Robert McGee—2004

There’s nothing in this world more unpredictable than a teenaged girl. One minute she’s looking at you all doe-eyed and sugar-tinged, and the next, she’s scowling at you like you just ate her best friend for breakfast. There ain’t nothing in the world that can prepare a man for life with a teenaged girl. I got two of ’em living under my roof right now, and when I walk up to the door after a full day working at the quarry, I’m never sure what’s waiting for me inside.

Today is my fortieth birthday, which seems kinda funny because, most days, I don’t feel a lick over twenty-five. And here I am, a single father of two girls who are nearly women themselves. Charlie’s aiming to get her driver’s license in a few weeks, and K’acy’s already taller than her big sister. The two of them together are trouble-on-a-stick: beautiful and spirited and uninhibited by the rules of the grown-up world.

Charlie’s boy-crazy and impervious to parental advice, even though I sure would like to give her some. I was exactly like those boys she runs around with when I was sixteen. I know what they want. And it ain’t a conversation. It’s a real shame her momma’s departure left Charlie so wounded. I know she’s turning to those boys for artificial affection. I try my best to give her love and tell her how much she deserves a perfect life, but I don’t think she cares to aim that high. I think she’s managed to convince herself she doesn’t deserve one.

K’acy, on the other hand, is trouble for entirely different reasons. She can’t keep her fingers off the Music Man StingRay bass guitar I got her for Christmas. She’s got her heart set on being a musician, practicing every second she isn’t in school or doing homework. Mr. Simpson, the music teacher at Terrebonne High, gives her lessons twice a week. I pay for them by tuning, repairing, and polishing the school’s instruments once a month. K’acy’s getting pretty good, and someday soon, the guys and I are gonna invite her to play with us down at Jackson’s on a Saturday night. It’ll be her first gig, and I’m gonna be about as proud as a man can be when she lays down her first riff. The girl’s got a light around her that’ll just about blind you, especially if you don’t see her coming.

It’s nearly seven o’clock by the time I get home from work, and when I open the front door, K’acy’s standing there, wearing a smile the size of the entire bayou. We haven’t been to church since Louise left, but the girl is dressed in her Sunday best. Behind her, on the dining room table, are a pair of lit candles and three empty plates. They’re flanked by a bunch of Louise’s fancy silverware and crystal that hasn’t seen the light of day in over six years. From the smell wafting out of the kitchen, I’m guessing my girls made me a pot of Creole jambalaya for my birthday dinner.

My mouth is watering before I even get my boots off.

When I hug K’acy and thank her and her sister for the surprise, she rolls her eyes at me, all dramatic and sassy, and tells me Charlie didn’t have anything to do with the jambalaya. She says her sister never even came home from school today. Granted, not coming home until nine or ten at night is pretty par for the course with Charlie, but still…she knows it’s my birthday. And she knows we always celebrate together. Just usually not with candlelight and crystal.

After we eat, I tell K’acy her sister missed one hell of a meal and the credit is all hers. The jambalaya tasted just like her momma’s, but she doesn’t look happy when I point it out. Instead, she tells me she seasoned it differently and used better sausage than Louise ever did. I apologize for my error and tell her again how delicious it was.

She sings happy birthday, and I blow out the candle on a single chocolate cupcake, wishing yet again that my girls would quit growing up so fast. Then K’acy slides a small package across the table toward me. It’s wrapped in blue paper and topped with a light green bow. She’s smiling another bayou-sized smile, silently telling me how proud she is of whatever’s in this box. I pull off the bow and tear open the paper.

Inside the box is a man’s ring. My wedding ring, to be exact. It’s another thing that hasn’t seen the light of day in over six years. At least I didn’t think it had. I pick up the ring and examine it carefully. K’acy’s had it polished smooth and then re-engraved. On the inside of the ring, where a circle of words used to say Louise & Robert 5/22/89, it now says Love You Daddy 9/14/04. On the outside of the ring, a string of tiny musical notes are etched into the metal. I look at K’acy, and she confirms they’re from the chorus of a song I’ve been singing to my girls since the day they were born, Otis Redding’s “That’s How Strong My Love Is.”

I can’t stop the emotion from coming out of me, and before I know it, I’m a grown man who’s crying like a sappy granny and hugging on his teenage daughter like she’s the Lord Jesus himself. I’m grateful to K’acy for hugging me back. And for confirming that the shot-in-the-dark fathering I’ve been doing for all these years has worked on at least one of my girls.

I put the ring on my finger, and tell my beautiful, soulful daughter how much I love it. And her.