My dad is halfway down the basement stairs. Of course hecan’t see us, but it feels like we’re standing on a tightwire in a high wind. One false move and this could be messy.
“Your mother and I are going to our appointment.” Oh, right, it’s therapy night. No wonder he doesn’t have time to worry about his daughter and what she’s doing with some stranger in the basement.
“Okay. We’re just going to finish up this movie.”
“What are you watching?”
“Doctor Zhivago. One of your favorites, right, Dad?” That could have been an error. He might want to stay for a beat and quote some of his favorite lines now.
But no, we’re safe. All he says is, “Yes. Great film. Mom has her phone if you need us.” And he feels his way back up the stairs.
I stand up, my hands over my mouth in disbelief at what has just happened. Richard groans and rolls onto the floor, making like a dead body.
“You know my dad’s blind, right?” I say.
He grimaces with his eyes closed. “I fucking do now!”
Richard always looks calm, cool, and collected, but he doesn’t look that way currently. He looks disheveled and traumatized, like he went through a cycle in the dryer. I start laughing. He looks at me, mock offended, but I can’t stop. Life is too ridiculous. He starts laughing, too.
“Hey, wait,” he finally says. “If your dad is blind, how does he have a favorite movie?”
My laughing almost shifts gears right into crying. I clearmy throat, try to sound objective about the whole thing. “He wasn’t always this way. Plus, you know, there’s a lot more to movies than what you see. There’s the great dialogue, plus the score, the sound effects. He still watches movies, actually, even though he’s not technically watching.” I know I wanted to talk about deep stuff with Richard, but this is not the topic I would have picked.
“Ah. So was he in an accident? Traumatic brain injury?” Richard runs his hand through his hair and it falls effortlessly into place, any hint of his recent dishevelment gone. He’s all business now. I appreciate the respect he’s giving this, but I’m not sure I want to do the whole genetics lesson. Especially if he makes the logical leap to my own hereditary situation.
“No, it just got worse over time. It’s progressive,” I say, plucking tiny nubs of lint off the throw pillow I’ve pulled into my lap. I look at the floor. I’m suddenly embarrassed, but what is there to be embarrassed about? It’s just medical fact. But even worse than that, somewhere underneath that discomfort I’m ashamed. What’s wrong with me that I can’t be proud of my own father? And why not? Because he’s a little bit outside the band of normal?
Richard drops onto his knees in front of me, and tips up my chin so our eyes are locked. “That must be really hard,” he says, his voice soft.
I bite my lip. “Yeah, I think it is. He hasn’t been handling it that well lately, to be honest. He might be in denial or depressed or something.”
He closes his hands over both of mine. “I meant for you.”
For me. I’m so stripped inside that I almost spill my guts all over the clammy basement carpet. Like, hey, Richard, you think that’s bad? That’s nothing. I’m going blind, too. Just enough that I see dead people—either that or I’m also going crazy. You wanna go back to making out?
Instead, I smile and smooth my 1920s hair swoop back behind my ear. “You’re sweet,” I say. “But I’m okay.”
“If you say so, m’lady,” he says, and slides back onto the couch to sit next to me. “Now, how about we get serious about this movie? I feel like you weren’t even really paying attention before.” He winks.
“I’ll be more disciplined, I promise,” I say.
So we start actually watching the movie. The energy in the room is different now, comfortable, almostmoreintimate. I suddenly don’t regret the conversation. Some truths came out tonight. Not everything, but something, some actual unpleasantness, and he didn’t scream and run away, so that’s encouraging. Plus, now he’s resting his arm in my lap like we’ve known each other for a hundred years. And this is just the beginning.
The show is still over a week away, but after last year’sLittle Shop of Horrorsdebacle where the plant left her mic in the dressing room and Mr. Mushnik had a major wardrobe malfunction, Mr. Price has decided on double tech and dress rehearsals. Which I guess in this case works out, since he has two female leads.
My run-through is starting any moment now. I shift from foot to foot, fidgety energy tingling in my limbs, as Asha attempts to suit me up with a cordless mic. Asha is into all things audio. Usually that means she DJs the dances in the gym, which she asserts is the best way not to ever have to deal with the social-anxiety cesspool that is a school dance. This month, however, her talents have made her sound boss for the play.
“Ouch!” I yelp as I feel tiny peach fuzz hairs near my ear detach from my skin.
“Well, stop moving!”
“I will if you stop torturing me!”
She coos fake sympathy, peels the cordless mic off my cheek one more time, and retwists the wire. “So is Richard your boyfriend now or what?”
Asha is uncannily good at asking things that I’m afraid to ask myself. I attempt to deflect the question. “Asha, I love you, but you are a shit listener. I told you. I don’t think there’s goingto be a label like that. I’m pretty sure that’s not the way things are done anymore.”
She frowns and makes an incredulousphhhtsound. “Who told you that? Him?”
