Trophy Son(55)

“Stop saying that. Stop apologizing.”

She choked down another apology and there was silence. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“That’s more like it.”

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry. What can I do to help?”

“Nothing, except stop making excuses for him.”

“Of course not.”

“He needs help.”

“I know. Believe me. I want him to get into a better place.”

“I don’t want him anywhere near me. You tell him that.”

“I hope you know how much he loves you, Anton. He’s very intense.”

I just exhaled. There was a long silence.

“Your father and I are both former athletes. Neither of us knew what to do for a while after our own sports careers. We had you and Panos and I was able to throw myself into mothering two babies. I could do that twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. He threw himself into his finance career but he never loved it.” Incredible. I don’t think she even realized she was still making excuses. She couldn’t help herself. “By the time Panos and you were in kindergarten and in school to three o’clock I was right back to not knowing how to be an individual. Your father threw himself into you.”

“Are you done?”

“I just want you to know that he cares.” She was desperate. She wasn’t trying to make sense.

“Mom, at this point I don’t want to hear about the reasons. I don’t want to understand it, don’t want to figure out how to deal with it. All that’s left anymore is to eliminate it.”

“Anton.”

“Get him some help. If he comes to another match, ever, I’ll get a restraining order and I swear to God, I’ll have him thrown in jail.”

*

Two hours later my phone rang again. “Anton, of course I saw. I’m sorry,” said Ana.

I was in my hotel in London. I’d tried a movie, food, a book, wine, writing my first-ever journal entry. Everything made me unhappy so after fluttering around the room like an indecisive twit, I was sitting in a dark room imagining I had sunk to the bottom of the ocean for rest. I had booked a flight to Florida for the next day. “Thanks.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

I hadn’t heard her voice in nine months. The last time I saw her was the other great shit-show of recent memory, but that didn’t matter. Her voice felt good. “Maybe a little.”

“Your dad’s an obsessive jerk. You’ve known that.”

“True.”

“How do you feel?”

Ugh. “Alone. I talked to my mom. Sort of. There’s no talking to her really.”

“She protects him?”

“It’s mind-boggling.”

We sat with the phone connecting us for a while, silent, but I was less alone. “Your dad’s also a malignant narcissist,” she said. “I looked it up.”

“Mmm,” I said. “About that. Ana, I was out of line.”

“We don’t need to get into it. Just making a bad joke.”

There hadn’t been any news about Ana and Caleb in months. The last I saw was a photo of them splashing through knee-deep water in St. Barts months ago. Still engaged, still no wedding. “Thanks for letting me off the hook.”

“I created a bad situation. Let’s leave it there.”

“Done,” I said. “How’s Caleb?” Was that leaving it there? Same guy but different topic, sort of.

“Good, overcommitted. Two films in postproduction, shooting one that’s running over and needs to delay the start of the next.”

“No time for weddings.” Couldn’t help that.

“Probably a good thing. The engagement happened in a rush.”

I didn’t ask directly about second thoughts she might be having. That might have blown up in my face. Or made me sound desperate. And I didn’t want to extinguish the glimmer of hope I felt in hearing the doubt in her voice. My masochism again, because I felt we were supposed to be together so I viewed all events as a path to that end, like a lost driver on vaguely familiar roads who thinks each next turn is the one that will put him back on track. On the bright side, Dad was almost entirely out of my mind. “Good to take your time. Be sure about it.”

“Yeah.”

“He has great hair.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“A little short though.”

“I’m five-four. Don’t be a short-ist.”

“How’s your writing?”

“It’s going well, thanks. Anton, I called to talk to you about you, your dad.”

“This is better, trust me. It’s helping.” She didn’t answer right away. Either disbelief or disappointment. “I need to get to the same place you are with parents. Talk on the phone a few times a year. I’m probably there already as of today.”

“What I saw today was scary. He has a lot of rage.”

“He’s a frustrated old man. I punched him, a couple weeks ago. Knocked him out.”

“What was the fight about?”

“We were at a wedding. Panos got married. Dad was more obnoxious than usual, either drunk or hungover when I saw him and he picked a fight. Except I’ve been thinking since that maybe I wanted it, brought it on in a way. Maybe I picked it too.”