Page 33 of Ladybirds

“What’s for dinner?” she asks, eager to change the subject to just about anything else.

Her father sees through her (he usually does) but lets it go. Sometimes, Sara wonders if he tries even half as hard as she does to keep the peace. “I got some Tri Tip and corn on the barbecue.” He nods toward the fridge. “And some of Phylis’ mashed potatoes.”

Phylis is the owner of the diner in town. When her mother left them, Roy quickly became one of her regulars. Her cooking is as familiar to Sara as Oma’s was, but never preferred. Her mashed potatoes weren’t bad, though. Sara suspects she would probably find them a lot more appealing if they weren’t served straight out of a styrofoam cup.

“Sounds good.”

She sets the table with paper plates and silverware—metal but cheap. Sara wonders if he’s still buying the Walmart bulk sets so he can use the cheap price to justify throwing them away instead of washing them. The only thing that feels like it’s made to last is the steak knives. She puts the potatoes in the microwave while her father cuts the meat.

Seth watches her from a respectable distance—she can see his shadow at the edges of her vision—but keeps his word and remains blessedly silent. Sara hates that the absence of his voice feels foreign. When they finally sit at the table, and she’s asked to pass the butter, she’s mildly horrified to realize her father’s voice inspires more anxiety than Seth’s has in weeks.

It takes all of ten minutes before she’s reminded why.

Roy doesn’t look up from his steak when he broaches one of the many conversational land mines with the subtlety of a bull. “When do you plan on getting a real degree?” The knife in his hand doesn’t pause—sawing through tendon and flesh.

The words cut; another scar hidden on her heart. Her hands plant themselves on the table to still their trembling. “It is a real degree.” She wonders how many more times she will have to come home to this conversation.

Her father doesn’t bother to hide his scoff, his fork dragging a piece of meat through a trail of gravy on his plate. “A waste of money, that’s what it is.”

She bites her tongue, stilling the words that sit—burning—at the tip. It’s not your money. It’s not your life.

“You gotta be able to take care of yourself, Sara.” He takes a swig of his cola, ice clinking against the glass. Sara is beginning to suspect it’s laced with whiskey. “You ain’t got that boy to lean on any—”

She cuts him off. “I don’t want to talk about David.”

“Well, you ought to,” her father snaps. “I told you, Sara. I said you were getting in too deep with that boy and now he’s gone and left you high and dry.”

“He didn’t leave, Dad! It’s not his fault he can’t remember!”

“Bullshit,” he spits, an angry flush crawling up his neck and darkening his cheeks. “He’s playing you like a fool, because that’s what people do when they get the chance!”

She wants to argue—wants to scream—there is a lifetime of bitterness ready and waiting to be fired from her tongue. It would feel so good to finally let it go; to let the words fall like bombs from her lips and watch the shock on his face when they land, but she doesn’t.

She can’t.

In a family torn apart by death and abandonment, he’s the only one left. As much as she wants to, she can’t bring herself to sever that last remaining tie.

At the end of the table, sitting in the empty chair opposite of her father, Seth is silent. With his elbows on the table and his hands folded in front of his mouth, his eyes burn with a stillness that leaves her on edge. She had begged for his silence, but now—in face of her father’s judgment—she wishes he would say something (anything) so she might feel just a little less alone.

Sara stands. Her meal’s only half eaten, but she’s not hungry anymore anyway. Even if she was, starving would be better than staying. “Thanks for dinner.”

There’s a flash of... something on her father’s face. Maybe it’s regret, but she suspects that’s just her wishful thinking. “Wait a minute, now. Where are you going?”

“Home, Dad.” She’s already bringing her plate to the sink, her father a shadow at her back. “I’m going home.”

When she turns to grab her purse from the counter, whatever softness she thought she glimpsed in her father’s face is gone—replaced with something pinched and painfully familiar. “So, that’s how it’s going to be, then? I say something you don’t like and you’re just going to up and leave?!”

She’s so, so tired. The anger she felt earlier has cooled into apathy. “Yeah, Dad. That’s how it’s going to be.”

His sneer is ugly, fueled by a cursed combination of beer and bitterness. “That’s what’s wrong with your generation! Thin skin!”

Sara stares at him—the red creeping into his cheeks, the dilated pupils of his eyes—and knows the argument he’s goading her into won’t be won by anything she says. “Goodnight, Dad.”

He keeps talking; more insults hurled at her back as she leaves. When the front door closes behind her, she can still hear his muffled curses from the porch step. Sara ignores it, feeling numb as she settles into the driver’s seat. She can see her father’s silhouette through the thin curtains, feet pacing and hands wild.

She turns the key in the ignition.

As she pulls onto the gravel drive, Seth speaks—a phantom voice from her backseat. “You failed to mention the part where your father is a complete arse.”

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