Feeling out of place, lonely, and anxious to see Father, I walk towards the open bar and grab one of the many champagne glasses lined up.
“Don’t leave me high. Don’t leave me dry.” The song plays on the loud speakers as people raise their voices in hasted conversation. I take a sip of champagne and look around. My right arm rests lightly on my left as my thumb, forefinger and middle finger grip the champagne flute.
My eyes wander across the room and crowded faces, every so often recognizing someone I admire. This gathering is really too sophisticated for me. I’m only sixteen going onto seventeen, standing amongst world renowned scholars and publishers, playwrights and producers, sipping champagne and savoring the bitter taste. Will moments like this be moments to remember? Or moments I’ll die to overlook in my lifetime?
“Darling!” He kisses me on the cheek and gives me a warm embrace. “How are you?” he asks enthusiastically. I try my best to return the favor.
“Lovely! It’s so nice to see you!” I force a smile although I’m sure the warmth in my smile has faded and turned cold now.
“Have you met with your father yet?”
I take another sip of champagne and shake my head as I swallow hard. “Unfortunately the answer to that is no. Not yet.”
“Oh.” There’s an awkward moment of silence as we avoid eye contact. “Well I’m sure he’ll be here soon! His boat should have arrived already! Or perhaps it’s running late on its schedule? I’m sure he’s on his way here now,” he says with an optimistic tone. “Besides! It’s his big night! His new book has just been published!”
“Yes.” I quickly take another sip of champagne and notice that the taste has become somewhat more bitter. “Thank you very much for all your hard work. I’m very grateful for all you’ve done for Father, and I’m sure he is too,” I say sincerely with a warm soft smile.
He looks at me and returns the warmth. “Why thank you my dear,” he says as he pats my back.
“I’m sure I’m the only publisher here tonight who can gloat and say I’ve worked with the famous Hemingway! And the fact that I’m his publisher who made this all happen! To Ernest Hemingway!” He raises his glass to no one in particular, in celebration of himself more than Father. At this moment, he bursts into proud laughter. I nod my head and laugh with him.
I take another quick glance around the room, but I don’t see his face. “Father is awfully late,” I think as I feel myself scowling at someone who isn’t present. I finish the last bit of champagne in my glass and watch the liquid float down the soft sides of the crystal clear flute. The taste just gets more and more bitter even until the very last drop. I fear something is wrong.
Something doesn’t feel quite right.
© estalement 2007
