Lovely, Lazy, Hot, and Not part 20

Thomas

There's something about an empty room that has always disturbed me. It doesn't make any sense to me...you'd thing I would be used to it by now, having been left alone in this house for so long, so many times. But for some reason, walking into my tiny little house, hearing the absolute silence, excepting the noise coming from the heater and occasionally the dish washer or dryer running, always throws me off. I can feel completely calm, content, and maybe even in a good mood, but as soon as I walk into that house, and feel the absence of the presence of my dad, of anyone at all, emotions stir up in me. At first, fear, an instinct that sets off every time I'm alone in a room, since I can remember, then sadness, loneliness, then, last of all, but also the longest-lasting, anger. Like for some reason I actually expect that one of these times my dad will be home, waiting for me, pouring some chips into a bowl and turning when I walk in, his face brightening as he asks me, "How was school, son?" I, unlike the kids in the movie scenes I had witnessed this exchange in countless times, would not have simply said, "Fine," and gotten annoyed, immediately heading toward my room. I would have gotten my own bowl, filled it with chips, too, and sat down to tell him exactly how my day did go and to ask him how his went. Or at least, that's how I had always imagined it would happen. As I walk into the house this Monday afternoon, however, and see him standing in the kitchen, putting a sandwich together, he doesn't even have time to ask me how my day went before I ask, shocked, "Dad?" He turns and smiles, like all those movie dads did. But I'm not filled with a sense of warmth, I'm not happy, I'm not even annoyed, like all those movie characters. Instead, I feel how I honestly should have known I would feel if this ever happened: suspicious. "Hey, son," he says, still smiling, making me narrow my eyes, "where you been?" I want to roll my eyes and reply, "I don't know, maybe the same place you've been all these years? Where were you when I came home, dad?" Instead, I casually walk into the kitchen, open the cupboard and pulling out a container of oreos, which I rip open before turning to him and replying, "Out." He nods and smiles again, and I can't help feeling slightly disturbed by the whole scene. Its so fake, like he's acting. I almost expect to turn around and find a cameraman behind me. "What are you doing here, dad?" I finally ask as he looks down at the sandwich that he has now finished making, like he doesn't know what to do next. Of course he doesn't. Its not like he has much practice with it. "The hospital let me out," he says. "Yea," I reply, irritated, "I noticed. I meant what are you doing home, dad."

"Oh. Well, uh, I live here..."

"Hardly."

"What?"

"Nothing. Aren't you going to go out, or something? Aren't you gonna go see friends, or something like that?"

"Well...no, not tonight."

"Oh."

"Is something wrong, son?" he asks, an expression of concern on his face as he looks at me intently, "You look...disturbed, or something. You feeling all right?" I sigh, "I'm fine dad. I'm going upstairs." I hurry to the stairs and go to my room, closing the door and throwing my backpack on my bed. I'm not going to torture myself by pretending that, just for a day, my dad actually cares about me. I sit down and pull out my textbooks from under my bed, starting my homework.

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