He watched her as she answered the phone. Watched, as her face morphed from restrained excitement, to disappointment, watched as she quickly removed all emotion from her face, lest he saw. She turned to him and made a scribbling motion with her hand. Sighing, he walked over to her, picked up a pen he had tied to the phone base with a rubberband for that exact purpose, waved it in front of her eyes, and produced a pad that was just as hidden from under the phone. "Don't you start" her eyes warned him. And perhaps, in his younger years, he would have made some snide comment, as young men do in supposed safe teasing of their partners. But he was too old, been with her too long, and knew better.
It was a lesson he wished his daughter had learned early on. Better to leave mother alone and live peacefully. But she was her mother's daughter, and so lived for useless confrontation. And as open-minded as he told himself he was, he couldn't help but wonder if somewhere in the double X chromosomes was written the code for overreaction. A part of him was actually happy when his daughter left for college--not the happiness of a proud father, but the happy relief of a man trying to fall asleep amidst blaring car alarms that finally shut off.
It amused him to think that as he got older, he came to value peace and quiet in the same manner he valued sports cars as a young man. During his daughter's high school years, he was willing to pay any price for some peace. And he did pay, sponsoring his daughter tens of dollars every day for movies, mall-shopping, anything to get her out of the house, away from the spark that was his wife to the match that was his daughter. He knew fully well, without his wife telling him, though she did, millions of times, that his solution was irresponsible. But it bought him the quiet that he yearned for, and that was enough for him.
But the arguments continued as his daughter progressed through high school. He had stopped paying attention years ago, instead, choosing to hide in the basement with his books, or the garage with his cars. Sometimes he would call his son, and they would laugh over the women and marvel at their capacity for altercation.
Now, as he sat across from his wife, watching her take down information on the pad, the disappointment still rippling across her face as she had given up on smoothing her features, he wished he had known back then that his actions had probably been instrumental in driving his daughter away. He suspected, before his wife hung up and confirmed it for him, that his daughter had assigned the task of calling her mother to her secretary. She had staffed her mother out. And he knew that she would have staffed out Christmas if she could.
"Here," his wife said, handing him the note. "You go pick her up." She got up, turned and walked out of the kitchen. "I'm going to the grocery store. You want anything?"
"You want me to go with you?"
"No, it's fine. Why don't you start up the rice. I'll be back soon." With that, she went into the garage. He heard her fiddling with her boots, then the rumbling of the garage door. I should go see if she's alright, he thought. I should take her out to dinner, someplace nice. Get her mind off of things.
As he got up to go to his wife, he heard the garage door close. Again, he was too late. So he stood, in the middle of his kitchen, as if unsure what to do next.
The neatness and order in his home belied the condition of his family. He knew how to clean a house. Everything tucked away safely in its place, organized and perfect. No clutter at all. No dirty dishes, no dirty laundry, no unopened envelopes sitting around--the house looked like something from a page out of Real Simple. The order of his home gave him a false sense of control, of security.
He was a man that prided himself on order. And to the outsider his family looked perfect, and he resembled a successful father that kept them all together. But he knew, deep down, that somewhere along the way he had lost control of his family. He knew that as his family was spiraling into disarray, he was hiding in his basement. He was hiding in his office.
He finally realized, pretty recently, that his role as a father was not just as a provider. His own parents had instilled in him this belief, that the man provided, while the woman nurtured. And he knew that he hid behind this traditionalism, using it as his excuse for not getting involved. He threw money at his children's problems, and convinced himself that was all they needed.
Two months ago, he was enlisted by his wife to help her convince her children to come home for Christmas. He called his daughter on a Saturday morning. He had been a bit quick-tempered. He remembered thinking to himself how ridiculous it was for a parent to have to nearly beg his child to come home. He said this to her, adding how he had always given her whatever she wanted. And then he demanded, ordered her to come home. He said that this was the end of the discussion, then, as calmly as he could, said goodbye.
He brooded over the conversation for a week. And, with the help of a couple of episodes of Dr. Phil, a show he despised, but couldn't help watching, as the issues in the show that week coincided with his, he began to see that he was not the father that he had so confidently believed he was. But he quickly shut this thought out of his mind, and went to rake the lawn. After the lawn was done, he proceeded to clean the bathrooms. He had finished the guest bath, and was in the process of scrubbing the toilet in the master bedroom, when, with the sting of bleach filling the air and burning his nostrils, he broke down. He cried, kneeling, his face hovering above the toilet bowl, his tears falling into the water, and all the while a voice in the back of his head was telling him to stop being a child, get up, and go mop the kitchen floor. He felt ridiculous, a grown man weeping into the toilet, but he couldn't stop himself. He cried for his wife, he cried for his son, he cried for his daughter. He cried for his parents and he cried for himself. He cried for the ignorance he had been wrapping himself in, and he cried for the regret and the pain he felt inside. He cried because he knew it was too late, he could never repair this hole in his children's hearts, this pain in his wife.
Standing now, in the middle of his kitchen, he couldn't help but chuckle. He was always "too late." Goddamnit, he thought. Shaking his head, pushing away the pain and the knot that was forming in his stomach, he measured out two cups of rice, washed it, and turned on the rice cooker.
