Those self-doubts and insecurities come from an overbearing father and a brother who ran me down every chance he got. My mother died when I was very young, so there was no buffer between me and them. I know my father did the best that he could for me, but he kept me under his thumb from the time I was a kid until I moved out.
Truthfully, even though I'm out on my own and establishing myself in my chosen career – which is something I love doing – my father still tries to keep me under his control. Starting with the fact that he thought I never should have left his home or started working on my career. If he had his way, I'd still be living in his house, by his rules, and wouldn't be teaching. Wouldn't be doing the thing that's my passion. What brings me joy and fulfillment.
No, if my father had his way, I'd be working in an administrative capacity in his construction company. He's a good man, just a hard man. He's old school. My father is an overbearing and overprotective man. He always thinks he knows what's best for me and tries to bend me to his will.
Which, of course, only makes me fight even harder to do the exact opposite of what he wants. It's almost a reflex by now. My father says black, I say white. He says up, I say down. That reaction has caused more than a little tension between us over the years. It's not because I don't love or respect my father – I just don't like being told what to do and what not to do. Our relationship, suffice it to say, is complicated.
My phone buzzes on the table next to me and when I glance at the ID, I roll my eyes and let out a long sigh. It's as if merely thinking of the devil made the devil himself appear.
“Dear old dad, huh?” Gabby asks, a rueful grin on her face.
“Unfortunately.”
She shrugs. “Just don't answer it then,” she says. “It's not like you're required by law to answer every time he calls.”
I reach out for my phone and then pull my hand back. She's right. I don't have to speak to him right now if I don't want to. It's not a requirement. It's not a law. But then, I also know that act of defiance will have some consequences attached to it.
My father is a master manipulator who knows how to play on my guilt and my loyalty to the family to make me feel like the worst daughter ever conceived at times. He knows how to play me like a damn fiddle. And whenever I displease him, he does just that.
All the while, my brother Ian continues to be the golden child who can do no wrong. That long-running sibling rivalry has only added to the strain I sometimes feel between my father and me. It's frustrating that Ian is the chosen one and that my father dotes on him as much as he does. Ian always got all the breaks and the favored treatment. He still does. And it irks me to no end.
Which is one of the reasons I decided long ago to chart my own course, make my own path, and try to live my life on my terms. Given my father’s power of manipulation, I don’t always succeed, but I do my best.
“You know what? You're right,” I say and press the end button, sending the call to voicemail. “It's not a law.”
Gabby smiles wide and raises her mimosa. “To little acts of defiance.”
“To living my own life.”
We clink glasses and take a drink. I savor the champagne and orange juice as it hits my tongue and I can't help but think it tastes even better than usual right now.
“Hey, you know what we should do?” Gabby asks as she sets her glass back down, her eyes lighting up as if she'd just had the best idea ever.
“What's that?”
“Get out of here for a few days,” she says. “A girl's weekend away. Let's just pack a bag and blow town. Come on, what do you say?”
My phone buzzes again and I frown when I look down at it, seeing my father calling. Again. Though, the fact that he's calling me back so quickly makes me wonder if something's wrong. Not giving myself time to think about it, I quickly hit the end button and send it straight to voicemail again.
I sigh. “If only.”
“Why not?” she asks. “We're off-track for a couple of weeks. We've got time.”
Honestly, the idea of skipping town and getting away for a few days sounds heavenly. And there's a big part of me that wants to throw caution to the wind and just do it. But that other voice, the annoyingly practical one that resides in the back of my head, nixes the idea before I can begin to warm to it.
“I have too much to do,” I say meekly.
“You do?” Gabby asks. “Like what?”
My phone buzzes yet again. He usually leaves me a voicemail and only if I haven't called him back in an hour –at most –he will call back and leave me passive-aggressive, guilt-inducing message. The fact that he's called three times in rapid succession like that has me somewhat concerned.
I sigh. “I should probably take this,” I say. “Make sure the world isn't ending or something.”
Gabby says nothing, but sips her mimosa and takes another bite of her crepes. I look at the phone for another moment, like it's a coiled snake, ready to strike, and briefly consider rejecting the call again. But, being the dutiful daughter – or maybe just the schmuck – that I am, I pick it up and connect the call.
“Yes, father?” I ask.
“Why didn’t you answer the first time?”
Obviously, there's not a three-alarm fire anywhere or a giant meteor about to crash into the planet. Not if his first concern is that I sent his call to voicemail. Obviously, he's just annoyed that I did it, and wants me to dance while he pulls the strings. Again.
“I'm out with a friend,” I say. “What do you want, father?”
“How about you show me some respect, Holly?” he snaps. “How about a little common courtesy?”
I can tell by the sound of his voice that he's tense. Anxious. Stressed out. And when he gets that way, he tends to lash out. Just like this. When he's under the most pressure, he tries to exert all the control he has – which is usually focused on me. He tries to control what I say, what I do, who I see – it's been that way since I was young. It hasn't really gotten all that much better now that I'm older and making my own way.
I sigh and shake my head. “I'm sorry,” I say. “Are you okay, Dad?”
“I'm fine,” he replies gruffly. “I just don't understand why you're always so hostile to me.”
“I'm not being hostile, Dad,” I say. “I'm having brunch with Gabby and I'd really rather not have this conversation right now. Now, what can I do for you?”
He's silent on the other end of the line for a moment and I can tell he's building up steam. His silence is usually the proverbial calm before the storm. And if there's one thing my father knows how to do, it's throw a damn fit. He can be incredibly scary when he's angry, and although he's never laid so much as a finger on me, there have been plenty of times in my life when he was so livid, I feared he might.
I'm expecting him to burst into some tirade about me being an ungrateful child and how he's worked hard his whole life to provide me with the advantages he never had – the usual script when he reads me the riot act. He surprises me though, and somehow manages to remain calm. However, I can tell by the sound of his breathing that it's a Herculean effort for him.
“I need you to come to the house tonight,” he says, through obviously gritted teeth. “For dinner.”
“Dinner?”
“Is it so surprising that I want to spend time with my daughter?” he says, forcing out a laugh that sounds hollow to my ears.
There's something in his voice – something behind his words – that is setting off warning bells in my head. Having dinner with my father isn't all that unusual. We don't do it often, but it's not an unprecedented request. What's got the warning bells going off in my skull though, is his tone – that unquantifiable thing I hear in his voice.
“No, of course not,” I say slowly.
“So, dinner tonight then?” he asks, forcing some artificial cheer into his voice. “Stop by the house around six?”
I look at Gabby, who looks back at me with wide eyes. I give her a shrug and a shake of the head; not entirely sure I understand what's going on.
“Holly?”
“Yeah,” I reply into the phone. “Six. Got it.”
“Great,” he says. “See you then.”
I disconnect the call and drop my phone onto the table and stare at it for a moment.