(A companion story to Gemma)
It was to be a special day for Tony for two important reasons, Michaela would be arriving back home after completing her finals and he would be meeting Monica in person for the first time. They had already exchanged emails and photographs and had several warm and affectionate phone conversations. But he still felt the usual twinge of anxiety whenever he thought about their first meeting, even though he was keen to meet her in the flesh after what he had seen of her in her photographs. He also felt anxious about telling Michaela, Gareth and Alex about how he had been spending his time while they had been away at their respective colleges, and about his hopes for the family's future that arose from his activities.
His consciousness of how much his children had been through since their mother had died five years previously and his determination to ensure that there would no further upsets for them was central to all he did. Not only had they lost their mother, they had nearly lost their father three years later when he almost died of heart disease and been clinically dead for nearly a minute during the emergency operation that saved his life. He had been spared then but now he lived with a permanent shadow hanging over his future. Twice he had had to rebuild himself emotionally. Then for a while afterwards he had made caring and being there for his children his only concern in life. Partly in gratitude for the love and they had given him, far beyond their years, when he was too emotionally wrecked to be a father and a mother to them, partly to salve his desperate loneliness without Helen.
But eventually his own desire to have love and companionship again had overcome him. He had finally summoned the courage to date again, which led by chance to him meeting Gemma, a young artist not much older than Michaela. Their relationship had lasted a few weeks before ending sadly but amicably when she decided she couldn't commit herself to him because of their age difference. To make it up to him she had set him up with a close friend of her mother's, also widowed five years ago, and that was how he had come to be meeting Monica that evening.
He used his flexitime to come home earlier for Michaela's homecoming to find she had arrived half an hour before. She and several friends with homes in the same general area had clubbed together for a hire van to get them and their gear back from their various colleges. Strange sounds emanated from the DVD player as she wandered around the lounge in a rumpled maroon sweatshirt, tattered jeans and thick grey socks whilst replenishing herself alternately from a large mug of tea in one hand and a bacon sandwich the size of a telephone directory in the other. He had never understood how she never changed from looking like she could make a good living as a Kylie Minogue look-alike.
"Want one, Dad?" she managed to mumble through a mouthful as she waved the remnant in his general direction. They both preferred low-key homecomings.
"Sounds good and smells wonderful Sweetheart," he smiled, kissing her cheek and apprehending several fugitive crumbs as he did so, "But I need to save my appetite for tonight."
"Are you going out?"
Her enquiry was entirely accepting and without a trace of suspicion or resentment, but he felt a twist of anxiety in his stomach as he realised that he would have to start filling his children in on the direction his life was beginning to go in.
He loved his three children equally and without favouritism whilst at the same time enjoying a different relationship with each. His close bond with Gareth was based on their shared maleness, their love of sport, a similar brand of slightly off-the-wall humour and the fact that his son at each stage of his life reminded him so much of himself at the same age. With Alex, Gareth's younger twin sister, he shared a love of science and for communicating its actual and potential good, a pleasure in enquiry and discovery for its own sake and a deep desire for fairness and justice in all things. But the relationship he had with Michaela had come to be of special importance to him because she was the one most like their mother in appearance and character. She had inherited Helen's artistic talent and temperament and her wholehearted, generous and spontaneous response to all she encountered and experienced. It was because of this that he wanted her to be the one he shared his thoughts with first.
"Yes, but I've got time for a natter before I start getting ready."
He hoped this would be a good lead-in to their conversation, but he was totally derailed by her next question.
"Are you going to see Gemma?"
How on Earth did she know? He panicked inwardly for a second before realising that the innocent way in which she had asked the question indicated that she had no idea of it's significance. Hoping to get some kind of clarification he dissembled.
"Sorry, love?"
"Is Gemma some new jazz singer you're going to see? I just happened to see her name on one of your new CDs you hadn't put away yet."
His lifelong love of jazz had been a lifesaver during the years of his recovery and rehabilitation. For a second he was tempted to take this unexpected opportunity to obscure the truth but he resisted it. Whatever course and shape their life would take, it had to be based on truth and openness from the start.
"No, love," he replied, looking straight at her. "She isn't a jazz singer. She was my girlfriend for a while until several weeks ago. I'd decided to start dating again and she was my first date. This isn't a music CD; it's a DVD of pictures of her, which I'd meant to put away. I'm sorry for not telling you. I was afraid you'd be upset and you'd think I was trying to replace your Mum."
"Oh Dad!" she exclaimed as she rushed over and hugged me. "I'm not upset about you wanting a girlfriend and I know you'd never mean for anyone to try and take Mum's place. Only that you were afraid to tell me."
"Didn't we used to have these kinds of conversations in reverse?" he smiled weakly, amazed and thankful for her maturity, as they hugged each other.
"We're all growing Dad." Her simple statement needed nothing more. "Was she nice? Can I see some of her pictures? They're not mucky are they?" Her questions tumbled out in a kaleidoscope of thoughts, concerns and expressions just as if it were Helen speaking.
"You can see for yourself and they're certainly not mucky. Do you remember June who always used to photograph you in your stage school costumes? She took them when we visited her studio a few weeks ago. Gemma had always wanted to be a ballerina so we dressed her up as one."
A random picture came up on the plasma TV.
"Dad, she's lovely!" she exclaimed.
Gemma was in full length. She was dressed in her white classical tutu with the short skirt, her long bare legs flowing down to her feet looking lovely in her white satin ballet shoes with the ribbons cherishing her slender ankles. One leg was straight with her foot flat on the floor, while her other leg was bent so she could point her foot and rest the pointed tip of her ballet shoe on the floor. She was leaning back against the barre with her elbows resting on it. Her auburn hair flowed in long, straight tresses framing her face and draping her shoulders. Her head was tilted back as if she was about to laugh and her smile beamed happiness and her eyes were wide with delight and shining with pleasure. The honey sparkle of her freckles spread across her face and body glowed against her pale skin thanks to June's mastery of studio lighting. He felt a lump in his throat at the sight and of the memory.
