Poles Apart Read Online Free

working shifts. He golfed, almost every day. His pension was more than adequate to keep food on the table and golf balls in his bag. He no longer drove a Mustang but was quite happy withhis top-of-the-line Ford Focus purchased with the employee discount. Hanging out most of his waking hours with a bunch of golfers cut from the same cloth gave him a certain sense of belonging, while his language and jokes regressed to late adolescence. To my knowledge, he has never dated after Mom, though I can report as a first-hand witness that he still leers and flirts, a lot. (Of course I call him on it each time. I can’t help it.) But after everything that’s happened, he seems okay. He even seems happy.
    On the other hand, my mother seems more than okay, and more than happy. She found her place, too, in a big way. Her only regret is that she didn’t find it sooner. She finished her MBA on schedule and with top marks. She’d gravitated to the tourism and hospitality sector during her studies and quite quickly landed a marketing job at the Toronto headquarters of the Pearson Group, one of the leading developers and owners of luxury hotels and resorts in North America.
    She was born to the business. She was a star. Within two years, she was running Marketing. Then she spent five years climbing the ladder in the Property Management division. Finally, she took over the New Property Development team and learned the ropes, fast. She negotiated land deals, oversaw the design of resort properties, and then managed the construction phase from sod-turning to ribbon-cutting. She was tough, and smart, and worked harder than anyone else in the company. She racked up success after success, added a few coups along the way, and two years ago, at the tender age of fifty-five, was named the PearsonGroup’s CEO . Yes, it’s true. My stay-at-home mother is now running a global company.
    When the appointment notice ran in the
Globe and Mail
, her parents were bursting with pride. I was bursting with pride. Dad? Not so much. I think, deep down, he was proud of her. But I don’t think he had any idea how to push through his own insecurity, unearth that tattered shred of goodwill in her success, and express it. So he golfed instead.
    It’s been eighteen years since my mother walked out on my backward father. Since then, I’ve made it my mission to be a son, an only son, to them both, equally. It hasn’t been easy. My father is, well, difficult, and my mother is, um, difficult, too, for different reasons … and for some of the same reasons. I guess I probably knew I’d be going down to help my father even before my mother asked me. I really didn’t want to go. But I’m the son. I’m their son. And this is what good sons do, even if they don’t want to.
    I know what you’re thinking. Haven’t I left something out? What’s happened to me since I headed off to Ryerson eighteen years ago? All in good time. All in good time.
    I picked up the phone and dialed the hospital.
    “Hello, stroke central.”
    “Dad? Is that you?”
    “Everett! How the hell are you? How’s it hanging?” he replied, as if he were calling from a bachelor party.
    “Dad, are you okay? Mom just called me.”
    “Yeah, I figured you’d be on the blower to me tonight. What kind of son would you be if you weren’t?” I assumed he was asking rhetorically. “Hey, how was your mother? Did she seem upset? Was she concerned? Was she crying at all?” he asked with what seemed like anticipation.
    “Dad, of course she was upset. She wasn’t really crying, but you know she’s very good, um, at internalizing emotions. She’s a CEO now. I don’t think she’s allowed to cry anymore.”
    “Oh.”
    “Dad, I’m kidding. I think she probably was sniffling a bit when she told me,” I salvaged. “So how are you feeling?”
    “Well, I can’t walk worth a shit. My left hand is fuckin’ useless, and my left leg feels like a broken drive shaft from an F150. I just drag it