father learn to hate my sister.
“Not under my roof,” he says, and I wonder if I’ll ever see her again.
I reach for my handbag, but Dave stops me with a look before asking, “What are you doing?”
“I’m calling my parents.”
Dave opens his mouth to protest, then stops and shrugs. The traffic is lightening as I fish out my cell and dial the numbers of my father.
It’s hard to hold the phone; my palms are slick with sweat and my eyes are already misting over.
My father picks up. “Kasie?” he says, surprised. Perhaps he didn’t think I’d be brave enough to call.
“Dad, I . . . we need to talk. I know . . . I know how angry you must be with me.”
There’s a long pause on the other end of the line and I anxiously try to think of a way to proceed.
“Kasie, is there something you’re trying to tell me?” he finally asks. His voice is cautious . . . and confused.
“You . . . you don’t know why you might be angry at me?” I look over at Dave. He’s grinning.
“Have you done something?”
I pull the phone away from my ear. Part of me wants to laugh with relief and hysteria and pain. Dave’s playing a game. I’m fighting a war. He’s winning and I’m dying.
With a shaky hand I bring the phone back up. “I just realized that I didn’t spend much time with you at the party and I didn’t even offer to drive you back to the airport the next day. I’ve been horribly neglectful.”
“Which is why you had Dave call us,” my father says; his voice isn’t guarded anymore. It’s relaxed; he’s pleased with my apology for what he sees as a minor offense. “Dave explained how things are at your work right now. You do what you need to do, honey.”
“OK,” I say, numbly.
“Dave’s a good man,” my father says thoughtfully. “He’s . . . decent and he comes from a good family. I really like him.”
“I know,” I say.
Dave pulls us into a new lane and we pass a stream of cars slowly making their way to an exit.
“We’re proud of you, Kasie. We’re proud of the choices you’ve made in your life. And please don’t worry about being caught up at work. Your mother and I completely understand. And it’s not forever, right?”
“Right.”
“Good! So soon you’ll be the sweet, attentive daughter we all know and love. Just make sure you don’t neglect that man of yours. He’s a treasure, too.”
Trust, sweet, love . . . these words seem loaded to me now that I’m living in a world of deception, bitterness, and hate. Dave’s clearly enjoying my unraveling. He’s savoring the sour taste of my betrayal, letting the vinegar slide around on his tongue before swallowing it, and now I can smell it on his breath and seeping out of his pores. It defines him.
I say good-bye to my father, doling out enough pleasantries in the process to distract him from the sadness he might hear if he bothered to listen too closely.
I look at Dave. He’s still smiling but his smile doesn’t seem to be attached to the rest of him. His shoulders are rigid, his eyes are hard, his hands grip the steering wheel like it’s a rifle someone might try to pull away from him.
“I’m sorry,” I say. For the first time today I mean it. “I’m sorry I made you so very sad and so horribly angry.”
The smile stays plastered in place but his shoulders rise even higher. “Just because I didn’t tell them this time doesn’t mean I won’t. Your father won’t forgive you.”
“Dave, you don’t have to let this happen.”
“What?” he says with a short laugh. “I don’t have to expose you?”
“You don’t have to let my misjudgments change who you are.”
He’s quiet for a moment; we switch from the 405 to the 101 and the traffic slows once more. “When you took off your clothes for him, when you let him touch you in all the places where only I was supposed to be allowed to touch you . . . was that a misjudgment ?”
“Perhaps I should have chosen a different word
“Not under my roof,” he says, and I wonder if I’ll ever see her again.
I reach for my handbag, but Dave stops me with a look before asking, “What are you doing?”
“I’m calling my parents.”
Dave opens his mouth to protest, then stops and shrugs. The traffic is lightening as I fish out my cell and dial the numbers of my father.
It’s hard to hold the phone; my palms are slick with sweat and my eyes are already misting over.
My father picks up. “Kasie?” he says, surprised. Perhaps he didn’t think I’d be brave enough to call.
“Dad, I . . . we need to talk. I know . . . I know how angry you must be with me.”
There’s a long pause on the other end of the line and I anxiously try to think of a way to proceed.
“Kasie, is there something you’re trying to tell me?” he finally asks. His voice is cautious . . . and confused.
“You . . . you don’t know why you might be angry at me?” I look over at Dave. He’s grinning.
“Have you done something?”
I pull the phone away from my ear. Part of me wants to laugh with relief and hysteria and pain. Dave’s playing a game. I’m fighting a war. He’s winning and I’m dying.
With a shaky hand I bring the phone back up. “I just realized that I didn’t spend much time with you at the party and I didn’t even offer to drive you back to the airport the next day. I’ve been horribly neglectful.”
“Which is why you had Dave call us,” my father says; his voice isn’t guarded anymore. It’s relaxed; he’s pleased with my apology for what he sees as a minor offense. “Dave explained how things are at your work right now. You do what you need to do, honey.”
“OK,” I say, numbly.
“Dave’s a good man,” my father says thoughtfully. “He’s . . . decent and he comes from a good family. I really like him.”
“I know,” I say.
Dave pulls us into a new lane and we pass a stream of cars slowly making their way to an exit.
“We’re proud of you, Kasie. We’re proud of the choices you’ve made in your life. And please don’t worry about being caught up at work. Your mother and I completely understand. And it’s not forever, right?”
“Right.”
“Good! So soon you’ll be the sweet, attentive daughter we all know and love. Just make sure you don’t neglect that man of yours. He’s a treasure, too.”
Trust, sweet, love . . . these words seem loaded to me now that I’m living in a world of deception, bitterness, and hate. Dave’s clearly enjoying my unraveling. He’s savoring the sour taste of my betrayal, letting the vinegar slide around on his tongue before swallowing it, and now I can smell it on his breath and seeping out of his pores. It defines him.
I say good-bye to my father, doling out enough pleasantries in the process to distract him from the sadness he might hear if he bothered to listen too closely.
I look at Dave. He’s still smiling but his smile doesn’t seem to be attached to the rest of him. His shoulders are rigid, his eyes are hard, his hands grip the steering wheel like it’s a rifle someone might try to pull away from him.
“I’m sorry,” I say. For the first time today I mean it. “I’m sorry I made you so very sad and so horribly angry.”
The smile stays plastered in place but his shoulders rise even higher. “Just because I didn’t tell them this time doesn’t mean I won’t. Your father won’t forgive you.”
“Dave, you don’t have to let this happen.”
“What?” he says with a short laugh. “I don’t have to expose you?”
“You don’t have to let my misjudgments change who you are.”
He’s quiet for a moment; we switch from the 405 to the 101 and the traffic slows once more. “When you took off your clothes for him, when you let him touch you in all the places where only I was supposed to be allowed to touch you . . . was that a misjudgment ?”
“Perhaps I should have chosen a different word
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