Symptoms of Neglect
Summer sun beat down on the stone sidewalk dining area of the upscale bistro. An off-white umbrella cast an oasis of shadow for Stephanie and her father. Their table consisted of wrought iron, twisted into vine-like shapes that belonged in a consistently landscaped garden. One of its legs hung over the edge of the sidewalk.
Her father broke the silence, “I’m so happy to see you, Stephanie.” He smiled at her.
There it was. The smile that had defined her wonderful childhood. Pumpkin picking, tubing, making cookies, getting home from school — that smile had always been there for her. When she had friends over for playdates they would ask why her dad was home instead of her mom. She remembered feeling a tremendous pride telling them her dad’s job was to take care of her.
“How has Freshman year been going?”
“I’m a Sophomore…”
He rustled in his chair. “Jeez you sure are growing up fast.” It was one of those corny lines that you might hear from a distant aunt or uncle.
Stephanie had never been happier to have a waiter interrupt. She ordered a ginger ale. Her dad ordered tequila, along with half the appetizers on the menu. Stephanie couldn’t remember the last time she had been to a restaurant for lunch. Whenever she was with her father money never seemed to matter though. His new lifestyle was a whirlwind of satisfied temptations. In the moment she savored the gifts, but his sporadic overflows of generosity crept up on her. Nostalgic reminders of his past dedication that nagged at her. Cheap tokens of goodwill tainted with remorse.
Silence hung in the breeze. A napkin blew off the table next to them. It flopped several times over before coming to a rest on the other side of the narrow cobblestone street. When the waiter emerged from inside with their drinks, her father broke the silence in a jumble, as if trying to maintain a certain impression for their host.
“So, I want to know everything. How are you liking Montreal?”
Stephanie shrugged. Her father gave the waiter a perturbed smile and thanked him as he planted a homemade ginger ale on her coaster. Ginger ale helped with the insufferable stomach pains. One of several recurring symptoms of anxiety caused by her father’s unexplained absence the past two years. Fresh chunks of ginger swimming in ice cold club soda slid up the paper straw.
“I’ve never had a chance to tell you what happened…” He began, earnestly. “I’ve changed, Stephanie. Can you understand?”
Her lips retreated from the straw, pursed in spite. Her mother hadn’t been able to give her a straight answer as to why he had left, yet another task he had abandoned to his former wife’s shoulders. She almost didn’t want to know now. Two years with no apology or explanation. The knot in her stomach turned to raw anger at the unreciprocated understanding he was so naive to ask for.
She watched his eyes harden waiting for an answer. She didn’t trust those eyes anymore. Her father spread his once warm and comforting arms imposingly on top of the empty chairs sitting next to him. An athletic build fit snugly in his suit coat. His right thumb began fidgeting with a silver ring on his finger. It gave off scraping clicks against the back of the chair. As he rotated it Stephanie could have sworn she saw the ring swell in length threefold through a metallic blur. At one point the ring looked as if it spanned his entire finger. She blinked several times. His eyes were fixed on her above a closed smirk.
It took a moment for Stephanie to realize he was still waiting for an answer. He was immune to her expectations — practically mocking her. She scolded herself for being so silly — for letting him have such an effect on her emotional well being. He couldn’t actually be in control, could he? She looked around in despair, breath shortening. Her father raised his eyebrows. She stood on reflex, keeping her shoulders squared to him at the sound of her chair knocked backwards onto the sidewalk. His eyes widened, probably more at the sound than at her sudden outburst.
The man she had grown up knowing was locked up deep behind those eyes. Her actual father had sent his captor. A half-hearted messenger, whose interpretation of whatever love remained was to treat her to an overpriced lunch.
