Quiet Paragraphs

Tag: dad

  • part 3: the call

    part 3: the call

    My dad?

    I hadn’t seen him, or talked to him, in a good while. In fact, I didn’t remember the last time. I knew what he looked like because sometimes I’d be flipping through family photo albums and his face would pop up here and there—and these pictures dubbed up as memories. I liked his smile but I didn’t know what it felt like when he smiled at me. I heard him laughing through the pictures, but I couldn’t work out what it sounded like. We had spent time together, and I just couldn’t, for the life of me, remember how it felt to have him close to me. Next to me. With me.

    “Do you want to talk to him? He’d like to ask you about something…”

    “Okay.” I took the phone and put it to my ear and waited, holding my breath.

    “Say something, baby.” Mum’s encouragement was sweet. I just wished I had no eyes on me.

    “Hello…?” I said, my voice shaking a little.

    “Hey, buddy! So nice to hear you! How’s my little champ doing? Do you remember me? Gee, we haven’t seen each other in a while… I have been really busy, you know? I was going to phone you sooner but things kept coming up, would you believe that? But hey, we’re talking now, right!?”

    “Yeah…” was all I could say.

    Then there was silence. It lasted eternity. It felt longer than the 11 years I had been alive for.

    “So anyway… I would like to come and see you! I’m coming down in a couple of weeks with Margo and Monica, do you remember them? I’m sure you do! They’d love to see you too! Mon is so excited to see her older brother, she doesn’t talk about anything else!”

    I was just nodding along, forgetting that such gesture serves no purpose in a phone conversation.

    “I thought I could come by your house and we could spend the day together. We’ll go round Auntie Jane’s, everyone’s going to be there! What do you think? Would you like that?”

    I opened my mouth but the words wouldn’t come out.

    I didn’t know if I’d have liked that. I didn’t know what I thought.

    “You still there?” The impatient tone underlined his words.

    “Yeah…okay!” I said hurriedly.
    “Oh yeah? So you up for it?”
    “Yeah! Bye!”

    I handed the phone back to Mum and ran away to my bedroom.

    Was this phone call my fault? Was I being punished for listening in?

    Maybe if I hadn’t picked up the phone, he wouldn’t have asked me if I wanted to see him.

    There was a comic book lying closed on my bedroom floor. I sat down to find the page I’d left off. Was it page 14? Or 22? 27? Did it matter? I opened it randomly and stared at the drawings, but I couldn’t focus. Maybe if I hadn’t listened in, it wouldn’t have been him phoning.

    The cartoon paperback felt like a safe escape, but every time I opened it, fragments of this story—old and new—were echoing like my dad’s voice on the phone. Familiar, yet distant.

    Should I start from the beginning?
    Maybe if I hadn’t picked it up, I wouldn’t feel so uncomfortable now.

    I flipped back to page one.

    I wasn’t sure how this story was going to unfold. It felt recycled, like I’d been through this before. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to read it again, but a flicker of excitement pulled me forward, even as my stomach churned with dread, and I knew I’d have to.

  • part 2: familiar voices

    part 2: familiar voices

    So when the phone rang on one cold December morning, I was in my bedroom. Mum answered it in the kitchen, and I casually made my way into the living room. I made sure my brother was too busy building an army of little plastic soldiers and Dad was cooking, TV on at the same time. Perfect. I sat down next to the phone and masterfully followed step two and three.

    “…coming down over the holidays,” said the strangely familiar male voice on the other side of the line.

    Who was this? Definitely a grown man, of which I knew a few—mostly friends of Mum’s and Dad’s. Or family. Had I seen him before? Maybe he visited us when I wasn’t home?

    “Okay,” Mum stated dryly.
    “Can I come and see him?”
    “Sure you can!”
    “I thought I could maybe take him round to Jane’s and make a day out of it, if that’s cool?”
    “Well, why don’t you ask him? He’s old enough to tell you if he wants to.”
    “Yeah…sure…”

    There was a hesitation in his voice.

    “Janny, sweetie! Come over here!”

    Called Mum out loud whilst holding the phone away from her.

    I froze.

    This wasn’t one of those nine-times-out-of-ten conversations. They were talking about me. This man wanted to come see me, take me to Jane’s and make a day out of it. Someone’s planning on making an appearance soon and my presence is apparently required.

    I’m in the spotlight and I don’t like it.

    Anxious all of a sudden, I still managed step five impeccably.

    “Where is he? Janny! Someone’s on the phone for you!”

    I wasn’t sure if I wanted to speak to this man, but for some reason he wanted to speak to me. Why though? To say Merry Christmas? Happy New Year? My birthday was coming up soon so maybe he wanted to get in super early to wish me all the best. Maybe school? What if it was one of my friend’s dads? I had a hard time matching the voice with a face. Yet, it didn’t feel completely new.

    “Where’s the boy?! He was here a second ago. JANNY!”

    Mum was relentless. They usually are.

    “Mum…”
    “There you are! Someone is asking for you.”
    It’s your dad.

  • part 4: collapse and clarity

    part 4: collapse and clarity

    “Do you want to punch me?” he asked with a surprising confidence.

    “Huh?”

    “Do you want to punch me? Will that make you feel better? Do you need to let it out?”

    “NO, I DON’T WANT TO FUCKING PUNCH YOU! WHAT ARE YOU? NUTS?”

    “COME ON, punch me! I won’t do anything, I won’t fight back—it’ll all be good,” he insisted.

    I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. He wanted me to punch him. I’d never punched anyone before. Should I? 

    Would it make me feel better?
    What if I started and didn’t stop?
    What if he did fight back?

    But I didn’t want to fight—verbally or physically. I just wanted to talk. He was so drunk. Most people, when they’re that drunk, spill their guts without much of a push. Not this guy. He was unreachable. And maybe he didn’t think there was a conversation to be had. 

    All of a sudden, it felt like some sad, bitter bartender inside me had just mixed together the cocktail of the night.
    A splash of grief.
    A shot of fury.
    A dash of pride.
    And he was serving it straight.

    “I’m not punching you,” I said. My voice cracked.

    I knew this wasn’t going anywhere. I just wanted to run. Anywhere but here.

    “GROW A PAIR OF BALLS AND DO IT! I CAN FUCKING TAKE IT!”

    “GO FUCK YOURSELF!” I shouted.

    “NOW WE’RE TALKING! COME ON! DO IT!” he kept yelling, pushing.

    But I didn’t want this. I wanted my dad. I wanted someone who would love me without me having to make a scene. Someone who wanted me around without me begging for attention. Someone I didn’t have to physically hurt to feel seen. Relationships are hard, but this?
    This was beyond me. And so, while he stood there, squaring up and waiting for the punch, I simply said:

    “Go fuck yourself.” And I turned around.

    I walked away—fast, focused, not looking back. He stood there, swaying, yelling after me.

    “DON’T WALK AWAY! DON’T YOU BE WALKING AWAY FROM ME, SON!”

    But I did. Even as my legs trembled. Even as my heart pounded.
    I didn’t stop. And when I turned the corner, I ran.

    Was this it?
    Was this the conversation?

    My heart was racing, but not from running—I’d only made it a few steps. I stopped at the edge of the pavement, letting cars pass. Their headlights were too bright, too intense, like beams slicing straight through me. I felt exposed. I tried to breathe. Tried to count. Made it to three, maybe, and then my thoughts took over. My legs tingled. My body stiffened. Everything felt too loud and too far away. Yet it was like wearing earplugs and drowning in a thick, hazy fog. My breath came in short, shallow gasps—as if I was breathing through a straw.

    In.
    And out.
    In.
    And out.

    Drops of sweat rolled down my spine. One after another.

    In.
    And out.

    My eyes started to water. I couldn’t see the cars anymore—but I could hear them. I crouched down on the pavement, wrapping my arms around myself tightly. 

    Fighting the noise.
    Fighting the everything.

    I started counting again.

    One. Just focus on the breath.
    Two. What’s going on?
    Three. In. And out.
    Four. Did he follow me?
    Five. Fully in. Let it all out.
    Six. I think he’s behind me.
    Seven. Inhale. Exhale with a sigh.
    Eight. I’m alright, I think.
    Nine. Is he behind me?
    Ten. I inhale—and hold.

    Then slowly…it dissolved. The noise. The panic. A cloud of silence fell over everything. 

    And in that silence, I felt still. Exhale. The storm had passed. But the residue lingered. The quiet felt heavier than all the shouting. In that moment, I felt alone. More than I’d ever felt, even when he was standing right next to me. When I finally turned to look behind me, he wasn’t there.

    Truth is, he hasn’t been there for some time now.