The Truth Commissioner by David Park

herself
from his life would somehow change her physically as well. He stands up and raises his hand and for the briefest of moments
thinks he must look like he’s standing in court promising to tell the truth and he drops it to his side as soon as she sees
him. But she’s not the same. It’s not just the swelling globe of a new world that orbits her old self but there are subtle
changes in her face that mark her as older and, in some way he can’t quite perceive, not exactly as he remembered. And then
with a sharp pierce of sadness he remembers that she’s married now and has adopted a different family, so perhaps what is
unfamiliar to him is the patina produced by the tight embrace of those she newly loves.
    There is a table between them and he doesn’t know how best to greet her beyond the conviction that he won’t try to impose
anything but the problem is solved almost immediately by her simple expression of the word ‘Hi’ and the quickness of the way
she takes her seat. So far she hasn’t held his eyes and instead flusters about herself, opening the buttons of her coat and
smoothing her hair that still wears a light sheen of damp.
    â€˜It’s started to rain,’ she says as she looks about her. ‘Really coming down.’
    â€˜Maybe you shouldn’t be out in the rain,’ he says, placing both hands on his empty cup. He offers it as an expression of concern.
    â€˜Why, what do you think’s going to happen?’ Her voice is quick and sharp-edged.
    â€˜Nothing,’ he retreats. ‘How far pregnant are you?’ And every word that comes out of his mouth feels treacherous, liable to
betray him by leading in the opposite direction to the one in which he wants to go. He knows his question sounds abrupt, too
personal too quickly.
    â€˜Eight months,’ she says, looking only at the menu she’s lifted. ‘Have you ordered yet?’
    â€˜Just a coffee – I was waiting for you.’ It’s started badly and once again he silently curses the surroundings and then he
understands that she’s chosen them deliberately, chosen them to put him on unfavourable ground, to drain away the possibility
of dramatics of speech. And so he has to try and speak to his only child within the hopelessly narrow constraints of the mundane.
It feels as if she’s put him in a straitjacket, that everything’s loaded against him.
    â€˜Hello, Emma, how’re you keeping?’ the woman who is obviously the owner asks and it hurts to see the natural, instinctive
smile with which his daughter greets a woman who is a stranger to him.
    â€˜Not so bad, thanks. Legs are a bit heavy, that’s all.’
    â€˜Let Alan do all the work – you keep your feet up, girl,’ the woman says and then she looks at him but Emma makes no effort
to introduce them and he is forced to offer only a brief smile. ‘Would you like to order?’
    â€˜Just a bowl of soup,’ Emma says and then looks at him for his order.
    â€˜I’ll have the same.’ Then after the woman has gone, ‘Would it have hurt so much to tell her I’m your father?’ He can’t help
himself, he can’t play this game where they are supposed to pretend that what is happening is normal.
    â€˜Please don’t start,’ she says in a whispered voice and looking at him properly for the first time as she leans across the table. ‘I don’t want any trouble.’
    â€˜I’m sorry.’ But he feels her words are those of someone trying to placate an attacker. Does she think of him as someone whose purpose is to give her trouble?
    â€˜This isn’t the place,’ she insists.
    â€˜So why did we come here?’
    â€˜Because I like it here and it’ll serve its purpose.’
    He knows he has to be more careful or she’ll leave and already he sees the signs that she’s having second thoughts as her eyes