Page 17 of XO

“After all this time, that’s your theory? That’s all you can come up with?”

“Do you think I give a shit what the excuse is?”

“That’s on you, not me.”

“Yeah? Well, we’ll see about that. Won’t we?”

Moments later, I assume after the call ends, my father releases a heavy grunt of frustration. Another thing I’ve never heard him do before. Stepping away from the door, the wooden floor creaks under my weight. Before I can turn, the door swings open, and my startled father stares back at me.

“Boo-boo,” he says with a forced calm, calling me by the nickname he’s had for me since I was born. I never protest it because it’s just a term of endearment between him and me. “I didn’t hear you come in.” While his tone is gentle, I see the remnants of fire in his eyes and the smell of… alcohol?

Glancing down, I see the bottle of scotch my grandad gave him on his wedding day. Apparently, it holds some value, well, until now. “I was just needing something from the medicine cabinet.” I wait for a response, and the longer it takes for him to speak, the more uneasy I become. There’s a glisten in his eyes, and I don’t know if that’s due to the quarter bottle of scotch or a show of emotion. Either way, it’s scaring me to death. “Dad…” I begin, feeling a lump form in my throat. While I usually garner my stoicism from my work-a-holic mother, it’s often my father’s nurturing side that breathes life into me. But he appears to have taken a metaphorical beating. His kind heart is wounded. “I heard you yelling. What’s happened?”

“Nothing, boo-boo,” he lies with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s a father with a beautiful heart who also happens to be a shit liar. Thinking he’s convincing, he stands aside for me to enter. When I don’t move, he sighs in resignation.

“I heard you on the phone, so I know something is going on. Who were you talking to like that? Is it Mom?”

He picks up on the hitch in my voice and is quick to action. “No, it wasn’t your mother. Just some trouble at work.” When I wait for elaboration, so he continues, “Graeme is being… a littledifficult.”

This is the first I’ve heard of Graeme, my dad’s boss, being anything less than the friendliest guy on earth. So, my father’s revelations come as a shock, especially since he and his wife were here for dinner just two weeks ago.

“What’s he doing? I thought you two got along really well.”

For a second, he seems surprised by the question before he falls back into role. Another tell-tale sign what he’s saying isn’t the whole truth.

“We do.” His eyes shift, focusing on anything but me. “We’ve just had a difference of opinion that will, ah… have a snowball effect, so to speak.”

More lies.

“Is that all?” I ask, wishing he would open up to me like he usually does. We have the type of relationship most fathers and daughters wish they had. My dad—as sad as it may make me look—is my best friend. And I am his. There’s never any judgment between us, no matter the situation, and he’s always been there to wipe my tears when my mother’s too busy working. And now I need to be here to help him.

“That’s all, boo-boo. I promise.”

Although I don’t believe him, I allow my father the chance to tell me the truth in his own time. So, I glance back down at the scotch bottle loosely held by two tired fingers.

“So, what are you going to do about it?”

He smiles sweetly, and I see some semblance return. “My darling girl, sometimes you can’t do anything, you just need to allow it to play out.” My father does his best to hide the emotion troubling him by redirecting his next line to me. He narrows his gaze and takes me in. “You’re looking a little gray around the edges. Are you okay?”

Not wanting to add to his troubles, I nod and smile. “Just a headache. Overworked with school. That sort of thing.”

He reaches up and strokes my cheek with his thumb before heading down the hall. “We’ll get takeout tonight,” Dad calls over his shoulder. “I think we both need a night off.”

“Sounds great,” I say, taking my turn at lying.

Truth is, the idea of eating causes my stomach to churn, certain my unease is now due to my father’s current torment that seems out of both of our control.

~

I watch my father slowly pick at his fries while I do the same. Our burgers remain unwrapped but untouched and no doubt, cold. We both opted for the living room floor, our food spread out on the coffee table. Mom still hasn’t returned home or made contact, and I grow concerned.

“Have you heard from Mom?”

He flinches, but I put it down to me startling him from his thoughts. “No, why?”

“Shouldn’t she be home by now?”

He glances non-committedly at his watch. “Her flight must be delayed, so don’t expect her before bed.” Dad looks at my heap of food. “You’re not eating.”

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