some people do quite well with the chemo and don't have many side effects at all. Who knows, you may be one of the lucky ones." Peg nodded almost imperceptibly. "Sure," she said. "Why not?" We passed the next few minutes in idle chatter about unimportant things. The time passed slowly until at last a nurse came through the double doors and called out our names. We dutifully followed her into the large treatment room which was curved in a horseshoe layout. Beds and chairs were stationed at intervals on either side of the wide aisle. Some were already occupied, cancer patients hooked up to machines delivering their prescribed quotient of drugs. Several patients called out greetings as they welcomed us to the Center – "Good morning." "You new here?" "Don't worry, you'll get used to the routine after a while." "It's not so bad, actually. This is my fifth visit." And so on. They all seemed in remarkably good spirits. 'Now that's courage,' I thought to myself. "Take a seat here please. May I call you Peggy?" asked our nurse. "We'll get to know each other quite well over the next little while." "Yes, by all means," replied Peg. "And you are?" "Oh, I'm Ruth," she replied, pointing to the name tag pinned to her lapel. "I'll be setting you up for your treatment and monitoring everything. So if you'd please remove your jacket and sweater and just make yourself comfortable. I'll be with you in a few minutes." With that, Ruth spun smartly on her heel and walked across the aisle to busy herself with another patient. "How you feeling?" I asked Peg. "Stop asking me that Dave," she replied. "I'm fine. Really. See, there's another chair. Pull that over and sit beside me. I'm sure the nurses won't mind. Read a magazine or something. They said the treatment is going to take three hours or more so you might as well try and relax." That was so like Peg, trying to put me at ease when she herself must have been anxious about what was about to happen. I did as she suggested, marveling at how calm she was keeping. Ruth ignored me completely when she returned, focusing all her attention on Peg. She went about preparing the central and IV lines with practiced efficiency, plugging them into the main delivery port which Peg had had implanted into her chest the week before. All the while Ruth chatted about the three medication mixtures Peg was going to receive and in what order, how the saline flush between each infusion would be done, and what she might physically experience over the next few hours. As she prepared to turn on the med pump she got down on her haunches before Peg and said: "If you have questions, or need anything, don't hesitate to call me, okay? I'll be at the end of the corridor making some notes in your files. Remember, anything at all. Just shout. Or your husband can come and get me," said Ruth, looking at me for the first time. With that, she started up the machine, made some adjustments to the lines, smiled, offered Peg one final word of encouragement and left to take up her other tasks. We sat in silence, listening intently to the rhythmic tick, tick, tick of the machine as it dispensed its toxic concoction. There was no need for talk. Everything that needed to be said between us had already been covered. After several minutes Peg laid her head back and closed her eyes. I kept glancing at her over the magazine I held before me. I wasn't sure what to expect. Images of her suddenly crying out, vomiting or going into spasms raced unheralded and unwelcome through my mind. Seeing her instead reclined and at ease was strangely comforting. Feeling totally redundant to the entire proceedings I turned back to the magazine, flipping the pages and mindlessly taking in the contents without really comprehending what I was reading. Ruth came to Peg's side on several occasions to look over electronic charts and make notes in a file. Towards the end of the treatment Peg's oncologist came by to spend a few minutes with us. Handing me a stack of literature, he advised Peg to stay out of the sunlight as much as possible now that the chemo treatments had begun. "I'd suggest you wear sunglasses whenever you're outside," he advised. "And if you notice your gums bleeding when you brush your teeth, you can gargle with salt water to prevent infection. Other than that, I want you to check in with the office periodically between treatments to let us know how you're doing. Read the literature I've left with Dave. It's full of helpful tips on how to deal with any side-effects you might experience. There's also a helpful guide on what foods to eat and so on." With that he reached over, tapped Peg encouragingly on the arm and made to leave. "Can we go now?" I asked. "Shortly," replied the oncologist. The nurse has a few administrative things to do and then you can go home." "Thanks Doctor," I said. "Yes thanks," joined in Peg. "That wasn't as bad as I thought it might be." Smiling, he said "stay in touch", turned and walked over to the next bed. But Peg was not to be one of the 'lucky ones.' After the second treatment a few weeks later she experienced severe bouts of nausea and vomiting. By her fifth treatment her hair had begun to fall out in large chunks. She no longer had eyebrows. Her naturally robust complexion paled considerably to take on a chalky appearance. She could no longer tolerate bright lights so I removed several bulbs from their sockets in the house. Eventually, spending time in the sun-room was no longer an option for her and, for the most part, Peg sat instead in the dimly lit living room or stayed in bed until late afternoon. As her health deteriorated the news from Norman's office and the oncologist only got worse. In one conversation, four months into the treatments, Norman volunteered that radiation therapy after chemo was now very unlikely. "The specialists don't believe it will do any good," he explained. To Peg and I, the message was that the doctors were giving up. They felt they had done everything they could for her medically. Towards the end of her life Peg spent short spells in the hospital so her condition could be more closely monitored. Her time at home was both emotionally painful as well as spiritually uplifting for me and the kids as we supported each other unreservedly through our worst moments of anxiety and rampant fear of losing Peg. Eventually she was put on a self-administered morphine drip and one day, during one of his home visits, Norman called me into the kitchen. "You'll need to help her with the drip now," he said in a forthright manner. "I've shown you how to adjust the amount she's getting. You should feel perfectly okay about altering the flow needed to keep her comfortable. Do you understand what I mean?" "I....I think so," I replied softly. "No, I'm not sure you do," said Norm. "If she tells you to increase the dosage, do it. She will know how much she needs for the result she wants. And she will tell you when. Listen to her, okay? Be strong for her. You owe her that much." "Okay. Understood." My throat hurt from trying to control my emotions, to choke back the tears. Norman had always had a soft spot for Peg. It was now clear what his instructions to me meant. I only needed direction from Peg. Four days later, on a Monday evening in April, Peg made her wishes known. The house was quiet and I was seated at her bedside. We had not said anything to each other for over an hour. Reclined against a mountain of pillows, she turned her head towards me and whispered: "Darling, it's time to up my meds. I want to rest now, for a very long time. Please, will you do it? Please, for me. I know you know what I mean. Do this one last thing for me." It was from her that I found the courage to make the final adjustment to the drip. I got into bed beside her, cradled her head on my shoulder and she died in my arms peacefully about an hour later. I stayed with her for a long time after she had stopped breathing. Then, gently, I laid her back once more onto the pillows and walked over to the phone to make the calls I had always hoped would not become necessary. **** Mark accompanied me to the funeral home where Jen was already receiving condolences from the guests. As we pulled into the driveway it was immediately apparent that several hundred people would be attending the service. "A lot of people have come to pay their respects," I observed. "Nice to see," replied Mark. "When it comes my time, just put me in a hole somewhere," I continued. "I mean, I know people want to say goodbye and all that, but funerals ... I dunno, I just don't see the need, you know." "What else would you suggest?" asked Mark. "In other cultures, funerals are an occasion to celebrate the life of the departed, to get together and ... well ... celebrate everything that was good about the person while they lived. I'm not explaining it very well. Yes, we talk about their qualities and what they did, but it's mostly lip service. 'Cause on the flip side we're wringing our hands, crying, hugging too hard, looking for solace and consolation. It's really our own loss that we're so-called celebrating. It's an enigma, really. It's more like self-pity than anything else." I stopped to draw breath, then realized there was no more to add. Mark was silent as he pulled into a reserved parking spot. Then he turned to me and said: "We're here to honor Mom. Let the guests do the same. Let's not philosophize the whole event. Being here is tough enough as it is." He was right. This was not the time. Peg had chosen a solid poplar casket with a walnut finish and white satin interior. The Funeral Home Director and staff had taken care of every other detail from pre-planning the ceremony during Peg's illness to writing the obituary notice and preparing a graveside committal service They even provided a book of condolence, a memorial tribute in which family and guests recorded their thoughts in the form of a biography, poems, stories and photographs illustrating Peg's life. Jen met us at the door as we walked into the dimly lit interior. Dour, mournful classical music played lightly in the background, adding its somber beat resolutely to the morose ambiance. "I know Dad," said Jen. "The music's a bit much. But the flowers!" Many of the mourners had sent elegant bouquets and decorative wreathes as a mark of final respect and expressions of their personal condolences. In front of the closed coffin stood a huge casket spray of Flame Lilies and White Orchids. "Look at them!" exclaimed Jen as she moved her arm in a sweeping arc across the displays. "They're so beautiful." "Yes," I marveled, taking in the front of the room. "Kinda helps to lighten the atmosphere a bit. They add some grace and color to the occasion at least." With that Jen leaned into my embrace, sobbing gently. I held her close for a minute then pulled back, reached for my handkerchief and handed it to her. "Here, take this. I brought two." "Thanks," she said quietly. Then she turned to hug her brother. Together the three of us walked past rows of pews to the front of the hall and exchanged greetings with the Funeral Director. We took our places on the front row and the ceremony began with opening remarks by the Director, expressing his condolences to those gathered and, congruent to the occasion in a strange sort of way, explained the building's emergency regulations and exit locations in the event of a fire. He followed up his introductory remarks with a review of the proceedings and then gave the podium up to our parish priest. Father Donahue said all the right things and somehow managed to convey to the assembled crowd that Peg and her family were a valued part of the Christian family, which was very kind of him given that we rarely attended Sunday services. Both Peg and I were agnostic. Oh, we prayed alright. Especially when trouble came visiting. Somehow we always came through okay so why jinx the habit? But that there was a supreme being looking out for our interests, well, that was more than we could countenance. We weren't important enough to warrant individual attention, we rationalized. At this moment, I believed in God about as much as I believed in total and lasting world peace. "And so," he concluded, "it's into God's care that we deliver our beloved Peggy and pray for His forgiveness and His loving support in our hour of greatest need. God be with you all." I leaned over to Mark. "Sounds like he's sending us off to do battle. He's read too much Churchill." It was my turn to say a few words to a roomful of people, most of whom I only knew in passing. I had no idea what I was going to say. I walked to the podium enveloped in the hushed silence of the hall. I desperately tried to collect my thoughts for the umpteenth time since Peg had died. Nothing formed. I was simply thankful that neither her parents nor mine had lived long enough to witness this day. And, so, that's how I began. "It's so very hard to know where the blessings are to be found on occasions like these. Peg was such a special person, as you all know, and I'm only grateful that neither of her parents are alive today to share in this saddest of experiences." I wanted to tell those present what a wonderful human being Peg had been, how much she gave of herself to others, and how important it was to her that she somehow enrich the lives of all those with whom she came into contact. I wanted to laud her skills as a parent, wife and friend. I wanted to remind them that Peg had shown as much courage in facing her death as she had exhibited in living her life – with zest, energy, imagination and always with compassion and understanding. I wanted them to know her as I knew her. Instead I stumbled through rambling thoughts about events and memories that had made our's an exceptional and enviable marriage. "But," I concluded, "I am most grateful to Peg for giving me our daughter and son. In them, she remains with us. Through them we can continue to celebrate her life. Thank you all for being here today. Your presence is a fine tribute to a truly wonderful person whose loss we experience much too soon and feel so completely." Jen leaped to her feet, no longer mindful of protocol, and hurried towards the podium to meet me with a rush of tears, arms around my neck. "Thank you, Dad. That was wonderful. So moving." We returned to our seats and Mark reached for my hand. "Well done, Dad. You never were very good at public speaking but this time you excelled. Mom would be proud." The rest of the ceremony and the reception afterward went by in a blur. So many words shared between handshakes, tears and heartfelt embraces. As the last of the guests began to leave, I found I was emotionally drained. I could give nothing more. My only wish was to leave the Funeral Home and put the day's events behind us, if not erase them from our memories altogether. "Jen, Mark. You're coming home, right? At least for a couple of days?" I asked, more as a reminder to myself that I was looking forward to their company, not wishing to be alone just yet. "Yeah," replied Mark. "Remember, we talked about that. I can stay until tomorrow morning. Then I have to get back. But I can come home again next weekend to spend some time with you." "And I'll be around for a while anyway," continued Jen. "I promised my boss I'd be back at work by Wednesday. We'll just take it easy for a couple of days. If you want I can help you finish up some of the paperwork and go with you to the cemetery before I leave. I never did say goodbye to Mom properly." "Sounds good to me. Thanks you two," I said, relieved by their responses. Just how much I would need their company came as a rush of reality as soon as I opened the front door of the house. The physical absence of Peg's presence was almost palpable. My grief hit me like a sledge hammer to the chest, leaving me breathless. The children followed me into the living room. I was oblivious to the fact that they, too, would be suffering, overcome with sorrow. "I'm going to fix a drink. Anyone join me?" "I'll take a small one," said Mark, coming to stand at my side as I poured a generous shot of Jack Daniels into a tumbler and then poured a second for him. He placed his hand on my shoulder and we looked at each other for a moment before we simultaneously lifted and drained our glasses. Jen had gone into the kitchen to make herself some herbal tea. As I swallowed the liquid amber, I couldn't help but feel that I would have to rely on the whiskey a great deal to make it through this night with my sanity still somewhat intact. I had hardly slept and eaten in days and the alcohol rushed straight to my head. After a couple of hours of refills it was all I could do to stand up. I do not recall what we talked about or how the evening ended. I awoke late the next morning to find myself fully dressed, lying on the master bed, with a hangover you wouldn't wish on your worst enemy. The inside of my mouth felt like the bottom of a bird-cage from all the cigarettes I had smoked the night before. Jen was up before everyone, keeping herself busy in the kitchen. She came through and tapped lightly on the bedroom door. "Dad, you awake?" "Barely," I responded. "Breakfast is ready." "Ahhh... thanks. But no thanks. I'm not hungry." "I think you should eat something. Mark is already tucking into the omelet I made. C'mon. Join us. If you don't want eggs I'll make you some toast. And you'll need lots of coffee." I wanted to hurry through a shower and change of clothes, but moving was painful and I struggled to cope with the simple routine as though I was rowing in molasses. The advantage was that by the time I joined the kids I was feeling marginally more human again. "'Bout time you showed up," quipped Mark, as he ran a critical eye over my still somewhat disheveled appearance. "How you feeling?" "Don't ask," was my short reply. "Are you going to be okay, Dad?" he asked guardedly. "Physically? Yeah, I'll be fine." Mark stood up from the table to bring his plate to the sink. As he began rinsing, he said over his shoulder: "It's Ten O'clock. I have to get going. It's a long drive. By the way, Dad, what's happening with your job?" "I called my boss the day before your mother died," I explained. "I can't say they're happy about it but the company will give me an extended leave of absence on compassionate grounds. And so they should, considering everything I've done for them over the past 20 years. Arthur is a pretty reasonable guy. I don't know how long I'll take off. Even if it's a week or two, he'll be okay with that as long as I keep in touch." "I just want to be sure you're gonna be okay, especially once Jen leaves," said Mark. "It would be good if you got back to work as soon as you can. You'll need something to occupy your mind. You can't just sit around the house moping and feeling bad about Mom." "Don't worry," interjected Jen, picking up on the sensitivity of Mark counseling me on how to handle my grief. "I'll take good care of Dad until mid-week and then it's only two or three more days and we'll be back. Right? So that's something to look forward to, the three of us together for the weekend." 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." No Slave To Destiny "Oh, Dad. Sorry. I can't. I have a meeting at 1.30 and I just have to be there. You know how it is. Let's make it another time. But I can spend a few minutes with you now. Let's go to my office," she offered. I followed her up the short flight of stairs to a cozy window office with nondescript furniture. "Well, this is nice," I observed. "I can't believe I've never been here before." Jen shrugged. "Time flies. So, what's up Dad? Nice to see you up and about. Must be important." "Jen, I couldn't wait any longer. I've been doing a lot of thinking over the past week and I plain ran out of patience, to be honest. I was hoping you had made a decision about the baby that you could share with me." "Actually, yes, Dad. Last night in fact," she replied. "And?" "And ... I've decided..." Jen hesitated a moment longer, looking intently at me so she would be better able to judge my reaction. "... I've decided to keep the baby." "Yes!" I exclaimed. "Oh my goodness, yes. Thank God." "I gather you're happy? That's what you wanted to hear?" "Good Lord, yes. That's exactly what I was hoping. This is a very special day for you. And for me." "How so?" she asked. "We're growing our family again, that's how so. After months of heartache over the loss of your mother, we finally have something to celebrate." And suddenly, at that very moment, I felt Peg's absence more acutely than ever. Subdued now by the flood of conflicting emotions I was experiencing, I could only utter: "If I had one wish it would be that she was here with us right now." "I know Dad. I miss her terribly too," said Jen. "She would have been pleased with my decision wouldn't she." Jen offered this as a statement, rather than a question. She came around her desk, hugged me and ruffled the hair on my balding pate playfully. "Thanks Dad. Thanks for being you." That's when providence walked into the room. "Jen, I need for you..... Oh, hi" said the newcomer, looking at me. "Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt." Jen made the introductions. "Susan, this my Dad. Dad, this is Susan Biddulph, our COO and also my direct boss now. Since my recent little promotion, anyway." "Hello," I said with some formality as I stood up to take her hand, not failing to give her my broadest smile. "My name's Dave. Jen has talked about you. All good, I promise." "That's nice to hear," said Susan switching her gaze back to Jen. "You haven't forgotten about the 1:30 meeting right? Just wanted to ask you to bring along the file we were working on." Then turning to look at me once more she continued: "Jen is one of our star employees and an invaluable help to me. I'd be lost without her to be honest." Susan was probably in her early fifties and one of the most attractive women I had ever seen. She was slightly taller than average and carried herself with poise and grace, all the markings of a self-made successful career woman. She wore a fawn-colored crushed suede pant suite. Her unbuttoned leather jacket revealed a long-sleeved light beige sweater with a gable stitch pattern. Underneath she wore a black silk blouse buttoned at the neck. Stud pearl earrings matched an unpretentious pearl necklace on a delicate gold chain about her neck, complementing a white-gold watch and strap that she wore on her left wrist. With these exceptions, she wore no other jewelery. I did not notice a wedding ring. What truly held my attention was her gray-green eyes offset by a bronzed complexion and full head of mink-blond hair that she wore swept back from her forehead, tumbling loosely about her temples. A la Marilyn Monroe style, I thought. And not much make-up. This was one very confident lady. I had held my gaze too long and risked embarrassing both Susan and Jen. "Ahm... sorry. Yes. Well, I'm very glad" I stammered. "That Jen is such a help. And ... and to meet you." There was a moment of awkward silence. I was feeling pretty silly and looked for a way out of the moment. "I guess I'll get going so you two can finish getting ready for your meeting." "Dave, I believe Jen told me once that you work for an IT company?" asked Susan before I could reach the doorway. "Um, yes." Another awkward moment. "Well, actually, I'm....." "That's right," interrupted Jen. "Dad is with a company called Gavel Technologies. They've been around for years and years. Isn't that right, Dad?" "Exactly, Jen. As a leading consulting firm we offer complete hardware and software solutions. We particularly take pride in our after-market service reputation," I added. Susan studied me for a moment, smiled and looked as though she was about to leave when a thought must have crossed her mind. "Interesting. You know, and this is on the hush-hush for now -- you too Jen --" she said glancing across the room at my daughter, "but our company is going to need a complete IT overhaul shortly. I have a Request for Proposal out and some bids in response to the RFP. But it's not too late if Gavel would like to compete." It was a moment for truth. Jen's interjection was welcome but I needed to put all my cards on the table if this invitation was going to be taken further. "Susan, I have to be honest." Out of the corner of my eye I saw Jen flop down in her seat. "Gavel Technologies is a wonderful company and I'm pretty sure we can meet any and all of your requirements. But, you see, I am not currently employed by them. Or anyone else, for that matter. I'm kinda between jobs." Please don't probe, Susan, I thought. Please. "Oh I see," she said. Then added as an afterthought: "But you know the Principals, right?" "Heavens yes," I replied quickly. "I've been with.... I was with... Gavel for over 20 years and am... was... Sales and Marketing Director." "Then I don't see why the company would not qualify to compete. Why not explore it with them and let me know?" offered Susan, handing me her business card. This time she did make her way to the door to leave. "Yeah, sure. Thanks Susan!" I replied. "No problem. Nice meeting you. And see you in a few, Jen." With that Susan left the room. "Wow" Jen and I said almost simultaneously. "That's a nice break," she said from her chair. "What do you think?" "We haven't got the project yet," I replied. "But, yeah, what an opportunity." "When are you going to contact Arthur? I would think a response from Gavel should be expeditious. There's always so much work involved in responding to an RFP and they won't keep the file open forever you know," warned Jen. "Susan sounded like this was something they wanted to move on quickly." "Not sure how I'm going to approach this," I volunteered. "It's a bit problematic. Might seem like I'm trying to buy my way back into the company. I dunno. Could be pretty uncomfortable to begin with but I'll think of something and get cracking on it." I said goodbye to Jen, reminded her of her promised upcoming weekend visit, and promptly left the office for the commute home. I had a great deal to think about and a glass or two of scotch would help to settle the nerves and bring focus to the day's events. Jen called the next evening to say she had been to the hospital that morning and had just been released. She lost the baby. A miscarriage. It happens. "I'm sorry," she said. "Forgive me Dad." Those words choked me up. Forgive her? For what? "Can I come home?" she asked. She was naturally distraught and wanted to be with me for a few days to 'get her head straight.' "Yes. Come home." Where else? Despite my best intentions, alcohol once more dictated my options and responses. By the time Jen arrived I was in no state to support anyone. She needed me to help her make sense of what had happened. I needed Peg more than ever to make sense of my unraveled life. As I feared, the lifeline thrown to me just a few days before had now been taken away. I was over the edge, in free-fall. Pathetic, but there it was. I had failed my daughter. I was unable to help her at a time when she needed my support the most. Instead, it was Jen who again had to come to my rescue. She did her best to hide the bottles, to slow my access. She tried to talk to me about what was happening but through the fog I didn't understand a word she said. Not really. She called Mark and he made the interstate trip a day earlier than planned, arriving early Friday afternoon. Unlike Jen who exhibited unqualified empathy and compassion in trying to reach me, my son was full of recrimination as he expressed his anger and disappointment in me. The siblings argued vehemently over this in a way I had never heard them quarrel before. Of course I knew it hurt Mark to see me in this condition, just like it did Jen Even so I did not expect what happened next. He left before the weekend was out. "I'll be there to help you, Dad. But only when you're ready to help yourself," were his parting words. As I watched him drive away, all I could think about was getting the driveway paved, like I always promised Peg I would. **** It was after 6:00 in the evening and most of the staff at Wadkins, Walden had already left for home. As Susan stood at the elevator doors she noticed Jen's lights were still on. "Jen? You're working late again," she said as she stepped into the office. "Just tidying a few things. I'm almost done," explained Jen. "While we're alone," continued Susan, "there's a couple of things I've been meaning to ask you." "Yes?" offered Jen, looking up from the pile of papers on her desk. "This is kind of awkward and you don't have to answer the question, Jen, but how are your doing? I was very sorry to hear about the baby." "Yeah, well. Thanks for asking Susan. I'll get over it. You know how it is," replied Jen. "No, I don't actually. I never married. I don't have children," explained Susan. "Um...yeah. Sorry. I'd forgotten. Sorry." "Well?" "I'm fine, really. I'm still feeling a little sad of course. Losing the baby came as such a shock. But I guess everything happens for a reason, right? So I've kinda accepted that and I'm doing okay now." "Good. Glad to hear it. One other thing. It's only been a few days but I was wondering... I haven't heard from your father yet. No pressure or anything, but the Assets Acquisition Committee meets Thursday next week and I'd at least like to be able to tell them which companies are interested in working with us." "I understand Susan. I'll check with him. Maybe give him a call this evening and find out where's he's at and let you know tomorrow. Is that okay?" "That'll be fine, Jen. Just let him know that if Gavel wants into the competition, I'll have to meet with him and the Principals and give them the low-down and the RFP outline so they can get working on it." As she turned to leave, Jen impulsively called out to her boss. Then, just as quickly, regretted it. Committed now, she struggled to find the words she needed. "Susan. I ... I ..." "What is it Jen? Something wrong?" "No. Yes." "Which is it?" asked Susan with an encouraging smile. "Yes. At least I think so. I'm worried about my Dad." Susan walked towards Jen's desk, put her briefcase down and took a seat. "Tell me. Maybe there's something I can do to help." "Thank you," replied Jen gratefully, mindful of the fact that her boss was intent on taking whatever time was necessary to listen to her. 'Pretty special' thought Jen to herself, now feeling a little more reassured. "Well. To be honest, I don't think he ever got over my Mom's death. In fact, I know he hasn't. The truth is – and this is very hard for me to say – he's drinking. An awful lot. All the time. I think he's depressed. He doesn't seem to be able to get on with his life. I'm sorry. I shouldn't be bothering you with this. But my brother Mark and I are at our wits end. We just don't know what to do anymore." "Have you suggested counseling?" "Yes. So apparently did Dad's boss – I should say his ex-boss. But so far he hasn't admitted to himself that he needs the help. I can't force him to pick up the phone, can I?" "No, you can't. But you could try to facilitate things a bit. Jen, you may not know this but I lost my younger sister to a drunk driving accident almost three years ago. The guy was three times over the limit when he jumped a red light and broadsided her car. He was fine but she died in hospital from her injuries two days later. "She and I were very close and I couldn't get over what happened to her. I kept playing over and over in my mind how violently and needlessly she had died. I felt so guilty, as though being the older one I should have been able to prevent it somehow. Eventually I went to a psychologist and while it took some time, I found that with his help I could keep going. I could focus on my work again and the positive things in my life. After a few months I was over the worst of it. "I still carry the pain, of course. You're never completely without pain after losing someone you love. But you do learn to cope with the loss. At least most people do. Just as you have with your Mom and now the baby." "I'm sorry about your sister, Susan," said Jen. "I hadn't heard." "Thanks. Anyway, my point is everyone handles crises differently. Psychologists know that and can develop a program that will help each patient in a unique way to deal with loss or life's other disappointments. "Here, pass me a pen and piece of paper and I'll give you the name and number of the doctor I went to. He's very good. When the time is right, pass the information on to your father. That way he'll have it if and when he decides to get help. Only don't leave it too long. And then try to encourage him to make the call. Okay? You can tell him I suggested it, provided you don't think he'd find that too presumptuous of me." Jen decided the time was 'right' as soon as she got home. "Hi Dad. I was working late and just got in. How are you doing?" "Fine. Okay, I guess. How are you?" "I'm good. Have you eaten?" "No, not yet." "Why not put something in the microwave? You know, the one of the meals I left for you in the freezer some time back? It wouldn't take long," said Jen. "Yeah. Guess I'll do that." "Listen, Dad. Hmmm... I was talking to Susan after work and she said she hasn't heard from you yet about the proposal. I told her I'd call to see what's going on. Did you call Arthur?" "No." "Why on earth not? I thought you were going to get right on it." "I will. I will. I Just have to figure out how, is all." "How? Dad, all you have to do is pick up the god-damned phone. Geez, what's so hard about that?" Jen was getting angry and she had every right to be. After all when Susan extended the invitation, it wasn't only my reputation that was put on the line. My behavior was reflecting badly on Jen, rightly or wrongly. And Susan was also on the spot. She had made a judgment call about me and I wasn't being very respectful by failing to come through for her. "'Kay. Leave it with me. I'll call Arthur tomorrow morning and then call Susan, one way or the other. I just hope he's not out of the office, traveling somewhere." I was slurring my words and Jen must have known a bottle stood on the table beside me. "Just make sure you're sober when you do," she admonished. "Dad, another thing. Might as well bring it up now since I'm on a roll." "Yeah. Wazzup?" "Dad, have you given any more thought to grief counseling?" "Yeah. And I still prefer the IT profession." I was trying to be humorous and evasive. "You know what I mean, Dad. I mean have you thought about going to a counselor." "No, not really. I'm going to be fine. Just need a bit more time." "Won't you consider it? Do it for me and Mark," she pleaded. "I'll think on it," I responded, hoping my curt answer would bring an end to conversation. It didn't. "Thanks," she said, "but I want to hear more than that. Dad, Susan lost a sister to a car accident some years back and had a really bad time of it too. She went to counseling and she said it really helped her. She gave me some information for the doctor she went to and said I could pass it along. Do you have something to write on?" There was no point arguing with her. No good reason not to take down the contact. So I did. "I'll give you a call again later tomorrow," she said. "When I do, I want to hear that you've called Arthur and Susan, and the doctor. That's three calls. That's all I need from you. Will you promise to do that?" "Three calls. Right. Tomorrow. I promise." "Good," she replied. "I love you Dad. Talk again tomorrow, okay?" As soon as Jen hung up I refilled my tumbler and turned off the lights in the living room. Staring into the dark, I sipped on the whiskey and reflected once more on what my life had become. It was around 3:30 in the morning when I awoke from a nightmare, sweating profusely. Try as I may, I couldn't remember the details of the dream. My only recollection was that some monstrous, deformed entity was terrorizing Jen and Mark inside a concrete bunker as I stood by, powerless to help. In that pre-dawn calm, enveloped in silent darkness except for the sound of my own labored breathing, I felt the heavy malaise of foreboding. Nausea gripped the pit of my stomach and my pulse was racing. Suddenly I realized I was very, very afraid ... afraid of living, yes, but much more terrified of being the agent of my own death if I did not soon take control of my destiny. And, if I failed in this, what good would I be to my kids? Neither needed a parent, certainly. But I was all the immediate family they had left. I headed upstairs for a long shower and a couple more hours of sleep. I would need a bit more rest if I was to keep my promise and make some important phone calls. Later that morning, as I lifted the receiver to dial Arthur's number, I took one more long sip from my drink. Not completely sober, I felt moderately coherent and clear-headed. Arthur was in his office. "Hey. How are you?" I asked. "Dave!" he almost yelled my name with enthusiasm. "Yeah, it's me." "How are you?" asked Arthur. "You're not going to believe this but I had you on my agenda to call today. Been wondering how you're making out." "Not too good, I'm afraid." I thought it best to be honest. After all, what I had to say wasn't all bad news. "I see," responded Arthur, now more subdued. He paused, anticipating I would carry the conversation forward. After all, I had placed the call. "There's something I wanted to let you know. And something I want to discuss with you," I continued. "I felt you should know that I will be contacting a grief counselor today ... to begin my rehabilitation." There, I had said it. The first step to recovery was to admit you had a problem. Arthur's voice betrayed his usually stoic demeanor. "That's music to my ears, Dave. Truly. I hope you'll let me know how you're progressing. I'd like to have you back in the shop sooner rather than later." "I hear you," I replied, grateful in the knowledge that he hadn't completely written off our relationship since that fateful day during Hayworth's meeting. "What is it you wanted to discuss, Dave?" "Well, Arthur, I'm not sure how to say this without sounding Machiavellian," I began. "But as you know Jen works for a pretty large Financial Consulting group on the other side of town. I was visiting with her last week and her boss mentioned that they are in the market for some IT work. A lot of IT work, as it happens. I said I'd raise it with you. See if Gavel is interested in competing. Whatever you decide, with or without me, that's fine. I understand, honest. I told them I'm not with you....currently. I just thought it was an opportunity you'd like to explore further." "What's the deal Dave?" asked Arthur. No Slave To Destiny "Not much of an idea at this point. Susan is the COO of Wadkins, Walden & Associates. She made it sound like this is pretty big. They have an RFP out and some bids on file. If we're... if you're ... interested, you'll have to move quickly." "When can you set up an introductory meeting ... for us?" I hesitated for only a moment. "Immediately. No sarcasm intended, Arthur, but I'm open. How's your day tomorrow?" "See what you can do," he replied. "I'll make the time. And Dave? Thanks." "You're welcome. Let's hope it works out." There wasn't anything more to say and I hung up the receiver. One down, two calls to go. I drained the tumbler, found Susan's business card and dialed the number. Julie answered at reception. "Hi Julie. It's Dave. You remember, Jen's Dad?" "Yes of course, how are you?" "Fine. Listen, is Mrs. Biddulph in?" "Ms." replied Julie. "It's Ms. Biddulph. And, no, unfortunately Susan's out until this afternoon. Can I help?" "Maybe. Who do I speak with to set up an appointment? I was hoping for something tomorrow." "Let's see. Tomorrow afternoon, late, looks doable. She's booked solid until, say, 4 p.m. Will that work?" asked Julie. "Perfect. I'll have another party with me. Fella by the name of Arthur Hewitt, Vice-President of TS&D with Gavel Technologies." "Okay, we'll see you at 4:00 tomorrow then," said Julie. "I'll let Susan know." "Great. And could you also mention it to Jen if you see her? I'd call her myself but I don't want to interrupt unnecessarily. Thanks Julie." I called Arthur back to confirm the appointment, then refilled my tumbler. This next call would be the hardest to make, but also the most necessary. I knew that now. Dr. Armstrong answered his own phone, which I liked. I introduced myself as a referral from Susan Biddulph and made an initial appointment for the morning after the Wadkins, Walden meeting. An afternoon introduction had been an option but I didn't trust myself to get that far into the day and still arrive sober at the doctor's office. The exploratory business meeting I felt certain I could handle. I was much less sure about the emotional probing with Dr. Armstrong. Perhaps 'inquisition' was a more accurate description of my expectations. **** "Good afternoon, Susan" I said as she walked into the boardroom and I rose to shake her hand. Her grip was firm and cordial. Did she hold my grasp for just a moment too long? Her broad, open smile conveyed an honest and warm welcome. "So nice of you to make time to meet with us this late in the day." "Hello Dave. Nice to see you again," Susan replied. "And this must be Arthur Hewitt," she said as she turned to take his hand. "Welcome to Wadkins, Walden." "Thanks Mrs. Biddulph," said Arthur as he resumed his seat. "It's Ms. actually," Susan corrected. "And, please, call me Susan. Shall we begin gentlemen?" In the car ride to keep our appointment Arthur had encouraged me to take the lead during the meeting. "It's your prospect, Dave. Call on me when you need to but I'll expect you to focus on getting the information necessary to complete the RFP." Now that we were in the boardroom, I felt the weight of responsibility squarely on my shoulders. "Gavel offers a complete range of disciplines and competencies," I began. "Yes," replied Susan. "I've done quite a bit of research on Gavel in preparation for our meeting today and must say I'm impressed with the data management, networking and hardware engineering systems you offer. "I should preface our discussion by saying, confidentially you understand, that Wadkins, Walden is about to undertake an acquisition merger with a major competitor. There will be an announcement in the business press early next week," explained Susan. "This merger will radically change our organizational structure and our market share, nationally and globally. Obviously a huge investment will be required in new Information Technologies to facilitate this merger and to position us for rapid growth afterward. "We have a satellite office just outside of Turin, Italy which we established last year to tentatively explore the European market," explained Susan, "but essentially 85% of our customer base is here in America along with two offices in Canada, one in Toronto and the other in Calgary. "Once the acquisition goes through we expect to expand our activities in Italy and will also have satellite operations we'll be responsible for in The Netherlands, Spain and Asia, specifically Hangzhou, Hong Kong. That's the biggest challenge as we see it. Implementing compatible and fully integrated IT systems in several international locations without compromising the secure transmission of financial data through our global enterprise network. It goes without saying that data security is our first and highest priority." I looked at Arthur, inviting him to participate at any time. "What I envision would be a three server set-up. One main server based here to control internal operations at Wadkins, Walden. A second remote server dedicated to public files ... your private investor and public company account internet access server, if you will ... and a third server, the engine of the entire system managed by yourselves and Gavel for troubleshooting and maintenance purposes." At this point, Arthur steered the conversation more directly towards global network connectivity issues including the need to establish foreign IT sub-contractors for networking and programing outside of North America, setting up new protocols for Administrators and file access capabilities, and insuring compatible hardware and software applications. It was well past 6:30 by the time our discussions had covered all the main points we needed to establish clarity around the full scope of the opportunity. "Gentlemen, I think that about does it," concluded Susan. "We've covered a lot of ground in a few short hours. If you have any further questions over the next few days, just give me a call." "When do you need our proposal, Susan?" I asked as we prepared to leave. "I know you're pressed for time on this." "If you could let me have at least a preliminary draft by mid-week, I will include it in my presentation to our Assets Acquisition Committee on Thursday. Can you get it done by then?" Arthur glanced in my direction and was about to respond, fearing another Hayworth fiasco, but held back as he saw me smile. "I will deliver something to your desk by no later than close on Tuesday," I offered. "What's the target date for implementation?" "Three months for the U.S. operations and Canada. Then we focus on the satellites." "Twelve weeks!" cried Arthur. "Thirteen," I corrected, "if it's a calendar quarter. I know it's a push but, frankly, we've done it before," I continued, echoing Arthur's words from the Hayworth meeting. Arthur's relief was plainly visible in his body language as he walked towards her with a discernible jig in his step. "It's been a pleasure, Susan," he said extending his hand. "We'll be in touch." "I look forward to seeing what you two come up with," replied Susan. She turned to me. "Dave, I particularly appreciate your initiative on this. I know this is a very difficult time for you personally." "We're very excited about the opportunity and grateful for this chance to compete. Thank you Susan," I replied. Our eyes locked for an instant and I thought I read in hers a knowing smile, compassion and in a strange way, hope. Certain I had not misread these signals I was equally sure I had no earthly idea why Susan and I had established this unspoken connection. Out in the parking lot, the city's night lights had come alive. "Dave, I particularly appreciate your initiative on this," mimicked Arthur, smiling broadly. "Is there something going on here I should know about?" he asked lightly. "Ah, now, c'mon Arthur," I responded. "Let's not get carried away here. It's purely professional I can assure you." "Whatever you say, Dave. But I'm thinking we may have an inside track on this one." "Wishful thinking," I said. "What, yours or mine?" Arthur joked. "Anyway, we land this baby and you'll be seeing a lot more of Susan. Man, this project has got to be worth a couple of mill, wouldn't you say?" "Yeah, something like that I would think. I'll need to crunch the numbers but your guesstimate is not far off. And then there's all the after-market contract work we get. This would really take Gavel Technologies to the next level." Arthur dropped me off at home and drove away aggressively, kicking up a dust storm as he went. A not so gentle reminder that the driveway still needed paving. I unlocked the front door, dropped my coat and briefcase in the hallway, walked into the living room and went straight to the bar. This would be a celebratory drink, nothing more I assured myself. I had a lot of work ahead of me over the next few days and would need a clear head. Several drinks later I thought to give Jen a call at home to bring her up to speed about the outcome of the meeting. She was pleased but concluded our brief discussion by telling me to put the bottle away and start working on the proposal first thing in the morning. "I can't Jen. Not in the morning. I'll start tomorrow afternoon." "Why?" she asked, her frustration evident. "I have an appointment. With Dr. Armstrong." Jen's squeal of delight through the receiver hurt my ear. "I love you Daddy," she said as she hung up. If I'd stopped to think about it, I'd have known her next call would be to Mark. **** "Dave, I'm a behavioral psychologist," explained Dr. Armstrong. "I offer my clients strategies for dealing with loss. That's my specialty ... cognitive behavioral therapy for those who are grieving. From the little you've told me so far, I don't believe you're an alcoholic. Or that you're depressed. "Your dependence on alcohol grew as a direct response to pain, emotional and spiritual pain. If I felt yours was a physical dependence there are other resources that could help and I'd be happy to refer you. But as I said I think your symptoms of fatigue, anxiety, inability to concentrate and your sense of hopelessness come from emotions deep within you. "It's a very personal yet normal response to a traumatic event that has changed your life unexpectedly, completely and permanently. It's a change that you haven't yet fully internalized and accepted. When faced with these kinds of life-altering tragedies, people respond in all sorts of ways. One might become a shopaholic, for lack of a better term. Another becomes totally reclusive and unreachable. I've had clients who became very religious. Others turned to gambling as a distraction. Many, like you, seek refuge in alcohol or even hard drugs. "So you see, what you're experiencing is not at all uncommon. We only need to understand your situation better and introduce influences to guide your emotional responses in a positive way, replacing the negative impulses that presently drive your behavior. Let's start there." "Okay, Dr. Armstrong," I said. "I've got nothing to lose at this point and everyone I know seems to think I need your help. So I'm in your hands." "Good," he responded. "Now, please call me Justin. We're going to get on very intimate terms over the next little while so we might as well get comfortable and informal." With that he stood up and walked over to the bay window of his high-rise office overlooking the downtown core of the city. He drew the drapes and returned to his recliner chair, paper and pen in hand. "So, let's start at the beginning shall we Dave? Tell me about Peg, how you met, what she was like." For almost an hour I talked at length about our early married life, our children, our careers, our hopes and aspirations for the future. Rarely did Justin interrupt and when he did, it was only to get clarification or to probe more deeply into something I had said. All the while he kept notes, nodding his encouragement as I rambled on topics ranging from the purely pragmatic to the frankly philosophical. It all seemed important to Justin and for the first time in a long while I enjoyed the attention of openly communicating with someone ... someone other than myself. At the end of our first session Justin asked how I felt about the time we had spent together. I told him I had rather enjoyed it. He suggested a series of half-hour appointments over the following eight weeks and I readily agreed. We would do a progress assessment at that time. "So now we have a schedule and I encourage you to stick to it whenever you possibly can Dave," he concluded. "It's important if we hope to make progress going forward. I say this because not all the sessions will be as easy as this first one. Some will be tough to get through and I don't want you to become discouraged or disillusioned. A disciplined approach is needed so that the benefits of one session builds on the previous one and contributes to the next. Does that make sense?" Stepping out into the sunshine as I left Armstrong's office I felt rejuvenated and more positive than I had at any time in the past several months. I stopped in at a small bistro on a nearby corner and had a light lunch and a cup of coffee. It was time to go to work and I was in a hurry to get started. "Where to?" asked the cab driver as he pulled up alongside the curb outside the bistro. "Work," I said. "Gavel Technologies. 1221 Feathermount Street. Don't spare the horses," I instructed, reveling in the connection... work and Gavel. Arthur had suggested I use my old office to prepare the RFP backgrounder. That way I would have access to the company's product brochures, spec sheets and other data I would need to complete the plan and prepare a total project cost estimate and line item budgets for implementation. I was happy to accept, not because it put me back into a business environment but rather because it kept me away from what was waiting at home. "Afternoon all," I said as I made my way down the corridor to my old office. Fortunately Arthur had prepared the staff for my arrival. No-one dropped anything. Nobody stared. It was as though I had never left, except that now my smiles were being returned. It was almost midnight by the time I turned out the lights and closed the office door behind me. I was tired to the bone and couldn't help wondering if my work so far would pass muster in the morning. What I had right now was only an outline of a proposal, short on facts and long on intention. But the abstract and skeleton needed to be right. Once home, I poured myself a stiff drink. Then another. Again, celebratory in nature. To unwind, I told myself. After the third drink I went to the refrigerator, pulled out some sandwich meats and cheese and settled down to dinner, such as it was. I awoke the next morning without the alarm well after 7 a.m. feeling refreshed and eager to get back to work. It was Saturday and the office would be especially quiet. Just the way I liked it. The weekend quickly became Monday afternoon and then Tuesday morning. I had consulted closely with Arthur along the way. The submission was pretty much complete and, thankfully, on time. I offered to hand-deliver the package to Susan's office, just to be sure it got there. Arthur raised an eyebrow but didn't question my motives further. I arrived at Wadkins, Walden to find that Susan was away until the following morning. I had some difficulty hiding my disappointment. "Oh, that's too bad. Never mind. Could you please make sure she gets this," I said to Julie as I handed over the brown envelope. "Sure. I'll take good care of it until she gets in," replied Julie, smiling as always. "Exciting, isn't it?" she asked. "What's that?" "The announcement yesterday about the merger. Did you see it?" "Yes," I lied. "Big things on the horizon for your company by the sounds of it. Anyhoo, gotta run. Tell Susan... um... Ms. Biddulph... tell her I... could you let her ..." "I'll tell her you said 'hi'", offered Julie. "Yes, okay. And give her my package." "And give her your package," she added, smiling more broadly than ever. "Thanks," I said and walked quickly towards the elevator to hide my embarrassment. How did she know what I meant to say? Women. Note to self. Never underestimate them. And pick up a copy of the Financial Times. With my focus on the RFP submission the Wadkins, Walden merger press release had completely slipped my mind. How inexcusable was that? Exiting the elevator I crossed the street, turned right at the intersection and began making my way to Justin Armstrong's office to keep our next appointment. Stick to the schedule, he had said. I was determined to do so. **** It was evening by the time I arrived home to receive Mark's call. "Hi Dad. How are you?" "Good, thanks Mark. How about yourself?" "Doing just fine, Dad. Just fine. Jen tells me you're keeping busy." "Oh, with the submission, yes. Quite a windfall to get the opportunity. Of course we don't know if we have the project yet. In fact, as I understand it, we're up against some pretty stiff competition. But we've put in what I think is a very good bid and I think our chances are excellent. We'll know if a few days, I guess." "And?" inquired Mark. "And?" I asked. "And what else?" "What else? Well, nothing much really. Been pretty tied up with the...." "Jen tells me you're seeing a psychologist," interjected Mark. "Actually, yes. Had my second session today." "How did it go?" he asked. "Fine. Well, pretty rough actually. At least today's session was. But I was expecting it. There's a lot of healing to do." "I'm proud of you Dad. Everything's going to be alright now, even if you don't feel like you've turned the corner just yet. Listen, my boss wants me to take some leave. Can I come up and see you?" "Of course, Mark. I'd like nothing better. Would be great to spend some Father-Son time again," I replied enthusiastically. "Father, son and other. If that's okay," said Mark. "Other?" "That's right. If you don't mind, that is. There's someone I'd like you to meet." "Okay, I suppose. Who is it?" "Her name is Wendy. She's someone I've been seeing for a while now." "Are you serious? Not about bringing her. I mean seriously dating?" I clarified. "You always encouraged us not to put labels on young relationships, remember Dad? So I'm not going to say 'serious' but, yes, it could be developing that way. I just thought it was time to introduce you two." "I think that's great news Mark. I'll look forward to it. When are you coming?" "My vacation starts Monday next week so we could be there by the weekend. How's that for you?" "Perfect. See you then," I said. "And, Mark. Thanks." We both knew why he was coming. It wasn't only to introduce Wendy. That was the cover. 'I'll be there to help you, Dad. But only when you're ready to help yourself,' he had said. And he was being true to his word. The call came late Friday afternoon. But it was to Arthur, not me. I was at home working on my second sundowner, anticipating Mark and Wendy's arrival, when the phone rang. It was Arthur. "Dave. Great news. We got it, you big lug. We got the Wadkins, Walden account. Oh my God. I just got the call from Susan. She said to pass on her congratulations. I got to give it to you. That was a fine piece of work you did on the RFP. Oh geez, I can't believe it. We got it. I just have to keep saying it. Oh, man." "Arthur, that's fantastic," I said as soon as he paused to breathe. "Shoot, I can hardly believe it myself. This is the best news ever!" Then, as an afterthought: "Wonder why she didn't call me too?" "Politics," ventured Arthur. "And, besides, if you want my opinion I think it's also about a little thing that shareholders and the keepers of business ethics frown upon if you aren't careful. It's called conflict of interest."