Ashbee & Son

A Conversation with an Old Friend

I remembered why I always took the train into the city. Cars along the QEW tend to congest, horribly. It's like you're a blood cell trying to navigate a fatty artery; somewhere along the line, something will stop you. The way would clot. You begin to cry out internally. You curse the existence of everyone around you. You think of how much the fine would be if you were to drive on the shoulder. You scan the radio for something decent to pass the time, but you never find anything good. Then you begin to giggle like you're high. I reached the giggling phase by the time I passed the exit ramp to Islington Avenue in Etobicoke. Luckily, the highway began to thin out by then, and it wasn't long before I'd reached the York Street ramp.

The time on the dash read 11:10 by the time I'd found a spot near Nathan Phillips Square. I locked the car and ambled along the salt-strewn sidewalk.

In my head, I tried to foresee the conversation with Ingrid that was about to ensue. I will tell her that, as Charlie's father, I have a right to visitation. I have a right to be in his life, and he has a right be in mine. When she doesn't budge, I will threaten legal action. I will tell her that I will go to a lawyer right now and have the visitation agreement reviewed. I will have reasonable access granted. I may have been neglectful, but how dare she deny me my right to see our child. I will fight to the end for Charlie.

There was a sheet of ice before the entryway to city hall on which people were skating. There was a hubbub of laughter and shouting all around. I picked up the pace and walked in through the doors. I rehearsed and rehearsed what I was going to say. I would have been nervous if not for the utter resolve in my heart. It created a calm within me. I approached the reception desk. Behind it was a pale, thin-faced man with not a whisker of hair anywhere south of his nose. He appeared to be young; in his early twenties, maybe. He wore a pair of round, wire-frame glasses, and had his light-brown hair up in a pomade-styled coif. He must have been new, for I failed to recognize him. I rested my hands on the desk. His eyes were on the screen as he typed away.

"Excuse me," I said.

"A moment, please." When he finished typing, he looked up. "What can I do for you?" "I'm here to see Ingrid Ashbee."

He began to type. "Ingrid Ashbee?" A pause, and then, "Do you mean Ingrid Deruiter?"

I felt a pang of something I couldn't quite pinpoint. "Yes, sorry," I said.

"Is she expecting you? What's your name?" He turned to the screen again and began to type.

"She's not expecting me. My name is Tobias Ashbee." I should have expected that. It was a mistake on my part to not ready myself for it. That little shit sitting behind the desk didn't know me. He didn't even know who Ingrid Ashbee was. He only knew Ingrid Deruiter. And a feeling of sorrow swept over me. I saw the rest of my life before me. Tobias Ashbee would grow old and alone. He would die alone. And Ingrid Deruiter would live on. Her boy would become a man, and he would father children. And he would not know his father, and his children would not know their grandfather. He was an Ashbee. Would always be an Ashbee. But he would only know life as a Deruiter. And Eugene would propose to Ingrid, and he'd become the product of Eugene's influence. He would have a man in his life, and that man would not be me. I shouldn't have come here. Ingrid Deruiter wants nothing to do me. Her life has been unfolding the way she wanted it. Without me in it. This disruption would do nothing but harm. That little shit behind desk would never let me in to her anyhow. There was no way. This was such a terrible, impulsive mistake. I would leave. I would go back home to Arkell Street. I would storm into the house and scream and yell into Edmund's face. I would tell him what an asinine idea it was to fight for Charlie. It would never ever work. Not in a million years. "I was stupid to believe you," I would say. "You're a foolish old man. You'd never given me advice before, and thank God for that. Now stay out of my affairs." I would leave the house and head to Aubrey's. I would stay there for some time until I found an apartment. Everything would be undone. All the progress between my father and me. And I would not see Charlie again. But then that little shit did something I'd never thought possible. He stopped typing. He picked up the phone and pressed a button. "Martha, dear, is Ingrid still in that meeting? There's a Tobias Ashbee to see her." There was a short moment of silence. "Thanks, sweetie." He hung up the phone. "She's just out of her meeting, so if you run, you can catch her on her way to her office."