Wee – a second chapter. Those of you who reviewed, I love you. The engagement rings are in the post – I hope you don't mind signing a pre-nuptial agreement saying that I get 100% of your cash when we divorce, right?
Disclaimer: None of this is mine. Le sob.
You called to say you wanted out.
Well, I can't say I blame you now.
Sometimes you've got to fold
before you're found out.
Well thanks for waiting this long to show yourself.
Cause now that I can see you,
I don't think you're worth a second glance.
"Happy Birthday, Jackie!" says Phoebe, holding something behind her back and trying to look innocent.
"My birthday isn't for another week," I reply. "And what've you got behind your back?"
"I know that," she says, deliberately avoiding my question and turning around so that I can't see the slip of paper she's holding. "But this is your... um... Phoeb-day."
Needless to say, I am nonplussed. Even after fifteen years of Aunt Phoebe, she still scares me. A lot. So I decide to be tactful. "What the hell are you talking about?" Just call me Mr Discretion.
"Oh, yes." She smiles. "I could see how that could seem a little strange to you." Got it in one. "I've got a little – uh – presenty... thing. For you."
"And you're not giving it to me on the traditional birthday because...?" I ask.
"Oh. Yeah. Mainly because your mom would kill me if I gave it to you. And also partly because Phoeb-day is a really cool word."
"Okay..." Regardless of my admiration for my aunt, I am slightly apprehensive. Last year, she gave me a rabbit's foot for my birthday. From a real rabbit. She says it died of old age, but still...
"Here!" she says, and whips the piece of paper from behind her back with a flourish.
"Gosh," I say, trying my hardest not to be sarcastic. "A piece of paper! I've always wanted one of those! Thanks, Aunt Pheebs!" Okay. Maybe I'm not trying my hardest not to be sarcastic. But I am trying. A bit.
She rolls her eyes and places it into my hand. "Well, obviously it's not just paper."
"Obviously," I mutter under my breath, turning it over. She's right – it's a photograph. Not a photograph that she was particularly fond of, if the coffee stains and ink scribbles are anything to go by, but a photograph all the same. It's of a group of six people sitting on a sofa. They're all drinking coffee and laughing hysterically – I wonder whether caffeine isn't the only drug they've been loading into their bloodstream. If you know what I mean.
"Who are these people?" I ask, although I already know the answer to four of them.
"Well, that—" she points to a pretty blonde in the foreground. "— is your Cool Aunt Phoebe. Isn't she pretty?" She pauses, gesturing to a dark haired serious guy in a suit. "That's your uncle. Ross. And the one who's lying on him is Rachel. And there's Monica. Your Mom. In the corner there. See?"
I nod. "It's hardly 'Where's Waldo'."
So that leaves two people unaccounted for. One of them must be him. Chandler. I scrutinize their tiny ink faces – one is dark, striking. Handsome. Italian, at a guess. The other is pulling a stupid face. From what I've heard, my father was not dark. Or striking. Or handsome. So he's probably the goof sitting at my mother's feet. The placement is probably symbolic, but I'm not in a particularly philosophic mood right now. Actually, I don't think I've ever been in a particularly philosophic mood. But, I digress.
I look up at Phoebe, who's got a daft grin on her face. She always wears that look when she reminisces about what she calls 'the easy days'. I always tell her that she's crazy – that her life's hardly difficult now, what with her only working when she feels like it, and her husband's job having her set up for life. She ruffles my hair and tells me that money isn't everything. She's blatantly lying.
"That's him, isn't it?" I breathe, my voice a semi-tone lower than usual. I place my finger on his stupid smirk, trying to block him out. This is the first picture I've seen of the man I referred to as "Daddy" for the first four years of my life.
Phoebe nods. "The other one's Joey. He's the guy that Chandler went to live with in LA after... it... happened. But that isn't all."
"It's not?" My heart is thudding in my throat even as I tell myself that he's not worth it – that he's just the bastard that walked out on my mother.
"Turn the paper over, honey."
I do as she says, and notice a collection of letters and numbers hastily scribbled with a blunt pencil on the back. An address. A Los Angeles address. His address.
She doesn't bother to explain to me what this is – what this means. She knows that the implications will have already hit me. She smiles at me, and drapes her arm around my neck. "I know your head is probably spinning right now—" (You think?) "—but you've got to promise me three things, Jackie."
"Okay." My voice is still deeper than usual. You wait fifteen years for puberty to finally hit you, and then it happens twice. Oh, joy.
"Number one – never—" she places extra emphasis on this word. "— ever tell your mother about this. Ever. Number two – don't hurt your father and number three—"
"Back up there!" I interrupt. "Don't what? Don't hurt the asshole? Oh, yeah. Sure. Like he never hurt us?"
She shrugs. "Whatever. And number three – promise me that you'll celebrate your Phoeb-day every year."
"Sure," I murmur, barely hearing her words. This is it; this is where he lives. This is the time to get the answers – to understand the truth – to finally find out what happened ten years ago. "I'm a little scared," I confess.
She smiles. "I know. Y'know – been there, done that. My dad walked out on us, too, Jackie. And then my grandma gave me his address-" She broke off, and added, "That was before she died, y'know?"
"Really?" I ask incredulously, rolling my eyes. "'Cause there was me thinking that a dead lady was going around giving out the addresses of random estranged fathers."
She continues as if she hasn't heard me – selective hearing, my Aunt Phoebe. "I was too... you know... freaked out by the thought of it being him. Y'know – my Dad. I couldn't go and see him. I guess you're pretty freaked out too, right?" She looks over at me, and I nod. "Okay," she continues. "Then write him a letter! Tell him – tell him how you feel."
So I do.
So much for all the promises you made, they served you well
and now you're gone and they're wasted on me.
So much for your endearing sense of charm, it served you well
and now it's gone and you're wasted on me.
Chandler M. Bing,
5005 Wilshire Boulevard,
Los Angeles,
California 90536
Dear Mr Bing,
Hey, Mr Bing. Chandler. Chandler Bing. Did you know that you have a stupid name? You probably do – I guess you probably got teased for it at school just the way that I do. For Bing, I mean. My name isn't Chandler – but, hey. You knew that. You helped to choose my name.
Mom doesn't use Bing any more – after you walked out, she changed her name back to Geller. She didn't want to be reminded of you, see. She wanted to change my surname too, but I have to wait until I'm sixteen. Just one more year to go before I'm free of the chains you've been holding me in throughout my life. I can't wait.
Do you even know that I'm fifteen now? Well, almost. It's my birthday next week, but I'm not holding out for a present. When I was younger – five or six, maybe – I'd sit on the doorstep waiting for the mailman to come. He always knew what I was hoping for, and he'd shake his head and ruffle my hair while I broke down into tears. I only gave up on you while I was ten and I realised that you weren't worth the pain.
How hard would it have been for you to have sent me a card? Just a card – letting me know that you're there, you're alive – that you still care about me. Or a present? I know you had a decent job when you left us – I would have worshipped any present you would have sent me, however small, however insignificant. So why didn't you send one? Were you really that busy?
It's stupid, I know – but even now, when the post comes and there's an envelope addressed to me in an unfamiliar hand, my heart leaps. I think that maybe, just maybe, it's from you. You know what? It never is.
Maybe you think about me sometimes. Maybe you really do care about me, but you're just... busy. You've been busy working all this time, and now that you've made enough money to be a proper Dad, you're going to come back laden with presents and everything will be normal again. We'll be a normal family.
Am I kidding you here? I'm definitely not kidding myself.
I want to make something straight early on – you had your chance and you blew it. In those first years – those first ten years – if you'd contacted me, then I swear I would have forgiven you. I would have acted like you'd never gone. But you didn't. Why didn't you? That's what I want to know – I don't want to give you a second chance, but I want to know why. Was it my fault? Was I a horrible son and you can't stand to be around me? Or are you just a coward who hurt my mom and got scared to come back?
Mom didn't give me your address. She doesn't know that I have your address. If you tell her that I contacted you, or bother her in any way, I promise you that I'll do what I promised Phoebe I wouldn't. I will kill you, man. Phoebe's the one who gave me this address. It should have been you. You should have initiated this conversation – not me. But you didn't.
And I won't forgive you. I won't. I know I'm repeating myself here, but I don't care. Maybe if I say it over and over again until my head starts to hurt, then you'll understand. Maybe I'll understand.
I saw a photo of you for the first time today. You're nothing special. You're not good enough to break her heart.
I don't have much else to say. I'm wasting my time on you enough as it is, because I know you'll never reply to this letter. You'd think that in fifteen years, you would have found the time to contact me, but... I don't know.
Maybe in another decade, when you're an old man, I'll write to you again. Maybe I won't. Maybe I'll play with you like you played with me and we'll see how much you like your little game when it's acted out the opposite way around. Maybe it won't be so much fun this time. For you, I mean.
I'm going now. Mom's calling me – she needs my help with something. And I'll go to her. Because I love her. If you had ever loved her, you would have rushed straight to her side when she needed it. She needed you a lot, you know. She needed you a lot, but you were never there. I was the only one there. I had to be the man.
And, you know what? I'm probably more of a man than you'll ever be.
Your son,
Jack Bing.
Hey dad. I'm writing to you
Not to tell you that I still hate you -
Just to ask you how you feel
And how we fell apart - how this fell apart
Are you happy out there in this great wide world?
Do you think about your sons?
Do you miss your little girl?
When you lay your head down, how do you sleep at night?
Do you even wonder if we're all right?
We're alright
We're alright
It's been a long hard road without you by my side
Why weren't you there all the nights that we cried?
You broke my mother's heart; you broke your children for life
It's not OK, but we're alright
I remember the days you were a hero in my eyes
But those were just a long lost memory of mine
I spent so many years learning how to survive
Now I'm writing just to let you know that I'm still alive
Oh, the questions left unanswered. Why did Chandler walk out and never come back – is there something we're not being told? Will his son and wife ever forgive him? Is there a chance of Mondler ever getting back together? Review, and you might find out ;-)