MY DAD LOOKS AT ME from head to toe, and I feel like the second-rate slacker he’s always taken me for. I will always be Second Son to him, no matter what Charlie does. I must look even worse than when I first came in. The top button of my shirt is missing from where Charlie grabbed me. There’s even a bloodstain on it from my busted lip. I’m sweaty, and my hair is sticking to the side of my face. Premium Yale material right here.
He gives me an order. “Get some ice for your lip and come back out here.”
Charlie’s next. “You hit your little brother? That what you learn from America? To hit your family?”
I almost want to stay and hear where this goes, but my fat lip is getting fatter. I go into the back room and grab a can of Coke and press it against my lip.
I’ve never liked this room. It’s too small and always clogged with half-opened boxes of product. There are no chairs, so I sit on the floor with my back against the door so no one can get in. I need five minutes before dealing with my life again.
My lip throbs in time to my heartbeat. I wonder if I need stitches. I press the can closer and wait to feel (or not feel) the numbness.
This is what I get for letting the Fates guide me—beat up, girlfriend-less, future-less. Why did I postpone my interview? Worse, why did I let Natasha walk away?
Maybe she was right. I’m just looking for someone to save me. I’m looking for someone to take me off the track my life is on, because I don’t know how to do it myself. I’m looking to get overwhelmed by love and meant-to-be and destiny so that the decisions about my future will be out of my hands. It won’t be me defying my parents. It will be Fate.
The Coke can does the trick. I can’t feel my lip anymore. Good thing Natasha’s not here, because my kissing days are over, at least for today. And with her, there’s no tomorrow.
Not that she’d ever let me kiss her again.
From the other side of the door, my dad orders me to come out. I put the can back in the fridge and tuck my shirt in.
I open the door to find him standing there alone. He leans in close to me. “I have a question for you,” he says. “Why do you think it matters what you want?”
The way he asks, it’s like he’s genuinely confused by the emotion. What is this desire and wanting that you speak of? He’s confused by why they matter at all.
“Who cares what you want? The only thing that matters is what is good for you. Your mother and I only care about what is good for you. You go to school, you become a doctor, you be successful. Then you never have to work in a store like this. Then you have money and respect, and all the things you want will come. You find a nice girl and have children and you have the American Dream. Why would you throw your future away for temporary things that you only want right now?”
It’s the most my father has ever said to me at once. He’s not even angry as he says it. He talks like he’s trying to teach me something basic. One plus one equals two, son.
Ever since he bought the oil paints for omma, I’ve wanted to have a conversation like this with him. I’ve wanted to know why he wants the things he wants for us. Why it’s so important to him. I want to ask him if he thinks omma’s life would’ve been better if she’d kept painting. I want to know if he’s sad that she gave it up for him and for us.
Maybe this moment right now between my dad and me is the meaning of today. Maybe I can begin to understand him. Maybe he can begin to understand me.
“Appa—” I begin, but he holds his hand up to silence me and keeps it there. The air around us is still and metallic. He looks at me and through me and past me to some other time.
“No,” he says. “You let me finish. Maybe I make it too easy for you boys. Maybe this is my fault. You don’t know your history. You don’t know what poor can do. I don’t tell you because I think things are better that way. Better not to know. Maybe I am wrong.”
I’m so close. I’m at the edge of knowing him. We’re at the edge of knowing each other.
I’m going to tell him that I don’t want the things for myself that he wants for me. I’m going to tell him that I’ll be okay anyway.
“Appa—” I begin again, but again his hand goes through the air. Again I am silenced. He knows what I’m going to say, and he doesn’t want to hear it.
My father is shaped by the memory of things I will never know.
“Enough. You don’t go to Yale and become a doctor, then you find a job and pay for college yourself.”
He walks back to the front of the store.
I’ll admit that there’s something refreshing about having it all laid out for me like this. Future or No Future.
My suit jacket is still crumpled by the door. I grab it and put it on. The lapel almost covers the bloodstain.
I look around for Charlie, but he’s nowhere to be found.
I walk to the door. My dad’s behind the cash register, staring off at nothing. I’m about to leave when he says the final thing, the thing he’s been waiting to say.
“I saw the way you look at that girl,” he says. “But that can never be.”
“I think you’re wrong,” I tell him.
“Doesn’t matter what you think. You do the right thing.”
We make and hold eye contact. It’s the holding of eye contact that tells me he’s not sure what I’m going to do.
Neither am I.