Double Your Age - 2. Chapter 1.2 - The Fog over Lake Marron

He remembered the first time he'd visited Philip alone, when he was a naive student, fresh off the boat and new to the town. His uncle had sent him a chaffeur. It was a drastic change from the dirty busses he'd wait seemingly endlessly in the cold for. He'd never remembered his uncle to be that rich, at least not in the limited amount of time he'd spent with him, on the rare occasion when he'd visit with his mother, or during college open day, the last time he'd seen him. Back then, his boys Adrian and Jonathan were still little, and his wife Evelyn's face was marked with fewer wrinkles.

Don't think you're getting this treatment every time, said Philip chortling, his beer belly mirthfully bouncing up and down in his gilet, when Rich had arrived at his door. He'd insisted that the driver was a temporary perk of his new job, but it did not seem to Rich to be too far-flung of an idea that this was his normal life. Back then, there was a fog over the lake, just as there was on this day. It sat heavy and grey on the water's surface, crawling its way towards the banks, where, swirling, it rose up into the atmosphere. Rich had stood in front of the bay windows, watching swans emerge from the center of the lake to the edge and then back into the mists like ghosts.

Evelyn had approached him at the window after she'd put the boys to bed.
It's not always like this, you know. When this fog clears, the lake is unlike anything you've ever seen. The surface shines as though it's drinking sunlight. You must come back on a clear day. I'm sure that'll be soon.

Rich opened the french doors separating the foyer from the main living room. Inside, Philip lay on the sofa, his attire as relaxed as his expression. On the armchair next to him sat Adrian, his eldest, and Jonathan was lying with his head on his father's thigh. Adrian turned his head to look at Rich, and there was something in his eyes, a hesitance; uncertainty. Rich remembered one of the few times he'd come to visit, when Adrian was still little. "Dad, who is this?" He'd asked after Rich had already been in their home for lunch. His father had hushed him.

"Adrian, Rich is my nephew, as I've already explained. He is part of the family".

Adrian had looked down at his coloring book with an expression as if to say, sure, whatever you say, dad. Rich's head had sunk - he had felt like the neighborhood milkman at best and an intruder at worst. Not that he'd ever tried; he had his own complicated web at college and beyond to deal with. But still, he felt a stranger in this place.

The way Adrian looked at him now bore a resemblance to that questioning look; like he didn't really know - or want to know - who he was.

"Hi uncle," Rich said feebly. "Hi Adrian, Jonathan."

Philip brushed his son's head off his lap and approached Rich gaily.

"Ah, Rich. So good to see you again." He embraced him, engulfing him in his bathrobe. When he finally peeled off him, he placed a tender hand on his back. "Make yourself at home."

"Oh, I just was dropping by quickly."

"Nonsense. Adrian, let Rich have the armchair please. Come on." He made a shoo-ing motion with his hand. Adrian complied immediately, walking around Rich as though he were radioactive on his way out of the room. Rich knew at that point that his parents had told them what had happened. He'd expected this kind of behavior more from Jonathan than Adrian, although he was all but estranged from them both. But now, he knew that they knew that this person who occasionally came into their house once in a blue moon, was damaged goods.

Rich took his place on the armchair. It was warm.

Jonathan had sat up now and was staring absently at the TV screen, looking at it rather than watching it.

"Jonathan, would you mind leaving Rich and I alone for a minute?" Jonathan turned his head slowly, looking at his father, but not at Rich. He didn't sigh, nor protest. In fact, he didn't say a word. He just stood up and ambled out of the room. To Rich, he was a mystery. Whenever he'd come to visit in the past, Jonathan had mostly stayed in his room. When he had come downstairs, he didn't offer much to any conversation, didn't take part in any family activity. If it was a lunch, or dinner, he'd sit and eat, thank his mother for the food, and then scuttle away. Rich couldn't say he'd seen him grow up. Between the constant fleetingness of Jonathan's presence and the fact Rich barely ever visited in the first place, it hadn't been possible. He could only be appreciative that his uncle greeted him so warmly every time, as though he were a weekly visitor.

"You'll have to excuse Jonathan. You know how he is. Well, I suppose you don't quite...when was the last time we saw you? Yes, it was last summer wasn't it? And we went out on the boat. Those were good times. Of course, Jonathan was away at camp then, so the last time you'll have seen him was..."

"Halloween. The one before last."

Philip paused for a couple of seconds, mouth ajar. "Yes. Yes, I suppose. I do have a faint memory of that. But your memory seems to be working quite better than mine at present." He walked over to the glass cabinet and pulled out a decanter. "Can I offer you some port?"

"No, I'm alright, thanks."

"Suit yourself."

He brought his glass to the leather sofa, muting the TV as he sat with his legs crossed.

"A gift from the Waverleys." He swirled the glass in his hands, observing its burgundy contents. "Our neighbors. You remember them, don't you?"

"Yes, I do."

"Excellent. They brought this bottle over to our Christmas dinner. Apparently they'd just got back from Lisbon. Always trying to outdo us, those two. You know, I was hoping you'd join us." Rich started as though to reply, but Philip cut him off with a raised hand. "I understand perfectly." He took a sip of his port and placed the glass gently on the brushed oak coffee table in front of him. Leaning back, he sighed heavily. "Did I ever tell you about Eleanor?" Rich replied softly in the negative. "Eleanor was...well, she was a part of this family, briefly." Philip's eyes suddenly looked heavy-lidded, his expression changing almost imperceptibly to one of fatigue and toil. "Many years ago, my wife miscarried. I haven't told you this before, in fact, nobody outside the family knows. I don't particularly think it's important that they do. To an outsider, she was a non-event. But she was real to us. Very real. I used to try and tell myself otherwise. That it is impossible to lose something you never had. But it was a loss. And my feelings were real, no matter what I tried to convince myself. It took me many years to realise that."

He reached for the glass again, and Rich noticed a slight tremble in his hand. As he raised the glass to his lips, it looked like he was imbibing relief.

"What I'm saying is, that it's okay to feel. It is human." Philip wanted to continue, but felt it appropriate to stop here. His audience was sitting like a statue, hands gripping the arms of his seat, until he finally felt the movement come back to his body, and turned his neck towards the bay windows, silent. Fog consumed the outside; the lake was no longer visible.

"Excuse me," Rich whispered, and he made his way out of the French doors, through the kitchen and out into the garden.