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He
Loves Me, He Loves Me Not By
Karen Backman My
father always said that there are
two kinds of people in the world: Those who divide people into two
groups, and
those who don’t. My father said a lot of things. “I love you” was never
one of
them. Some families say those sorts of things to each other, and some
don’t.
Ours never did. That’s not to say we didn’t love each other. We did. We
just
never learned to talk about it. Perhaps it’s the Scandinavian
background that informs our actions. They are renowned for their
stoicism,
after all. Pain, joy, and frustration look the same on a Swede.
Neutral. That’s
my father to a tee. Me, I learned to act reserved by watching my dad. I
think
we all did. But none of us could really match his neutrality. Perhaps
it was
our mixed blood that did us in. I always joke that my mother has Latin
bloodlines in her family somewhere — fiery, passionate, difficult to
contain. I
was cursed with it, to be sure. Like many people, my father assumed
that tears
and rational thinking were mutually exclusive options. I lived in fear
of his
contempt, to which my tears made me susceptible. That is why I will never forget my
niece’s birth. My younger sister, Tanya, was six months pregnant with
her first
child when my three-year relationship with David ended. Within days, he
was
dating Tanya’s sister-in-law, Rachel. Days! (It was only later that I
discovered he’d been secretly courting her for months. ‘Keeping his
options
open’, he called it.) In the eighth month of Tanya’s
pregnancy, David proposed to Rachel, and she accepted. While I was
still
reeling from this blow, it occurred to me that David and I might both
end up at
the hospital when Tanya went into labor. After all, it was the first
child for
both Tanya and her husband, and so it was a big deal for both families.
I was
certain David would accompany Rachel to the hospital. If not to gloat
outright,
then at least to emphasize that he had made his choice, and I wasn’t
it. I
could just see him, joking with his future in-laws, while I seethed in
a corner
alone. I am an expert at avoidance, but I
could see no way to avoid David in this situation. I could also
envision no way
of handling the meeting graciously. I decided to call him and ask him
to stay
away. After all, I reasoned, I was REALLY family, and he was only
family-to-be.
I obviously had more right than he to be at the hospital. “Hi, Dave,” I began, my voice
cracking. “I called to ask you a favor.” I took a deep breath while I
waited
for him to acknowledge me. I had to hold it together — if I cried, I
would be
at his mercy. When he didn’t respond, I charged ahead, explaining the
situation
as I saw it. After I finished, he remained silent for what felt like
forever.
Finally, he spoke. “Don’t you think you’re being a
little bit selfish?” he asked, his voice edged with derision. “I mean,
this is
my family, too, or it will be soon.” I was stunned. I don’t know what I
had been expecting, but this certainly wasn’t it. I tried to fight the
tears
rising inside me, tried to remain calm, tried to find an appropriate
response
for such a cruel comment. It didn’t work. My emotions ricocheted from
anger to
hurt to incredulity, finally fusing into bitterness. I slammed the
phone down,
dissolved into sobs, and headed for my room. As I passed my father’s study, he
turned from his desk to peer at me. “What did he say?” he asked
quietly, no
trace of emotion in his voice. I waved my hand dismissively, too
overcome to
formulate an answer. A sob escaped my throat, and I started again
toward my
room. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that he was on his feet.
Instinctively, I froze. “What could he POSSIBLY say,” my dad continued,
his
voice rising, “Besides ‘I understand. I’ll stay away.’?” He was
halfway
to the door now. In my shock at my father’s reaction, it barely
registered that
my own tears had stopped. “I have half a mind to call Ruth and Paul
right now,
and tell them that if he shows up at the hospital, I’ll have him
forcibly
removed!” His voice was tight with barely-suppressed fury. He was in
the hallway
now, his arm around my shoulders, and suddenly I was sobbing
uncontrollably. “Don’t worry, honey,” he murmured
into my hair. “I’ll take care of him. I’ll take care of everything.” It
wasn’t
‘I love you’, but believe me, it was enough. |