Daniel
Iwokeup to the sound of my alarm clock ringing and I knew, in that way youknow thingswhen you’re half asleep, that I was late for something. I grabbed my phone from the coffee table and hit the button to stop thealarm.
“Goddamn it,” I groaned throwing myself back on thecouch.
My father’s voice came out of thephone.
“Well. Your language leaves much to be desired, Daniel, but it’s nice of you to take my call foronce.”
Oh, fuck.Wasn’t that just what this week needed? Wasn’t that just whatanyweekneeded?
“Father dearest!” I said heartily, like my stomach wasn’t in free fall just from hearing his condescending voice. “Nice to hear fromyou.”
“Hmm. If that were the case, I’d think you’d have responded to the thirteen messages I’ve left you sinceJune.”
Trust him to know exactly how many times he’d called and exactly how many messages I’d deleted without callingback.
“You’re right,” I admitted. “I probably would’ve ignored this call too, except I was half asleep. What did youwant?”
It took him a second to recover from my overt rudeness, half a second in which I could practically hear his molars grinding, ruining all those veneers he’d spent a fortune on. I hated myself for sinking to his level, and hated myself more for caring, but this week had been chock full of annoying realizations and I had zero fucks to give about my dad and how many ways I’d managed to disappoint him without trying…again.
“Thanksgiving is this week,” he said. “I’m going to assume, based on your attitude, that you won’t be making it todinner?”
I rubbed my forehead with my fingers and looked around the living room. The table was piled high with dirty plates and sandwich crusts, empty cans, and even a discarded pizza box from the delivery I’d gotten Saturday night. My laptop was laying precariously between my knee and the sofa, where it must have gotten wedged last night. I was wearing week-old pajamas, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d brushed my teeth, and I hadn’t left the cabin in a solid week, except for occasional trots around the yard with the dog, who’d started relying on the doggie door in the kitchen since I was failing her as anowner.
“That’s correct,” I told him. “I’mbusy.”
“Busy. Is thatso?”
I bristled. “Yes. Yes, itis.”
“Alright. Doing what,precisely?”
“Writing,” I said, channeling the same no-fucks attitude I’d given him earlier. “Precisely.”
He sighed. “Again with this, Daniel? Again with the tortured author schtick, where you obsess over this one thing while the rest of your life burns to ashes? How many times do you have to go down this path before you realize how unhealthy itis?”
Only my father could make my writing career sound like an opioidaddiction.
“At least once more,” I told him. And then because I couldn’t help it, I added, “Given that the rest of my life isalreadyin ashes, I don’t think there’s a whole lot tolose.”
Though, even as I spoke the words I knew they weren’t quite true. They might have been last spring. Sure as fuck last winter. But not now. Not sinceJulian.
Julian, who I hadn’t seen in over aweek.
I winced, and was glad my father couldn’t seeit.
“And whose fault is that?” my father demanded. “If you would just get yourself a regular job, Daniel. Work in editing, work in education, work at myfirm—”
“No, thank you,” I said acidly. Yes, there had been an opening at my father’s investment firm with my name on it since birth, practically. My inability to get excited about stock dividends had been the first in a long line of disappointments my father had endured. “You were happy enough when I was making good money as a writer,” I reminded him. “When my first four books did well, you had no problem bragging to your friends and showing meoff.”
He sighed so lustily that if the butterfly effect was real, a devastating windstorm was about to hit SouthernEurope.
“Your mother and I were proud of your successes, Daniel. Of course we were. We always have been. We love you. But it’s been too painful to watch the crash thatfollows.”
Trust my father to find a way to be the victim in everysituation.
“I’m not asking you to watch anything. You gave me my marching orders last Christmas. You’re the one who’s been calling me. Thirteen times,apparently.”
