Fathers and Daughters

Jack plopped the water bottle down next to me. "Drink!"

Taking a breath, I looked up from the slowly shrinking pile of unpeeled potatoes.

"I'm good."

"No, Jas, you're not. It's well over a hundred here. If you pass out, you're no good to anyone. Actually, take the water out to the alley."

"I'm—"

"I have no idea what you do in the real world, but here, I'm the boss. Take five or go home."

"I can't go out there. It tears me up to see them waiting, all lined up. Especially the kids. I'll drink water."

Disappointed, he shook his head. "Go upstairs to the office. I'll get someone on the potatoes."

I kissed his cheek before heading upstairs. Opening the window, I took a deep breath of the crisp air before sitting in the old chair with the cracked leather. I could still see them, but the distance helped. The homeless and the destitute queued up. It was our biggest day of the year.

Politicians looking for photo ops would come later, slouching out of the shadows, teeth gleaming with the sparkle of promises that were a mile wide but an inch thick. They would shake hands like psychic vampires, stealing from those that needed the most while offering nothing but empty words in return. Modern-day Rumpelstiltskins, they spun PR gold from the hay of the forgotten.

They were worse than useless. When Dad went missing we tried everyone. He'd donated to their campaigns, worked phone lines, and knocked on doors to stump for everyone in his party. How did they repay him? Indifference. Not one of them lifted a finger to help.

Eight years ago I'd heard the shouting as I walked in the door. When Dad turned to look at me, I knew something was wrong. He seemed broken. He pulled me into a hug, shaking.

"You're my daughter and I'm your father. Always. Always, Jasmine."

He walked out the door. Mom stood there cursing at the man she was supposed to love. Coward was the kindest thing she called him. When she went to get a bottle of gin, I looked at the DNA test results on the table.

I was sixteen when I found out Dad wasn't our biological father and it was seven years before I saw him again.

I looked out the window again. Scanning the crowd didn't help. I lamented a society that let this happen. Saddened, I went back to the kitchen.

Jack nodded when I walked in. "You good?"

"Yeah."

"You see him?"

"Not yet."

"He'll be here, Jas."

"I know."

I went back to peeling and thought of my brother. Gary was the one who did all of the leg work. He begged P.I.s to show him how to find Dad. We couldn't afford to pay, and Mom was stuck too far down the bottle. She'd moved her boyfriend in within two weeks. Some P.I.s were kind enough to give the earnest kid tips. We found nothing.

We got a call from Dad's cousin. She spotted him on the streets in Detroit where he had grown up. I worked remotely as a programmer for a start-up. I was on a plane the next day.

The homeless visited for a hot meal and Friend to Friend was a safe haven. I volunteered on the weekends. Dad came in four times. He was broken, but he was still Dad. He rebuffed my efforts to take him home, but he let me sit and tell him how much I loved him.

He finally showed up for the Thanksgiving meal. I sat with him. Dad relaxed around me, not hovering over his food protectively. I hadn't touched him in almost a decade, but I'd take what I could get. He'd answer questions, but with simple declarative statements, always looking straight ahead.

Finishing his pie, he stared at his plate. "You don't have to be here."

"Neither do you, Dad. Come home with me. Just for the weekend, if you want. I have a spare room. It... Dad, please..."

"Jas, I'm not... I'm not right."

"You're my father. That's all I care about. Please."

Turning to me, he raised his hand as if to touch my cheek but pulled back. "Okay, maybe for a few days."

I wanted to hug him, but needed to respect his boundaries. I nodded, my arms aching for the man that raised me.

"Happy Thanksgiving, Dad."

His small smile was a blessing. "Happy Thanksgiving."

With thanks to the Albuquerque Assassins for their feedback and to Nora Fares for the editing.

I appreciate the support of Ken, Jerry, Leon, Brad, Adam, Charles, Philip, Zachary, Ken, Laurence and Mr. Z.

Looking for something new to read? May I recommend checking out the work of Cat5?

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