If You Can

“How’s the chicken?” Dad asks, face framed with concern. I stare at his face, noticing every detail. His black brows are furrowed behind his narrow eyeglasses. The narrow eyeglasses attempt to cover the dark circles, but there are visible purple rings stamped below the area where the frame meets the eye. The mole in the center of his face is more noticeable than ever. Dad is Eastern-European pale, but right now, his pallor has become a deathly white glow. The mole, normally brown, is almost as colorless as his skin.

I gaze downward, blinking back tears. Shove a piece of chicken into my mouth, nearly choking on its dryness. The meat tastes as though it is a concoction of salt and cardboard, as if Dad were crying while cooking and neglected to turn on the oven.

I pretend not to hear his question. My father is predictable. I know what’s next. First, it’s the chicken, then, how are you feeling, and after that, interrogation. I’m an almost-18-year-old prisoner.

“I asked: How’s the chicken!” Dad exclaims, a little louder this time. I watch as a red-hot flush engulfs his cheeks. Nothing is spared, not even the mole. The eyes narrow into green slits behind the eyeglasses, exposing the remains of the dark rings below them. My father’s countless attempts at intimidation are unsuccessful, and this time is no different. Inside the squinted pupils, his fear, his worry returns. His deep concern for my childish behavior instigates a fire of guilt inside of my chest. I feel responsible. Responsible for everything. My heart sinks and I wipe the corners of my eyes.

Seeking to distract myself from the inevitability of bawling, I spit out a chicken bone and nearly choke on my saliva. Then decide that I will need to probably answer my father’s question at some point, otherwise his warden-like behaviors will become even harsher.

I speak, straining to keep my voice steady. “It’s disgusting. You tried Dad, but I’m really not hungry. I’m going up to my room.”

“Skye, please stay? I can’t eat alone anymore. I need to talk to you. About everything. About….her.”

The pitiful begging. I notice that his plaid suit is stained with sweat. He’s trying. He really is.

I brush back a tuft of brown hair, lower my eyebrows, and fake a smile.

“I can’t.” I don’t say any more, otherwise my voice will break. I hate the way I sound—indifferent, apathetic. I’m not.

“Damnit Skye, I need to talk to you!” His voice raises to an unexpected yell. I am afraid his arteries will explode. I can hear the tinge of the Southern accent that the voice lessons have nearly masked. I can’t look at him. I can’t look at that face full of sadness and pain and misplaced love.

I avert my eyes to the college book on the kitchen table. The one that used to interest me so much. On the cover, a perfect, happy picture of Columbia students. Bile rises in my throat. I swallow hard and look back at my dad. Raise my voice to match him.

"I said, I am not hungry! Leave me alone!"

To be honest, I’m starving. The sauce-speckled cereal was not nourishing in the least. I do acknowledge the basic need to consume a substantial amount of food, but purposefully depriving myself has become something I’ve taken comfort in. Instead, I grab a Snickers bar from the cabinet. And another. And some Skittles for extra measure.

Dad’s face softens. He pretends not to notice my raiding of the cabinet. He’s tried to persuade me to eat healthily—or to actually eat—on a number of occasions. But the only foods in the house that I’ll willingly consume consist of two boxes of Lucky Charms, a two-year-old package of beef jerky, a few tins of Oreos, a half-bag of Frosted Flakes, Twizzlers either from Walgreens or Rite-Aid—I can’t remember—and old movie theater popcorn.

I quickly glance back at my dad. He is stoic, unmoving. If my stare conveys any emotion, he doesn’t notice.

“Let’s please just talk another time then--” he starts, but I am already up the stairs.