Free Lady Parts by Andrea Martin Page A

himself. And he pushed you. He probably was hoping you’d be cast in a movie and become a big starlike Lana Turner or Elizabeth Taylor or Gina Lollobrigida. That’s what he meant by a break. You would be in something that everyone would see and then you’d be famous.
    “I want to show you something.”
    Paul led me to the front of his grocery store. By the entrance, nailed to the wall, was a framed yellow paper with words written in calligraphy. I recognized the script. Dad was an unschooled yet talented graphic artist. He created all the print ads for his stores and restaurants.
    “Your dad had this hanging on the wall in his office in the first supermarket he owned. He was only in his twenties when he opened that store. When he retired, I brought it to my store. It’s been hanging on my wall for over twenty-five years. It’s by Calvin Coolidge. Your dad lived by these words.”

    “Your dad was relentless at following through. He worked seven days a week. He always said that if the boss wasn’t in the store, the store wouldn’t survive. He deserved every nickel he ever made. He was generous to everyone. He was loyal. He expected the best. He worked hard, gambled hard, and loved to entertain. I remember him saying, ‘Paul, if I die and I have $2 left, I’m gonna get up on the casket and spend it.’
    “Your father was the best businessman I ever knew. Do you know that when he sold his six supermarkets, Martin’s Foods, to Hannaford Brothers in 1972, he was in his fifties? He had already made millions of dollars in the supermarket business. He then opened The Art Gallery restaurant in downtown Portland, and the Merry Manor in Westbrook. And they became extremely successful. He started a second career in his fifties, and by the time he retired he owned and operated five restaurants in Maine, New Hampshire, and Massachusetts. It was just him. No committee, no partners, no company behind him. Just John Martin. He never looked back. Just kept moving forward, always thinking of the store, the restaurant, never John Martin. He was kind and had a wonderful sense of humour, and he was always watching out for his customers. John always delivered on his promises.”
    I told Paul about the trip in the car with my dad and how Dad had cried when I confronted him.
    “You got through to him. He knew he was being too tough. Your dad had a good heart. Don’t forget, Andrea, hewas the son of immigrant parents who both died by the time he was thirteen. John wanted you to succeed. He loved his family. I’m not saying he would have been easy to live with. I’m not saying that appearances weren’t important to him. But he loved you.”
    Paul and I walked across Congress Street to Starbucks, ordered coffee, and continued talking. It had been almost four hours since we began our conversation. That morning I had learned more about my dad’s success as a businessman than I’d ever known growing up. But I was still searching for something. Yes, I had gained insight into our relationship, and an explanation for my crazy hair obsession. But I had expected the revelations to be emotionally cathartic. They weren’t. In fact, I felt strangely detached.
    I knew my dad had loved me. But what I came to realize, while writing this story, was that his love and criticism for me were inextricable. They were intertwined. Once the criticism had stopped, I felt a strange void. Without his criticism, his love felt empty. He was a brilliant businessman and innovator. He did the best he could as a father. He was generous and provided financially for his family—my brother and my sister and our children. He was a leader in his community. He was loved and respected among his peers. He was a good man, and I was proud of all he accomplished and proud to be his daughter. I loved him and laughed with him and to this day miss him dearly, but I finally understood that what I had been searching for, my dad was incapable of giving.
    I longed to hear, as any