I lift the potato to my mouth, bite into it.
“You’re very quiet lately,” my father says. “Something is on your mind.”
“No, sir.”
“It wasn’t a question.”
Are those flurries of snow swirling outside the crystal glass?
“Your doctor,” my father says, “has told me that you haven’t been in for a check-up in the past six months.”
I tear my gaze from the falling snow, real or imaginary, to look at him. “You interrogated my doctor?”
He huffs. Pats his mouth with a napkin. “Interrogated. I asked, that’s all. Just making sure you’re not neglecting yourself.”
I take a calming breath. “I’m fine. No need for a check-up. I’m careful.”
“Careful? You mean you’re not living.”
What the hell?
I swallow the angry words. “I live my life. You taught me to be careful.”
“I may have done too good a job.”
“What’s that even supposed to mean?” Distantly I hear my fork clatter on my plate.
“Calm down, Ryan.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down.” My linen napkin has fallen. I gather it up again, my hand shaking. “I’m calm.”
He doesn’t comment on this blatant lie.
Good.
I try to return to my lunch, but it’s useless. Not only can’t I work up any appetite, controlling the urge to throw my fucking plate against the wall is taking up all my concentration.
A fork clinking against a china plate. A tiny creak of a chair. A grandfather clock ticking away the minutes and the hours.
The days.
“Your mom,” my father says, “would have wanted you to have a full life.”
“Yeah, well, she’s dead, so that’s all bullshit.”
“Goddammit!” He slams his hand on the table. “Ryan Prince Dawson, that’s not the way to talk to your father.”
I throw the napkin on my plate, on top of my mostly untouched food, my heart doing a funny triple beat that scares me. “You know what? I’m not hungry anymore. Have a good day.”
“Don’t you just walk away like that.”
The fuck I’m not. I’m out of here like a bat out of hell.
***
Never argued with my father like that. The weight on my chest lingers the following days.
If I’m completely honest with myself, it’s been there for a while now.