Cutting Scenes - The Fine Line

Cynthia seemed a little anxious as she stepped forward and
reached out her hand. Smiling, she said, “Anna, I’m so pleased
to meet you.” The way she met my eyes and said my name so softly
made it impossible for me to withhold a smile or to quickly
withdraw the hand I had placed in her extended one.
The rest of the day Cynthia was gracious and attentive,
both to Dad and me. He was atypically extroverted in her
company, bragging about his career achievements and about my
children and me. Cynthia listened intently and chuckled at Dad’s
corny attempts at humor. She even reminded him that his favorite
news program was about to start. My “elimination” game plan
rapidly became defunct. If Cynthia was running a scam she was a
grand master, and I could only surrender. I was also relieved
that she seemed more like his generation than mine. If she had
put on Beatles or Stones music instead of a classical selection,
I think I would have burst into tears.
That weekend I only stayed one night in my father’s house
and then returned to Boston, if not assuaged, at least with more
clarity. My issues were less about Cynthia, I decided, than
about the discomfort I was experiencing around my father—his
newly acquired enthusiasm for idle conversation and the kind of
emotional engagement he displayed around Cynthia that was never
there for my mother. Worse was the self-centered way he carried
on about himself and angled for attention. My mother would
definitely have called him on that, but such pretensions did not
seem to perturb Cynthia in the least.
At dinner with some women friends a couple of weeks later,
I tried to express my reservations about my father’s new
relationship. “It’s hard to explain,” I began. “I just don’t
like who he’s become. He’s not the man I knew when he was with
Mom. And it’s not just different—he’s not better. It’s like—like
she’s catering to his narcissism. I can’t explain it.”
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