13 - Daughter Cluster
By SoulFire77
- 96 reads
THE INTERVIEW
13: Daughter Cluster
Q59. "What did Melissa want to be when she grew up?"
Dale reached for the memory. His daughter at five, at seven, at ten—cycling through ambitions the way children do, trying on futures like costumes.
"A veterinarian," he said. "That was the big one. She loved animals—we had a dog, a mutt named Chester, and she used to set up a clinic in the backyard. Stuffed animals lined up on a blanket, Chester as her assistant. She'd diagnose them with made-up diseases and prescribe treatments. Very serious about it."
"What happened to that dream?"
"What happens to all of them. She grew up. Realized that veterinary school was expensive, competitive. That it meant years of training for a job that paid less than she could make in business. She was practical, even as a teenager. Got that from her mother."
"Not from you?"
Dale almost smiled. "I was never practical. I just did what was in front of me. Melissa planned. Mapped things out. She knew by junior year of high school that she was going to major in accounting, knew the starting salaries, knew the career trajectory. She made spreadsheets."
"You sound proud."
"I am proud. She built exactly the life she wanted." The words came out flat, despite their content. "She just built it without me in it."
Q60. "When did she stop crawling into your lap during thunderstorms?"
The question was so specific, so precisely aimed, that Dale felt it like a finger pressing on a bruise he'd forgotten he had.
"How did you—" He stopped. He must have mentioned it. Earlier, when they'd talked about Melissa, he must have said something about the thunderstorms. He couldn't remember saying it, but he must have. "She was—I think she was twelve. Maybe thirteen. There was a bad storm, middle of the night. I heard her door open and I waited for her, the way I always did—she'd come padding down the hall and climb up next to me, and I'd put my arm around her until the thunder passed. But that night she didn't come. I waited, and she didn't come. And I realized—"
"What did you realize?"
"That she'd learned to be afraid alone. That somewhere along the way, she'd stopped needing me to make her feel safe." He swallowed. "I should have gone to her. Should have gotten up and walked down the hall and knocked on her door. But I didn't. I told myself she was growing up, that it was healthy, that she needed to learn independence. But the truth was, I was relieved. Relieved that I didn't have to—"
"Didn't have to what?"
"Didn't have to be her father. In that moment. In that way." The admission was ugly, and Dale heard it hanging in the air between them. "I was tired. I'd been working late all week. And when she didn't come, I rolled over and went back to sleep. And after that—after that, she never came again."
"Did you ever talk about it?"
"No. It just—it became the new normal. Melissa handled things herself. I let her. We never talked about what changed or why."
Q61. "What was her imaginary friend's name?"
Dale blinked. "Her—"
"Her imaginary friend. When she was young. What was his name?"
Had he mentioned it? He didn't remember mentioning it. But he must have—how else would she know?
"Pocket," he said. The name came slowly, dredged up from somewhere deep. "She called him Pocket. Because he lived in my shirt pocket, she said. He came to work with me every day."
"Tell me about Pocket."
"He was—" Dale tried to assemble the memory. Melissa at four, chattering about her invisible companion. The elaborate stories she'd invented, the adventures Pocket had while Dale was at work. "She'd ask me every night what Pocket did that day. And I'd make up stories—he helped me count boxes, he rode on the forklift, he had lunch with me in the break room. She loved those stories."
"Do you remember any of them? The specific stories?"
Dale reached for one. Pocket on the forklift. Pocket counting boxes. But the details wouldn't come—just the shape of the stories, the outline of the game they'd played. The actual content had worn away, leaving only the knowledge that it had existed.
"Not specifically," he said. "I remember that we did it. I remember her face when I'd tell her what Pocket did. But the stories themselves—"
"They've faded."
"Yes."
Ms. Vance made a note. "What happened to Pocket? When did he stop living in your pocket?"
"I don't know exactly. She just—stopped talking about him. One day he was there, the next day she'd moved on to something else. That's how children are. They create these whole worlds, and then they abandon them without a backward glance."
"Did you miss him? Pocket?"
The question was strange. Missing an imaginary friend that hadn't been his.
"I missed—" Dale considered it. "I missed mattering that much to her. The way I mattered when I was Pocket's keeper. When coming home from work meant she'd run to the door asking what adventures we'd had. I missed being the center of her world."
"When did you stop being the center of her world?"
"Probably before Pocket left. Probably long before."
Q62. "Tell me about the day she showed you her college acceptance letter."
The memory surfaced—vivid, precious. One of the good ones, one of the moments he'd held onto across the years.
"She came running out to the garage. Bare feet on the concrete—it was March, still cold, and I remember thinking she was going to catch a chill. But she didn't care. She had the envelope in her hand, already torn open, and she was—"
He stopped. The image was there, his daughter in the garage doorway, but something was wrong. She was barefoot—he could see that clearly. The envelope was in her hand—yes. But her face—
"What was she feeling, Dale? When she showed you?"
"She was happy. Excited. She'd gotten into UNC Charlotte, her first choice." He could remember the fact of it, the meaning of the moment. But Melissa's face in that moment—the specific expression, the way joy had looked on her features—
"What did her face look like?"
"She was smiling. She must have been smiling."
"You don't remember?"
"I remember that she was happy. I remember the envelope. I remember—" He grasped for details. The garage, the smell of motor oil and concrete dust. The half-dismantled lawnmower he'd been working on. His daughter in the doorway. But her face kept sliding away, refusing to stay in focus.
"I remember that she came to me first," he said finally. "Before Linda. Before anyone. She wanted to tell me first. That meant something. That has to mean something."
"What did you say to her?"
"I said—" He stopped. What had he said? Congratulations, probably. I'm proud of you. Something a father should say. But the actual words, the specific sounds that had come out of his mouth in that moment—
"I don't remember," he admitted. "I'm sure I said the right things. But I don't remember what they were."
Q63. "What happened after? After she showed you the letter?"
"We went inside. Told Linda. Celebrated." The narrative came easily enough—it was the details that wouldn't stick. "We probably took her out to dinner. Or maybe Linda made something special. I don't—"
"You don't remember."
"I remember that it was a good day. A happy day." Dale heard the desperation in his own voice, the insistence. "The specifics are—it was years ago. Eight years, I think. The details fade."
"But the envelope is clear? Her bare feet?"
"Yes. Those are clear."
"And her face is not."
It wasn't a question. Dale didn't answer.
Q64. "When did you realize she had stopped reaching for you?"
"I don't—" He took a breath. "I'm not sure there was a single moment. It was gradual. The phone calls got shorter. The visits got less frequent. She'd talk to Linda for an hour and then hand me the phone for five minutes of—of nothing. Weather. Sports. The small talk you make with strangers."
"That must have been painful."
"It was—" He searched for the word. "Expected. I'd earned it. All those years of being absent, of choosing work over her. You can't do that and then expect—you can't expect her to—"
His throat closed. He pressed his hand over his eyes, breathing through the tightness.
"You can't expect her to love you," Ms. Vance said quietly. "Is that what you were going to say?"
"She loves me." The words came out fierce, protective. "She does. She has to. I'm her father."
"Those aren't the same thing. Being a father and being loved by your child."
"I know." Dale dropped his hand, looked at Ms. Vance. "I know they're not the same thing. But I can't—I can't let myself believe she doesn't love me. That's the one thing I can't—"
He stopped. The sentence wouldn't finish.
"The one thing you can't what?"
"Survive." The word came out barely above a whisper. "If Melissa doesn't love me—if all those years, all that distance, all my failures as a father—if it's killed whatever she felt for me—" He shook his head. "I can't survive knowing that. So I tell myself she loves me. Even if it's not true. Even if I'm lying to myself."
And somewhere far away—in a high-rise apartment in Charlotte—a woman named Melissa sat at her kitchen table, her laptop open to a spreadsheet she wasn't really seeing.
Her phone buzzed. A text from her mother: "Dad's at another interview today. Fingers crossed!"
She should respond. Should send back something encouraging, something supportive. He was her father.
But the word felt strange in her mind. Father. She had one—she knew she had one. A man who lived in Greensboro with her mother, who called on holidays, who had held her baby twice.
What was his voice like?
She tried to hear it in her head—the specific timbre, the Piedmont accent her mother always said she'd inherited. But when she reached for it, she found only the idea of a voice. A man's voice. Her father's voice.
The sound wouldn't come.
She frowned at her phone, typed "Good luck," added a thumbs-up emoji, and went back to her spreadsheet.
Something was nagging at her, some absence she couldn't name. But she had work to do, and the feeling faded, and she forgot she'd been trying to remember anything at all.
Q65. "What would she say if I asked her to describe her father?"
Dale was quiet for a long moment. The question required him to imagine Melissa's perspective, to see himself through his daughter's eyes. He'd avoided doing that for years. It was too painful, the picture that emerged.
"She'd say I worked a lot." His voice was flat, defeated. "That I wasn't around much. That I tried, maybe—she might give me that. But that trying wasn't enough. That I was a shape in the doorway. A voice on the phone. A check for birthdays and Christmas. Not a father. Not really. A placeholder where a father should have been."
"Is that how you see yourself?"
"It's how I'm afraid she sees me. And I can't—I can't prove her wrong. Because she's not wrong. That's exactly what I was."
Q66. "If she were in this room right now, what would you not want her to hear?"
Dale looked around the room—at the beige walls, the frozen clock, the water stain spreading across the ceiling like something alive. At Ms. Vance with her legal pad and her patient, colorless eyes.
"All of it," he said. "Everything I've told you. The doubt. The fear. The 3 AM thoughts. The way I've felt like a failure for thirty years." He laughed, short and broken. "The way I am right now. Sitting in an interview room, begging for a job, falling apart in front of a stranger. I wouldn't want her to see any of it."
"Why not?"
"Because she'd know. She'd know that I'm not—" He struggled for the words. "She'd know that I never was what she needed. What anyone needed. And I've spent her whole life pretending. If she saw the truth—if she saw the real me, the one I've been hiding—"
"What would happen?"
"She'd know she was right to stop reaching for me. She'd know that the distance was—was appropriate. That she didn't miss anything by not having me in her life. That I'm not worth—" His voice cracked. "Not worth the effort of loving."
Q67. "What do you owe her that you haven't paid?"
"Years." The word came out immediately, without thought. "I owe her years. All the time I spent at work instead of with her. All the moments I missed—the recitals, the soccer games, the homework I didn't help with, the conversations I didn't have. I owe her a childhood with a father in it."
"Can you pay that debt?"
"No. That's the thing about time—you can't pay it back. You can't make up for the years you wasted. They're just gone. And she's—she's grown now. She doesn't need a father anymore. The time for fathering is over, and I missed it."
"You have a grandson."
"I have—" He reached for the name. The baby. Eight months old. He'd held him twice. "I have a grandson. I've met him twice. He doesn't know me. By the time he's old enough to remember anything, I'll just be—I'll be the old man who shows up at Christmas. If I'm still around."
"What's his name? Your grandson?"
The question should have been easy. He'd said the name earlier—he was sure he'd said it. Eight months old, Melissa's son, his grandson. The name was—
The name was—
"I—" Dale pressed his fingers to his temples. "I know his name. I just said it, earlier, when we were talking about Melissa. He's—his name is—"
The silence stretched. The clock showed 3:47. The water stain spread across the ceiling.
"I don't remember," Dale whispered. "I don't remember my grandson's name."
Q68. "What's Melissa's birthday?"
He opened his mouth to answer. He knew this. He knew his daughter's birthday. August—it was August, he remembered that much, summer birthdays, the party in the backyard with the yellow dress—
"August," he said. "August—"
The date. The number. A single number between one and thirty-one.
"August what, Dale?"
"August—" He closed his eyes, reaching for it. His daughter's birthday. The date he'd known for twenty-nine years. The date on cards and cake and candles, the date that meant his daughter had existed for another year.
"I don't—" He opened his eyes. "It's August. I know it's August. But the date—"
"You don't remember."
"I do remember. I just—it's there, I just can't—" He pressed his fingers against his temples. The headache was blinding now, a pressure that seemed to fill his entire skull. "What's happening to me? Why can't I—"
"It's okay, Dale." Ms. Vance's voice was gentle, soothing. "Memory is—"
"Stop saying that." He heard his own voice, too loud in the quiet room. "Stop telling me memory is unreliable. This isn't—my daughter's birthday isn't something that fades. I knew it this morning. I've known it for twenty-nine years. And now—"
He stared at Ms. Vance. At her calm face, her patient eyes, her pen resting on the legal pad where she'd recorded every confession he'd made.
"What are you doing to me?"
The words hung in the air. Ms. Vance didn't answer immediately. She held his gaze, unblinking, and the silence stretched until it felt like a physical thing, a weight pressing down on both of them.
"I'm listening," she said finally. "That's all. I'm just listening."
"Something is—something is wrong." Dale's voice had gone quiet, almost pleading. "My father's voice. My mother's voice. The wedding. The birthday party. Melissa's—" He couldn't finish. Couldn't say the words: my daughter's birthday is gone and I don't know how to get it back.
"You've been under tremendous stress, Dale. Eleven months of—"
"This isn't stress." He pushed back from the table, the chair scraping against the carpet. "This is something else. Something you're—"
He stopped. Looked at the door behind him. The door he'd come through, the door to the hallway, the door to outside.
He could leave. Right now. Stand up and walk out and—
"If you leave now," Ms. Vance said softly, "the interview is over. And there won't be another one."
Dale turned back to her. "What?"
"This is your only chance, Dale. Linden Creek doesn't do second interviews. If you walk out that door, you'll never know if you could have gotten the job. You'll go home and tell Linda that you quit. That you gave up. After eleven months, after two hundred and forty-seven applications, you'll have to look her in the eye and tell her you walked away because—" She tilted her head slightly. "Because you were tired. Because your memory was playing tricks on you. Because something felt wrong."
The words settled over him like a net.
She was right. If he left now, that's exactly what would happen. Another failure to add to the list. Another rejection, this one self-inflicted. And Linda would say it was fine, of course it was fine, he'd made the right choice. But she'd wonder. She'd look at him and wonder what was wrong with him, why he couldn't just get through one interview, why everything he touched fell apart.
"We're almost done," Ms. Vance said. "Just a few more questions. And then you'll have your answer, one way or another."
He sat back down.
- Log in to post comments