32
I do a double take. "Are you sure?" But before I can digest the situation, Chelsea, gripping her hat tightly, steps to his table.
"Dad?"
The man glances up. He's wearing a sharp suit and his perfectly trimmed hair is graying at the temples. He'd fit in better in a boardroom than here.
"I'm afraid you've mistaken me for someone else. These are my daughters." He gestures to the girls with long brown hair across the table. They gape at Chelsea.
Is it possible Chelsea's mistaken and just thinks she recognizes him? From what she's told me, she hasn't seen her father since she her mom died. But Chelsea doesn't budge.
"You're Robert Barnes." Her voice wavers with emotion. "It's me, Dad. Chelsea."
He's confused for a moment, then after closer inspection, sees past her hat hair and flushed face. Realization dawns in his eyes, then shock, which he quickly masks. He shoots a concerned glance at his wife. There's something familiar about her sleek hair and precision makeup, but I can't place it. She presses her lips together in irritation. It's mild, but I catch it.
Chelsea's father sets his napkin on the table and stands to his full height. "This isn't a good time. I'm with my family."
The woman rises, smoothing her skirt. "Yes, dear. I think we should go."
Chelsea pales; there's alarm in her eyes.
"Papa, why did she call you Dad?" asks the younger girl. The older one stares at me. Something about this family stands out, but before I can think it through, the younger girl points.
"Mama, it's him, Thomas Evan Oliver. You signed my program after the show yesterday!" She smiles at me as if this were another stage door meet and greet.
All eyes shift to me. What the hell? Then I realize these are the girls from France who I spent so much time talking with after the show yesterday. My heart sinks.
The mother turns to her husband, lips pursed. He speaks in rapid French first to her and then his daughters. I took French in school, but it never held much appeal. Still I do catch him telling the girls he has no idea who Chelsea is.
Chelsea gasps and responds in fluent French something about him abandoning her. I had no idea she spoke the language. Robert Barnes' eyes flare in surprise at her perfect accent, his jaw clenches. He gestures to his wife to gather their things as he tosses money on the table.
"Come along girls," she directs.
"Papa, is she my sister?" the older girl asks.
He sighs, and shakes his head. "Go with your mother. You, too Babette."
"But we haven't eaten yet," the little one complains.
Their mother hustles them away, the two girls gaping at Chelsea, confused; but Chelsea's eyes are glued on her father. When he starts to follow his family, she steps in his path.
"You can't go. I have questions," she says in alarm.
He eyes the crowded restaurant. "This is not the time or place."
I expect Chelsea to acquiesce, but she stands her ground.
"No kidding. The right time was years ago when you drove away after my mother's funeral and cut me off with nothing. You're going to talk to me. Right here. Right now."
Even though Chelsea's voice is strong and demanding, her hands tremble.
He huffs. "Very well. But let's be clear, you were well taken care of."
Chelsea's eyes widen. "By who? My grandfather who was delirious with Alzheimers and I had to take care of?"
Her father startles and shakes his head. Chelsea continues. "I had nothing. After he died I lived out of his rusted-out car."
"That's not possible. You were provided for in a trust fund," he says indignantly.
"Your bully lawyer wouldn’t release my money until I needed it for my college tuition," she snaps. "I worked thirty hours a week during high school, because you refused to take my calls for help."
His face turns red. Whether it’s from embarrassment or guilt for his actions it’s hard to say. Chelsea's anger is growing and her fierce words getting louder. My own outrage is building, and I'd like to deck him.
"Listen, Chelsea. I know this is difficult for you to hear—” He pauses as if considering his words. “But you were an unfortunate accident that happened while I was in graduate school and met your mother. I tried to do the right thing by her. I really did, but it was never going to work."
Chelsea's face is stricken; she fights to hold herself together.
He moves to leave. "I'm sorry things didn’t go better for you. I truly am. But I must go."
Pain darkens her eyes. I step forward and meet the man eye to eye. "Sir, I think, all things considered, you owe Chelsea a few minutes of your time."
"And you are?" He tilts his head condescendingly.
"I'm a man who stands by your daughter."
He sighs and turns his attention back to Chelsea. "You're dating an actor?" he asks, as if I'm a second-rate loser.
She nods.
He pinches the bridge of his nose as if this conversation is taxing. "And are you in college?"
I'm not sure if he actually cares, or is just trying to get the formalities out of the way so he can escape. I see Chelsea's anxiety. She wants this man to like her.
"No, I have my degree in international business."
He startles and looks at her with a bit of respect. I want to say, "Take that, you son of a bitch."
"And you work here in New York?"
Chelsea hesitates. "Um, no. I left my job to be on Celebrity Dance Off."
His forehead creases. "I don't know what that is. You're a dancer?"
She shifts from one foot to the other. "Well, no. It's a reality show—"
He frowns. "You have a college degree, but quit your job, and now you're on one of those ridiculous reality shows?" He shakes his head and now I really want to give him a piece of my mind. A flush creeps across her cheeks and she swallows.
"Robert," his wife interrupts in a sharp tone. "The car is here."
"Well, then." He pauses and looks at Chelsea for a few seconds as if at a momentary crossroads. He clears his throat. "I wish you the best."
And he moves past, disappearing around the corner. Chelsea darts after and I follow, only to see him exit the restaurant.
"Wait!" she calls, but he either doesn't hear or doesn't care. Outside he hustles into a black town car.
"Please, Dad. I only want to talk," Chelsea cries out.
He closes the door, but his window glides down. "I'm sorry, Chelsea. You're part of my past. It's best we leave it that way."
"No!" She cries.
He frowns. "What is it? Do you need money?"
She startles. "I don't want your money."
"All right then. There's really nothing more to say." He looks forward, his window closes and the town car pulls away.
Chelsea stares as he disappears in a sea of taillights and exhaust.
I desperately want to pull her into my arms.
She turns to me—destroyed. "I want to go home."
"All right," I say and she starts walking.
"Chelsea, your coat." I catch up, forcing her to pause long enough for me to slip her coat on her. Her eyes are vacant as she digests what happened. "It's going to be okay," I reassure her.
"It's never going to be okay." Her voice is monotone and emotionless, stating it as fact.
I pull her hat onto her head and then zip up her coat. When I get the zipper up to her chin I give her a little shake. She raises her eyes to mine. They are dark and watery, filled with anguish. Her chin wobbles and I can tell she's holding herself together by a thread. I tie her scarf around her neck. Gently, I say, "Let's go."
We walk back in the frigid cold, every rush hour cab filled. There's no subway that goes the direction we need, but Chelsea trudges on unaffected by the icy wind. When we finally reach the flat, my fingers are frozen and face is numb.
Once we’re inside, Chelsea's strength dissolves and she slides down the wall to the floor. She buries her face in her hat and lets out an anguished wail. I drop to the floor next to her. She pulls her knees close and covers her head with her arms as wracking sobs consume her.
I've never felt more helpless.
She raises her head, her tortured eyes settle on mine. "I took their picture with you." She grabs her phone from her pocket and whips it against the wall where it cracks and ricochets across the wood floor.
"Oh, baby. I'm sorry." I hold her as she sobs into my chest. She's devastated and there's nothing I can do. I want to wring that asshole's neck as the love of my life trembles like a wounded animal.
"Let's get you out of this bulky coat." I fish my hands under her chin and unwrap her scarf, find her coat zipper and maneuver the coat off of her. Finally, I can wrap my arms around her lithe frame. Her face, damp with tears, is pressed against my chest, her hair catching on my chin.
I whisper in her ear and rub her arms. "It's going to be okay. I promise." Her sobs eventually ease until she's left with ragged breaths as she comes back to me.
"He doesn't give a damn about me. He never did." Her breath hitches.
"Shh. He's an asshole. He doesn't deserve you."
Tears roll freely down her face, soaking my jumper, and her teeth chatter. I hold her tightly in hopes she'll register the security I'm here to offer. My sweet Chelsea is grieving another blow from that bastard. "I love you. You hear me?" I kiss the top of her head.
"I love you, too," she answers. I murmur every soothing thing I can think of. Seeing her like this, rips my heart out. After a while her trembling subsides and her body goes slack, her energy spent. I smooth back her hair and kiss her forehead, loosening my grip. She places her hand on my chest. I was going to propose tonight at the restaurant, giving her the perfect birthday gift, but now it will need to wait until a time when she can feel joy again.
We stay there for a long time, me by the wall with her nestled between my legs and leaning against my chest. I'm afraid to move her or do anything that might upset the fragile thread she's clinging to, but then she shivers.
I rub her arm. "Let's move to the couch and warm you up? Okay?"
She nods and lifts herself off me, leaving my chest cool as the air hits my tear-dampened shirt. I sit her on the couch and tuck a throw blanket over her shoulders.
"How about some hot chocolate?"
"Thanks," she says, and stares across the room with an empty expression.
I whip up the drink, keeping an eye on her. I've dealt with plenty of disappointments in life, but nothing compared to the rejection of a parent.
"Here you go." I place the warm mug in her hands and sit beside her, my arm around her slumped frame.
"You're too good to me," she says quietly, contemplating the lettering on the Something Rotten mug.
"No, I'm not, but I love you so much and wish I could fix this."
"No one can fix it." She sips her drink and pauses a long time before she speaks. "I was finally happy, and seeing him after all this time churned up all the ugly truth."
"I know it seems impossible, but this will pass, and you'll be happy and stronger than ever. I promise."
Her lip trembles. "You know why I went into International Business and learned French?"
I shake my head, but I have a good guess.
"Because I wanted him to approve of me. I thought maybe he'd love me if I was more like him." Tears well up in her eyes again and she sniffs back her cry. "What's wrong with me that my own father doesn't love me?"
I regret not slugging the guy when I had the chance. "Shh. There's nothing wrong with you. This is all on him."
"All I ever wanted was his love."
"I know. But I love you." And God I hope it's enough.
She turns her glistening eyes on me. "I love you, too."
Huddled together she drinks her hot chocolate until I eventually feel her body warm up against me.
"Thank you for the wonderful day. I'm sorry I ruined it."
"You didn't ruin anything, and you're going to be okay." But I don’t think she hears me as she stares into the distance.