My father is sitting at the table. His positioning isn’t suspect. The problem resides with the reading material. In the place of his newspaper is a stack of papers. In the middle of the stack is a pen.
“Everything cool?”
His maintained silence has me narrowing my eyes and stepping closer. He’s categorically uncool, radiating anxiety like a hot fire poker. I’ve grown complacent with his lack of emotion. His sudden responsiveness is taking some getting used to.
“Of course it is,” he lies, shifting awkwardly to hide the paperwork with his arms.
He’ll tell you when he’s ready, Superego soothes me. You don’t have time to get into it now.
I have a few theories for his behavioral change. One, I’m graduating soon, and while my presence hasn’t made a huge impact on him, not having me around will be weird. Two, I’m no longer a child, meaning he’s missed every childhood opportunity that presented itself. Three, my newfound emotional freedom freed him, too, by allowing him to experience what I subconsciously suppressed with my shield of indifference. I felt nothing, ergo he felt nothing. When I blew up Mom’s ventilator, it wasn’t him who first put up a wall, then me erecting a retaliatory one. In fact, he didn’t build a wall. That was all me. Every bit of it.
I favor option three, that I’m personally responsible for his recent change, the same way I was personally responsible for the behavior to begin with. My coping mechanism to stoically pass through life was contagious. Not only did I rob my mother of a chance at any kind of happy life, but my continued existence also guaranteed my father wouldn’t truly live. Further to that, my being a permanent fixture didn’t give the wall a chance to naturally degrade. My presence kept it strong. Since I’ve been spending more time out of the house than in it, my absence has allowed my father the emotional freedom to experience the things I was blocking.
Finding the balance between dutiful daughter and young adult is difficult. Familial accountability is a new concept. Theoretically, being eighteen should mean I’m an official adult in the eyes of the world. His hovering is poorly timed. It isn’t even that he’s actually smothering me. I mean, he doesn’t call me every two seconds or give me ridiculous curfews, but his once lax expectations have changed. Lax is the wrong word. He had zero expectations before. Now he has some. They’re probably lax, if I’m being honest. It’s just zero to anything is jarring when it’s always been zero.
Mostly, I like that Dad’s been showing signs of caring about me, but I wish he’d get past the cling phase so we can enjoy an authentic connection instead of the threadbare blanket masquerading as a bridge across our canyon. He wants updates on where I am at all times, who I’m with, and general things most teenagers have already come to expect from their parents. Having never yielded to such examinations makes it harder to consent to the new normal. Still, I’m trying to follow his lead because I like the attention. We’ve even graduated from head nods to three word sentences on the regular. I won’t ruin this growth by becoming uncharacteristically petulant.
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“I’m going out with Tally,” I inform him. “We’re meeting Kiley later on.”
Look at me, being a good daughter. Telling him stuff. Most stuff, anyway. I purposely omitted the boys. In my defense, I got the third degree on Derry the last time I did. While I intend to do proper introductions, I don’t want to do that until I’m confident Dad won’t scare him off with a medieval inquisition.
“What time will you be home?” He lifts a parental brow, preparing to analyze my response for hidden meaning. When did he perfect that look?
“I don’t know.” It’s not a lie. There’s no way I can possibly know that. “What time do you want me home?”
He considers the question carefully. He isn’t sure of the appropriate time, either. We aren’t nailing the expectation portion of things. Neither of us. It’s tricky territory. “Before dawn?”
“Done.”
“Do you have plans tomorrow?”
I shift nervously on my feet. I don’t have a specific itinerary, but I’ll likely spend the day with Derry, as I’ve done the last few weekends. “Nothing definite,” I hedge.
“We have to do something tomorrow.” His voice sounds more determined than it ever has, despite the quiver. Even if I couldn’t read emotions, which I very much can, his nervous fidgeting would give him away. He’s scared but trying to be brave for me.
“Okay,” I concede, starting to worry. “What do we have to do tomorrow?”
Don’t push him right now, Superego warns. Just smile and nod, or you’re never getting out of here.
I’ve learned to listen to my conscience where my father is concerned. His mood swings are unpredictable, sometimes causing him to yell and other times leaving him in tears. I’ve had to use emotional manipulation to intervene. I didn’t like controlling him that way, but it was my only recourse.
“Scratch that. Whatever you want to do tomorrow is fine. Can we stop by the hospital while we’re out?”
He flinches. “That was where I wanted to take you.”
Don’t ask why, Superego persists. Just go, right this minute.
My conscience is seldom so demanding. While my nature is to ask questions, I’m in a hurry. That doesn’t completely override my curiosity about what he’s keeping from me, though. Whatever it is has to do with the neatly stacked papers on the kitchen table. If I lean ahead a smidge, I’ll get a decent enough view to at least see what they are.
Just as my feet creep forward, loud honking disrupts the silence. “I have to go,” I admit reluctantly. “Someone’s tired of waiting.”
“Yes, someone’s tired of waiting,” Dad whispers as I head out. He didn’t mean for me to hear it. Nor did he mean for me to hear the papers shuffling and the pen signing the top one in the pile.