“We’ve never done anything together that I’ve actually cared about. Anything he does just feels … artificial. Like he’s compensating for the years of neglect. And even what he does isn’t much at all.” I could feel my cheeks flushing with distress, her pen moving rapidly across the page. I’m sure she’s filled plenty of journals with notes of our sessions. I’m sure there’s plenty just filled with things I’ve said about my father.
She glances up, her eyes move right past me checking the clock mounted on the wall. “I’m sorry to cut you off here, but it appears our time is up for the week.” She gestures to the door with a snap of her wrist. I don’t bother to say goodbye, Dr. Jay isn’t my friend. She’s a therapist. One who listens, who writes things down, but never helps. Her words mean nothing to me. There’s no guidance or advice, she just echoes my problems back to me with a passive aggressive tone.
The dim fluorescent lights flicker in the hall outside of her office. Paint peels off the walls around me, water drips from rusted heaters. This entire building seems to be falling apart. The irony burns. Outside, the frigid air stings my eyes, the wind piercing my teary waterlines. It’s already dark; only a few streetlights illuminate the sidewalks. My legs ache, my joints get sore in the cold. It’s about twelve blocks back to our apartment. Men loiter around dark corners, waiting. It can feel scary, but apparently my father doesn’t care that I walk alone at this time. He’s probably asleep anyways. If I didn’t make it home tonight, would he notice?
It’s important to keep your head down, have your hands in your pockets, and wear something that hides your silhouette. I’ve been bothered by some of these loiterers before. I told my father, but he says: “gas costs too much to lug you around to your, “extracurriculars “”. I pay for my therapy out of pocket, apparently it’s just an “extracurricular”. I’ll probably stop going, Dr. Jay isn’t right for me. Or maybe I’ll keep going anyway, at least it’s somewhere warm to stay.
The door is locked when I get home. He knows I don’t have a key. I knock harshly, but hear nothing in response. I’m usually able to open the door with a plastic card, I stand there swiping it through the crack until it eventually gives way. He’s asleep again, even with the TV blaring a foot in front of him. Why should I care to wake him? Instead I make my way to my own room, and shut the door firmly behind me. You have to shut it firmly if you want it to close, the doorways are slanted down at the top. My room is nearly empty. I keep everything packed into boxes, in case I ever get the chance to move out. My bed sits on its precarious frame by the window, a sheet hanging down over the glass. I keep the window locked, but the frigid air always seems to seep inside. It’s moments like these that I miss Dr. Jay’s warm office more than ever. I take the sheet down from the window and drape it over my thin blanket. The only way to sleep through the night is if I stay fully curled up. Sleeping is better than staring at the empty walls.
Another thing I hate about winter: the lack of sun. What I wouldn’t give to wake to warm sunlight pouring into my room. Instead, the entire horizon sits in a gray monochrome. At least the light in the bathroom is yellow. It isn’t sun, but it warms my pale skin in the mirror just enough to make me look alive. The purple beneath my eyes seems to darken each day, while my cracked lips seem to grow paler. I don’t usually give my appearance much thought. Surprisingly, my father is quite the opposite. He slicks his graying hair back tightly, and keeps cleanly shaven. I’ve never seen him walk past a mirror without stopping to admire himself.
The clock on the stove reads 6:32, the TV is still blaring. I don’t bother to turn it off, I think silence would wake him more than any noise. He can’t seem to live in silence, he’s always searching for new distractions. Sometimes it’s a hobby, usually it’s a girlfriend.
I don’t really have anywhere to go, but I like to get out of the house. My coat is from a few years ago, the sleeves are a bit short, but it keeps me warm enough. I grab my bag and leave the apartment building. My exposed hands and wrists shudder from the wind. I begin to walk nowhere in particular, it’s more fulfilling to just see where I end up. Although the sun remains covered, the air feels slightly warmer than the night before. The fresh snow has turned to a dirty sludge at the edge of the sidewalks. My feet seem to walk in their own direction, following a subconscious map. I come to a set of concrete steps, my feet continue to follow. Up the steps is the library, the old one I should say. People don’t usually come here since the other one’s been built. The new library has a cafe, an elevator, new computers, modern architecture, but it doesn’t feel very comforting. It’s too stiff; too clean.
My mother used to bring me here, but I don’t remember much. I must’ve only been three or four. I remember sounds and colors. This place used to be much more vibrant, before the books collected their thick layer of dust and the carpeting faded to its desaturated mauve. There isn’t much sound, only the hushed footsteps of the librarian and the scattered flipping of pages.
Some people say they get lost in books, that they feel as though they’re in different worlds, surrounded by different people. Reading has never been an escape for me. Maybe I’m too logical. I merely see letters followed by punctuation. But I still like the library, there’s no blaring television here. Behind the endless rows of bookshelves are a few leather couches. Their exteriors are faded and torn, the frames beneath the cushions seem sunken in. But as soon as I sit down, I feel myself fade into sleep.
When my eyes open, I’m drawn to the window overlooking the road. The sky has transitioned from gray to a deep charcoal. The sun has lowered. It’s been hours since I left, I wonder if he’s looking for me. My stomach burns, I haven’t eaten much of anything recently. We don’t keep much at the house, I tend to take things from school when I have the chance. I know I should go home, maybe he’ll be worried about me. I make my way home, walking much faster than I had before. Part of me feels excited, that he might even be waiting for me.
The door is unlocked this time, I don’t hear the TV like usual. When I open it, the living room is empty. He’s cleaned the place, too.
“Dad? Are you home?” I hear nothing. Then subtle laughter from down the hall. “Dad?”
Two figures make their way down the hallway.
“There she is!” He runs over and fully embraces me. I haven’t felt his arms around me in years. When he lets go, I can’t do anything but stand there frozen, like a marionette without its strings. A blonde woman with bold lipstick comes out from the doorway and puts her hand out to shake mine.
“Hello! You must be the lovely daughter I’ve heard so much about.” My hands stay still at my sides.
I look to my Father, “lovely? … Dad, who is this?” He looks askance and hesitates to answer my question. Her hand retracts. Her forehead creases as her eyebrows pull together, I’m sure she senses the tension between us.
“This is Mandy, I thought I’d told you about her already.” He laughs uncomfortably, nudging my arm.
“No, actually. You haven’t talked to me much at all recently. You’ve been … asleep.”
I walk past the two of them and into my room. I make sure the door shuts fully. As soon as I hit my mattress I feel the tears begin to well around my eyes. He wasn’t worried. He wasn’t waiting for me. I don’t think he noticed I was gone. Or maybe he did, and was relieved, that way his new girlfriend could come over without anyone to bother them. I just hate that he’s pretending to be a Dad, because he’s not. Nobody comes to knock at my door, or asks if I’m alright. Nobody ever comes, which is fine. I guess I shouldn’t expect anything more. He always seems to talk badly of my mother. I thought he was angry that she left him, but now I realize that he’s only angry that she left him with me. I’m the one thing getting in his way from living the life he desires. So, he ignores my presence and tries to live that life of shallow and superficial distractions anyways.
My tears dry. Instead of wallowing in my own self pity any longer, I think I’ve accepted it. The only thing I can think to do is go outside and let my feet lead me along the sidewalk.