Illusions

Michelle K

---

It's strange the illusions you have about your life.

Some people pretend that they are loved by everyone;
in reality, they mock you behind your back.

Some people pretend that they have a perfect life; in
reality, they are miserable.

I've apparently been pretending that there are
absolutes in life.

That my parents were happy.

That my father was an honest man.

That he did no wrong.

That's what children are supposed to do, right?
Idolize their parents. Usually it fades away, though.
You're supposed to grow up, and understand that not
everything was perfect. You're supposed to notice the
cracks beneath the veneer; realize that nobody's
flawless. And your parents certainly couldn't be.

That never happened to me, unfortunately. I never
stopped thinking my father was a great man.

Well, until recently.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

I always thought my father was a great man. He's the
first to help anyone in trouble; some could say it's
from him that I get my own desire to be a do-gooder.

And my parents' marriage? There never seemed to be
*anything* wrong. Sure there were the little things.
Tiny arguments about silly things. But they never
lasted. My parents...they just seemed so happy. They
were always affectionate. They were happy.

But that was all an illusion. It had to be. How would
a great man with a perfect marriage ever cheat on his
wife for over twenty years? Twenty-eight years, to be
exact.

I'm only a few years older than his deception.

Do you want to know how he got caught? It's incredibly
dumb.

On Valentine's Day, he sent a bouquet of flowers to
both my mother and his Santa Monica woman. But he
mixed up the orders.

The one with the card declaring -

'Denise,

I'm sorry I can't be with you this year. I miss you so
much. I can't wait to see you again. I'll try to see
if I can get away in a couple of weeks.

All my love,

Jeff'

- was sent to my mother.

Incredibly stupid, isn't it? A years-old secret
revealed by a delivery mishap. If it weren't
depressing, it might be funny.

Any illusion I had about my father being smart has
also disintegrated.

My mother sat there in tears for hours until he got
home. As soon as he walked through the door, she
confronted him. And he told her everything.

Twenty-eight years. A completely separate life.

Then, she threw him out.

It was two weeks later that she finally called me. And
told me everything.

I look back on that time and I can see the signs.

The trips he took...he said they were for work.

And sometimes he wouldn't talk about them...he'd get
angry when my mother would ask what he did.

Phone calls...sometimes my mother would answer the
phone and as soon as she said 'Hello' the person would
hang up.

They were easy to dismiss at the time. Sometimes
people have to take a business trip.

Sometimes people don't feel like talking about work.

Sometimes people call the wrong number, then hang up
when they realize their mistake.

But they were lies. Lies my mother and I told
ourselves to keep up the illusion.

Twenty-eight years. God, it's insane the things you
don't know about a person. The things you don't even
suspect. So many secrets whose existence isn't hinted
at.

Stephanie that her grandfather was falsely accused. If
she only knew how untrue that is. At this point, I
wouldn't wish that on her. On anybody.

I dread picking up that phone.

I dread hearing his voice.

I dread that I don't quite know what to say.

I don't want to yell. That's what happened last time.
I found out what motel he was at and I called him. I
yelled, I called him every bad thing I could think of.
Then I slammed the phone down...I've never felt that
angry in my life.

But now I know that I have to talk to him. I can't
forget that he exists.

He's my father.

He's not the man I thought he was.

But he's still my father.

I listen to the phone ringing for what seems like the
longest time. In reality, it's only a couple of rings.


"Hello?" his voice asks from the other end.

"Dad? It's me."

"Sam." His voice walks the fine line between tender
and impersonal. As if part of him fears that I'll
attack him. Such thoughts are not unfounded.

"I'm..." I don't want to say the word 'sorry.' Because
I'm not sorry. I may have yelled. I may have said
horrible things to him. But I'm not sorry about it. So
that's what I say. "I'm not sorry."

"Okay. I wouldn't expect you to be sorry. I'm the one
who should be sorry. You should be angry."

It's silent for a while.

He speaks again. "I know how this must be for you. I
never intended--"

"To get caught?" I wasn't supposed to get angry with
him this time. But I still don't regret it.

"I guess I didn't intend to get caught," he admits.
"But I mean...I didn't intend to hurt you. I didn't
think you'd feel so upset."

"Are you serious? It's been going on for almost all of
my life. You honestly didn't think this would upset
me?"

It's silent again.

This time, I'm the one who breaks the silence. "I
didn't want to yell at you again, Dad. I just...I
never thought you could do that. But, one day, I want
to forgive you."

I do. I want him to be my father again, not a liar.
But I'm not quite ready to absolve him. I'm not quite
ready to push this to the back of my mind. Especially
with what my mother must be going through right now. I
can still hear how she sobbed when she told me...

But one day, I do want to forgive him. Just as she's
my mother, he's my father.

"That's all I could ask for," he replies.

Silence again. It's occurred to me that I have to
relearn how to talk to my father. Relating to him
now...it's so hard.

"So...I guess I'll talk to you later," he says. He
feels just as awkward as I do. If not more so.

"Yeah. One more thing, Dad."

"What?"

"Why did you do it?"

"I..." he pauses. "I don't know."

I don't want to accept that. That everything was
shattered because of a vague urge. But I don't want to
yell anymore. I want to keep from hating my father. I
want to keep loving him.

And if I find out that this is an illusion too, than I
guess I'll just learn to live with it.

"Okay," I say simply. "Bye, Dad."

"Bye, Sam," he replies.

I hang up the phone.

I sit there for a while, staring at the phone.

But I can't sit here forever. Eventually you have to
let go of those old illusions. You have to let of the
disappointment over the death of the illusions.

And, anyway, I have to go have a few drinks with my
friends. I don't have any illusions with them.

That's comforting to know.

---

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