by Anthony Rowe
I’m driving my minivan too fast through the streets of suburbia. I must be doing 35. My windows are down and the radio’s blaring Springsteen as I pull into the driveway of the third McMansion on the left. Bruce finishes his song before I turn off the engine. I’m a dad, and I’m here to pick up my teenage daughter.
But where is she? I check the brass numbers on the massive wooden door. Right address. She’s supposed to be waiting.
I give her a minute before I call her. Straight to voice mail. I send her a text and wait another minute. She doesn’t text me back. So I decide to do it the old-fashioned way and walk up to the door. Ring the doorbell. Wait. Ring it again. Wait. Knock. Wait. Hmmm. Now what? I lean a little bit to my right and press my nose up into the side window. No signs of life.
I turn the doorknob, and it’s not locked. I gently push the door open just enough to stick my head in, and I call out, “Hello!” Once my voice stops echoing through the expansive front hallway, I can hear music coming from the back of the house. I begin to scan the front hallway. As I turn my head slowly from left to right, I come upon an ornate brass mirror. Framed within the mirror is the head of a man poking his head through a door. I pause and examine the head looking back at me, and then I give it a look that asks for advice. With a quick nod, the head encourages me to go find Tillie.
The rest of my body enters the hallway and follows the music. I end up at an open doorway that leads to the basement. I stop at the top of the steps and listen. The staircase winds to the left so I can’t see anyone, but I can now hear a medley of voices and laughter along with the music. Suddenly a spasm of coughing rings out and is followed by a burst of cheers and elevated laughter.
Then I hear, “Your turn, Joey!”
I hear a familiar sound of glass tinkling against glass and then, “Drink! Drink! Drink!”
Cheers. Laughter.
“Next!”
Tillie is down there. I know from the television shows that a good dad would rush down there and break it all up with a combination of firmness, wisdom, and finesse, but I am frozen at the top of these stairs and questions are rapidly scrolling through my head:
Was it really that long ago that she screamed, “Dad!” at the top of her lungs from her bedroom window early one morning as I pulled out of the driveway because I had forgotten to come upstairs to say goodbye?
Was it really that long ago that she would entertain us during blackouts with interpretive dances on the sidewalk as we held our flashlights on her?
Was it really that long ago that she cried uncontrollably when we told her that kids leave home when they go to college?
Was it really that long ago that she wouldn’t go in the water unless she was wrapping her arms around my neck and holding on for dear life?
Was it really that long ago?
Was it?
Really?
The questions stop. I’m still standing at the top of the stairs, and the drinking has continued while I’ve been reflecting. I ask myself one more time why I’m not down there, and an image comes to my mind.
About a year ago, my wife and I took Tillie out to dinner to celebrate yet another stellar report card. We were looking ahead to Tillie’s upcoming high school years and thinking back upon our own high school experiences. The topic of drinking came up, and I light-heartedly (and realistically, I thought) stated that she would probably have at least one drink before she graduated high school. She immediately gave me a determined stare and said, “No, I won’t.” I tried to keep things jovial in explaining how most kids give in to temptation, but she wouldn’t have it. She leaned forward and forced me to look into her narrowed and reddened eyes, “Why won’t you believe me, Dad?”
I’m awakened from this memory by a familiar voice, “Oh, no! My phone’s dead. My dad’s waiting for me. I have to go. Bye.”
From the top of the basement stairs, I can hear her gathering her stuff. I quickly turn and frantically tiptoe toward the front door. As I reach the door, I hear her coming up the steps. I pull the door closed behind me, trying to get the latchbolt to quietly snap into place. The door catches and I turn and sprint toward the car. When I get to the car, I look over my shoulder and see her hustling out the door, trying to keep her backpack on her shoulder as she pulls the door closed behind her. It’s too late for me to get in the car, so I straighten up, take a deep breath, turn around, and act as though I was just walking up to get her. Though my heart is pounding, I think I’m doing a pretty good job of appearing casual as I stroll towards her. She looks up and sees me and immediately launches into, “I’m so sorry I’m late, Dad. I’m sorry. My phone died and I lost track of the time. Have you been waiting long?”
“No, I just got here. I was running behind.”
“Oh, good. Then you’re not mad?”
“No, I’m not mad.”
“Sorry!”
“It’s okay. Let’s go.”
She hops into the passenger seat, and I get behind the wheel. I pull out, and she turns on the radio. We drive through suburban neighborhoods as she pushes buttons on the radio, giving each song her usual two-second trial. She catches me glancing at her and looks back with a slight smile before going back to pushing the buttons and revealing nothing.
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