Page 82 of Severance

“You should at least use gum,” he growls, inspecting the contents in front of him. “You reek of cigarettes. One day they’ll kill you.”

“Cigarettes don’t kill people,” I murmur. “People with guns do.”

My father straightens and finally looks at me. His eyes are tired and he’s aged a lot since February. He looks worn out in this dim yellow light. I’m just now noticing how much gray he has in his hair and how deep the web of wrinkles around his eyes and mouth have gotten and it’s unnerving.

“You haven’t been to church in a while.”

“I don’t feel like God—if he exists—hears me,” I tell him honestly.

“God hears everyone…”

“Dad, I’m not sure if you understand this, but not everyone is like you. Just because I’m your daughter doesn’t mean my brain works the same way yours does. I have my own desires and I want to make my own mistakes so that I can learn from them. I want to create my own experiences, and all you do is try to convince me that your beliefs are the right ones when actually, there are no right beliefs. I want you to stop trying to make some imaginary person out of me. I want you to accept me for who I am.”

My father doesn’t respond. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his khakis and thinks for a while. There’s both confusion and anger in his eyes.

“Just because I don’t agree with you on something doesn’t mean we can’t still be a family.” My tone takes on a high pitch because I have this stupid need for him to hear me at least this once while I’m in control of my own emotions and not a raging, screaming mess.

“I failed you,” he says quietly. “I’ve only ever wanted what’s best for you.”

“Why do you believe you failed me? Because my GPA is below 4.0? A piece of paper doesn’t define a person. And that’s all it is—a piece of paper.”

“Because I couldn’t save you from the horrible things you’ve seen…” He gives me a sad smile, his voice shaky.

I avert my gaze and look past him at the shelf with his toolboxes. It’s probably the first time in months we’ve spoken to each other like two adults, without yelling, and I’m scared to say something wrong because I really don’t want this to turn into another fight.

“It’s not in your power, Dad.” A sigh leaves my mouth, and the heaviness in my chest pushes hard against my heart. “You can’t stop bad things from happening just because you pray. Look at me?” I shift my gaze back to him. “Look at me and tell me you truly believe God allowed someone I loved to be killed for a reason?”

We stare at each other for a while, the silence between us thicker than mud. I’m baffled my father doesn’t come up with an answer because he always has a line from the Bible to throw at me.

“That’s what I thought,” I say. “The world is a shitty place full of shitty people, and I don’t want to waste whatever time I have left asking for forgiveness or things I may never get. I want to live it to the fullest.”

My father’s face tenses, but he still doesn’t contradict me.

“I’m going to bed,” I say, turning to head home, but I come to a stop when I remember about my car. “The check engine light came on in the Prius.”

“We’ll take it to the shop.” My father nods.

“Thanks. Goodnight.”

I don’t know what exactly pushes me to call Mikah when I get to my room. Maybe the Virgin Mary comment. But I dial his number twice and I sit there and listen to his voicemail recording, breathing into the phone like a teenage stalker and not saying anything, because I have no idea what to say.

22. Before

“Dad?” I stop in the doorway of my father’s study and wait for his reaction. He’s hunched over in front of his computer, his eyes jumping across the blocks of text on the screen. “Do you have a minute?” My throat feels itchy and I want to fast-forward the upcoming conversation to the moment in the future where we peacefully agree on my moving out.

My father motions for me to come over, his gaze sliding to me from above the frames of his readers as he looks up from the screen.

I stop in the middle of the room and force a smile. My mind’s going a thousand miles a second and the speech I’ve been practicing all week is now becoming a jumbled mess in my head.

“Everything okay, sweetheart?”

“Yes. I just wanted to talk about something,” I say, pulling up a chair.

“Okay.” My father takes off his glasses and sets them on the desk next to the old family photo in which I’m probably no older than six or seven.

“One of the girls at the restaurant is leaving.” I begin strategically pressing the right buttons. “And I asked to pick up some of her morning shifts.”

“Good. I don’t like you driving downtown at night.” My father’s mood seems to lighten. He’s never gotten over my switching jobs without his permission.

---