My short story...

Remember "Homecoming" (see old blog post), this is another story from that short story compilation surrounding the same family!  Enjoy.  

I Think I’ll Write

Charice was washing dishes and getting through her homework when the phone rang.

“Hello.”

“Charice, is that you?”  The unfamiliar voice asked on the other end.

“Yes.  Who’s this?”  

“It’s me.  It’s you father.”  Her father?  They hadn’t spoken since she was six.  That was six years ago, for him to call now, out of the blue was unexpected.  She’d almost forget he existed—almost.  His presence always lingered in the back of her mind, like God.  She knew he existed evident by the existence of his creation, her, but she never saw him or heard from him personally.  She didn’t even get the odd Christmas or birthday card.  “Hello, are you still there?”

“Yeah.” 

“How you doing?”

“I’m fine.” 

“Doing good in school?”

“The same as always I guess.”  The small talk felt so forced and unnatural. 

“The same as always?  What As and Bs?” 

“For the most part.”

“Just like your old man.  I was always good in school.” 

“Did you?”  She didn’t know that about her father.  In fact, she didn’t know much beyond his name, Ernest Austin. 

For a moment, neither spoke, allowing their breaths to mingle through the phone line.  The silence exponentially increased the awkwardness of the situation, but Charice remained silent.  She didn’t know what to say or if it were her place to break the silence.  Finally, Ernest began, “Anyway, I won’t hold you.  Just wanted to let you know I was going to be in town next week for business.  Though maybe I could come get you, we could get dinner.  What do you think?”

For a moment the words didn’t register.  The idea that her father would call her suddenly and casually mention the two of them having dinner together was too incomprehensible.  What did she think?  She thought she was dreaming.  “Okay,” she replied simply. 

“Good.  So I’ll see you next week?”

“Okay.” 

They ended the call with the typical goodbyes and Charice was left feeling like euphoric.  That was a week ago.   

The day of the big reunion came, and Charice got up extra early to get her chores done and get dressed.  He said he’d be there around 2:00 pm, and by 1:30, she was sick with nervous energy.  The thought of spending time with her father thrilled her while creating this sense of forbidding at the same time.  Would he find her adequate?  Her grade were decent but was that enough?  What did other girls do with their fathers?  What would they talk about?  All of these commonplace questions invaded her psyche forcing her to nervously pace the living room. 

When 2:00 came and went, she continued to pace, running to the window when a car passed or when she thought she heard a door close.  By 2:45 she was sitting on the sofa trying to read a book.  The words on the page flowed together not making sense.  How could she concentrate when her father could be here any moment.  Would they hug when they greet each other?  Would she call him…Dad?  The word was so foreign to her, so unused.  She wasn’t sure her mouth could form the word.  She practiced saying it in the bathroom mirror, acting out conversations she expected they would have as they ate their restaurant dinner. 

“Dad, I’m glad you came.”  She’d say. 

“Me, too, sweetheart, me, too.”  He’d reply. 

Or maybe, maybe she’d play it aloof.  Not appear to be too eager for his affection, his attention, or acknowledgement that she was his daughter.  He’d ask her about school, her friends, what college she planned to attend and she’d answer all of his questions politely, avoiding the need to say words like “dad” or “father” altogether.  That seemed safest—the best way to circumvent that awkward moment when her tongue hesitates over the word...dad. 

At 5:00 pm the phone rang and she was still waiting.  Her grandmother called her from the other room to pick the other line. 

“Hello.”

“Hey, Charice, it’s me, your dad.” 

“Oh, hi.”  Hi voice sounded less confident this time.  She held her breath, mentally preparing herself for disappointment. 

“Hey, Charice, I’m sorry.  I won’t be able to make it today.  I thought I would, but I got tied up with things on my end.”

Exhale, “Oh.” 

“But listen, next time I’m in town, it’s me and you.  How does that sound?  Is that okay?”

“Okay.”

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah.  I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?  You don’t sound alright.”

“Yes…I’m fine.”

“Okay…Well, I have to go.  I’ll talk to you later.  And remember, you and me.” 

“Okay.  Bye.”  She hung up the phone, mentally berating herself for getting excited about dinner with…him. 

Going to her room, she closed the door and found her journal and a pen.  Once she was seated on her bed, back against the head board, she began to write, in her small, squat handwriting “To whom it may concern, why does it mother, rather a man has twenty kids, or is not even there…”  The tears came before she started the next stanza.