Home from college and my dance card empty, as usual, Jean has ignored my pleas and arranged a double date with her latest boyfriend's best friend. So, I’m making my way toward the kitchen to rehydrate my bone-dry nerves before they arrive. Dad’s in the den, sitting in the swivel chair with his back to the windows, pretending to be engrossed in a book. He’s also pretending not to see me as I slow and look his way.
I know he isn’t happy about this evening. With boys ever at the heels of Chris and Mia, he takes great comfort in my being almost invariably dateless.
But really, is he finding “The Gardener’s Dictionary,” so captivating that he can’t even look up at the sound of my way-too-high heels perilously skidding across the floor?
Unbelievable.
And what about Mom, still hovering in the kitchen, without a purpose in sight.
For God’s Sake! This isn’t my first date!
I just need to keep moving, rein in those jitters, drink my water, and think happy thoughts… But how can I think happy thoughts when each step on this godforsaken brick floor - now dangerously slippery, thanks to my newly lost ability to swallow - feels like burning coals on my wish-they-were-bare feet?
In the dark of the corridor between the kitchen and the den, I can see Dad slowly swivel his chair around to face the oncoming headlights bouncing off the dimly lit walls. He’s quietly watching the car make its final turn toward the front circle. A swivel further left, he can see Jean and the two, young men get out of the car and step onto the flagstone patio just a few feet away.
The doorbell’s ringing.
Dad’s not budging.
My stomach is lodged in my throat and I’m confident in nothing ahead, but there's no turning back now. Damn it, Jean, I have no choice but to answer the door, do I?
I see Dad is fake reading again (that book might as well be upside down)… and still no eye contact. What the hell?
Can’t suppress eye roll.
(Must, however, suppress the urge to regurgitate all the fucking water I drank.)
Take a deep breath, Anne, and turn the knob.
Yikes. Coming out of the dark, Jean’s smile is gigantic. She needs to dial it down, though. She’s freaking me out, a bit.
Lame handshake. What’s his name, again? Looks like he wants to be here about as much as I do - Crap! I hear swiveling. Dad’s up and heading this way.
He’s passing… No hello. No teasing Jean. Unheard of.
Really? Not a word? And why are you stopping at the hallway dresser and pretending to rummage for something in the top drawer? Nice sham hands, Dad. But now you’re empty-handed and hesitating.
Whatta you got for your next move?
OUCH. Focus, Anne! Jean’s struggling to fill the mind-bendingly awkward silence.
But I can’t take my eyes off Dad. Especially, because he’s heading this way again. Don’t look, gentlemen, those eyes are dark, brown windows into his potential fierceness. I can almost hear the growl as he passes our fidgety huddle. Keeping his fixed glare, swiveling like the chair, at both males until he disappears.
Time to go.
“Good Night, Parents.”
I can hear, “Have a wonderful evening,” coming from the kitchen. Not a syllable from the den.
I hope the night sky can hide my humiliation.
Is Dad really peeking through a crack in the curtains (he just closed to hide behind)? Even from here, I can read ”She won't be marrying THAT one,” on his face.
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