“Pappa.”
“Elin.” He looked up at me, peering over his reading glasses. “Or should I say Askungen, home before midnight again. Did your car turn into a pumpkin yet?”
My father had grown up in the States and spent most of his career as a diplomat until my tennis career began to blossom. We settled in Sweden then, in my mother’s home city of Stockholm, and I began to train under the system that had produced greats like Bjorn Borg. It always made me smile that he spoke Swedish with a faintly American accent. The way he had just said Cinderella, for example, sounded uniquely like him, and I would always know his voice anywhere.
“I don’t know when Mamma will make an appearance,” I confessed. “She was having a lot of fun. You didn’t want to go?”
“Not in my penguin suit, no,” he huffed. The only one who liked getting dressed up even less than I did. “You know you have the BBC tomorrow? She was worried about that before she left.”
I nodded. Another interview. Great. I’d have to think up some other not very interesting things to say about myself. “Yeah, and then straight to the airport. I’m looking forward to a quiet few days.”
Unlike some places, there would be no great fanfare when I returned to Stockholm. At first there had been parades, or requests for them, but that was more common for players who come from small towns. Add in the Swedish need to be unassuming and never, ever to brag, and it made the perfect destination for an introvert like me. A few days in the family home, surrounded by familiar faces. I’d even have some of the salty liquorice that so horrified my foreign friends, just for the nostalgia of it all.
“You shouldn’t forget to enjoy yourself, Elin.” My father set his book aside and came across the room to give me one of his rare hugs. I think I must have looked like I needed it. “All this playing and winning… It’s not supposed to be a burden. Plenty of people would kill for this life of yours. But I just want to see my girl happy.”
He looked more exhausted than I did. Back when I’d started out, my father had been just as involved in my coaching. Driving me to tournaments, making sure I kept up with my studies once I went on the road for good. He didn’t miss a match for five years, easily, but then the rigours of always being on tour caught up with him. It meant I only saw him for the last few days of the Grand Slam tournaments and in the rare vacation spells.
“I’m happy, Pappa,” I promised him. “But if I see a chance to get even happier, I’ll take it.”
“Good. Well, get off to bed if that’s what you came home early for.”
“Goodnight,” I said, and I’m not ashamed to say I almost jogged all the way to the privacy of my bedroom.
I knew he was worried about me, the way everyone had been lately at some point or another. I always hoped keeping my feelings to myself would stop people from doing that, but eventually they had to poke and prod. I knew that was a sure sign I hadn’t spoken to my therapist in too long, but I found I hated the video-call sessions on the road. I could never be sure if she was bored with me or if the screen had just frozen. Despite the known issues we’d been dealing with for years, what was she really going to do to help me? There was no cure for not feeling able to appreciate how lucky I was.
By the time I was ready for bed, face stripped of make-up and my hair brushed down from the contortions it had been through, the house had settled into quiet again. I dimly heard a car idling outside, the door downstairs. No doubt my mother coming home, followed by a muffled conversation. Too loud, but not loud enough for me to make out the words.
All I knew when I got down to breakfast in the morning was that my father had gone. I felt his absence like a hole in the wall, letting in a breeze that made the whole room uncomfortable.
“Did Pappa have an earlier flight?” I asked. How could he, when we were chartered on a jet for the short trip? It beat the pants off flying commercial, and it was one indulgence I jumped at every time it made sense.
My mother looked up from her coffee, ignoring the stack of newspapers that had been gathered as usual.
“No. He won’t be joining us in Stockholm.” Her Swedish was flat as she delivered the news, devoid of its usual comforting lilt. “Or anywhere, for a while.”
“Mamma?”
“We’re getting a divorce,” she announced, picking up the nearest newspaper and opening it with a sharp flick. Clearly she considered that news to be the end of the subject. Another day I might have argued, called my father or just volleyed questions until my mother cracked and told me more. Instead, I just picked up a banana and methodically sliced it into my bowl of cereal.
The words would come; explanations, arguments. They always did. I ate in silence, considering how my father had most likely known last night, that his uncharacteristic hug had been a good-bye of sorts. I was sure I would still see him, but divorcing my mother seemed to carry an undertone of being done with tennis.
Which, by extension, meant me. Thirty-two years old and suddenly the child of divorce. I couldn’t picture that reality, somehow. Already it just seemed as though my father was simply not on this part of the tour, waiting at home somewhere until our paths next crossed.
Slowly the house refilled with activity, everyone finishing their packing duties and leaving according to their schedules. Some would have time off before the next tournament, others would have other clients
