Reality is Different Ch. 01

I still can't think of what to say, stupefied, looking between my father and the gift that's cradled in my hand as the smile on his face quirks up, a little wryly. "I know you probably have all the music on your computer already, so I wasn't really completely sure if you'd want to bother with the record, too, but...do you like it?"

Laughter bubbles up instinctive out of me at the madness of the question. "God, daddy, I love it!" I've already rushed in for a hug, my arms thrown around his chest before I realize what I've just called him - a tickle of embarrassment climbing up my throat. But in my present glow of exultation, it doesn't bother me that much. I feel like a kid again anyway, crowing with delight at a perfect birthday gift.

Nor does it seem to trouble him, his own arms crossing on my back as he tenderly returns my hug. A smile in his voice. "I'm glad, sweetie. I really am." The day's growth of his stubble scratches slightly at my cheek, his body warm and sturdy here before me, around me, and I feel just...right. Good inside, a wordless tingle at the center of my spine. The thumping of my heartbeat, just a little fast, a little deep. Comfort here in his embrace, banishing the chill of night - he squeezes briefly tighter, and the blissful feeling rises up like water in a bottle, flowing brightly through me. I don't want it to end.

It has to, though, of course. He's already letting go, pulling back, and I don't really have any other option than to let him. To retreat as well, the smile a touch conflicted on my face. Nothing amiss on his - not that I can see, when I risk a glance into his eyes. No shadow of misgiving, of sinful thoughts suppressed by conscience. He looks the same as always, gaze sparkling with humor, soft with paternal affection. Why wouldn't he? "Um." I have to force my tongue to work again. "Let's get home. I really want to listen to this."

"Sure thing." He moves smoothly for the driver door, while I circle round the side. "Though, ah, I can't promise it'll work worth a darn. Guy at the antique shop told me that he gave it a try, that it sounded okay, but I didn't want to listen to it before you got a chance yourself."

"I'm sure it's fine." I flash a foolish grin in his direction as I settle down into my seat. "Like you said, I already have the music. This is just for the experience."

We just chat a little on the way back room, idle comments when the radio is quiet. The record cradled in my lap protectively, letting my fingers to brush across the lightly-battered surface of the jacket. I really can't wait to hear it. I mean, I know the songs already, and to be honest they're not even his best work, but still. There's something different about vinyl. People laugh, call me a hipster when I say that, but it's true. It just sounds better. Even the imperfections of the medium only add to the experience, the warmth and subtle scratchiness of faded tracks, so unlike the horrid garbling of a messed-up mp3. Dad got me into it, kinda. His old stacks of records in the garage, gathering dust - a lot of them now commandeered for my own collection. He even helped me build my record player near from scratch. Or, well, it'd be more accurate to say that I helped him build it, but...I guess it's my hobby now, even if I don't really listen to them all the time. Can't exactly get new music on the platters anymore, so it's only for the oldies.

---

Home, now. The phone inside is ringing as dad unlocks the door; he hurries up to answer it while I walk in more sedately, carrying my prize. Half listening to half the interchange that comes, to the subtle ups and downs of my father's voice. "Hello!" as enthusiastic greeting, followed closely after by a somewhat cooler tone. More formal, more polite. "Ah, of course. Good to hear from you. How are things going out there?"

He nods sagely, pointlessly, to the other person's answer - I think I know already who it is, but I hope I'm wrong. "Mm, yeah, I'd say it's going pretty smoothly with us, too...yeah." A beat. "Yeah, no, we just went out for a quiet little dinner. It was fun." Then he looks up in my at me, and my heart sinks lower in my chest as my suspicions are confirmed. Quiet laughter. "Yeah, somehow I had a feeling you wanted to speak to her." His hand muffling the microphone as he holds it out to me. "Sarah, it's your mom."

Great. A wordless mutter makes my displeasure known as I set the record down atop the coffee table and slouch over to the phone - he hands it over to me with a serious look and an admonishment all too familiar. "Be nice." Right. Like there's any reason that I should be. Like she deserves it.

"Hi, mom." I try to do it anyway, to swallow down the bitterness and anger that's already risen up inside my throat. If only just because he asked me to.

"Hey there, honey!" Her voice comes all too chipper from the other end. Friendly. Fake. Big surprise, from her. "Happy birthday!"

"Yeah, thanks." Barely more than mumbled. Maybe this will be over quicker if I keep things short and sullen.

"I'm sorry I can't be out there in person to give you a birthday hug, but you know how the airlines are." Yeah, thank god for them. "Your dad says you didn't even have any kind of party, that the two of you just went out for dinner?" I mutter my assent, and her laughter comes back quick and thin along the line. "Well, that's no good, is it? You've just turned twenty, you should be having a bash with all your friends, not cooped up with your father."

I can feel my lips curl up, disgusted. Angry. "I actually like spending time with dad. Not like some people." They're the first words I've spoken clearly in the conversation, sharp and bitter.

She sounds a little chastened, fumbling. "Honey, come on. I know you do, and that's...I know. I didn't mean it like that."

"Whatever." I roll my eyes, lean back against the wall. Just say goodbye already, hang up. You've done your damned maternal duty, or whatever you're even bothering with this for.

"Anyway." Some of the vigor is departed from her voice; I know I shouldn't take any satisfaction in that, but I still do. A little. "Did you get your present from us?"

Frowning. "No." There's a stack of mail still unsorted on the bureau, but there aren't any packages or anything.

"It might have only come today...it's just a regular envelope. Are you sure it isn't there?" The note of almost pleading in her voice makes me want to hang up. Or maybe throw up. But I guess that wouldn't be 'nice.'

"Let me look..." A sigh, sorting through the mail. Bills. Junk. Bank statement...wait, there is something. Addressed to me, a sticker in the corner for the return address. Roger and Elaine Winters - my blood curdles acridly to read it. Roger. An ugly name for an ugly person. "Found it, I guess." I don't much bother hiding the revulsion in my tone, tearing open the cream-white envelope.

There's a card inside, brightly colored in pastel. Abstract shapes, reminiscent of ribbons and balloons, bold letters strung across the center. 'Happy Birthday.' And a visa logo in the corner? Weird. I open it up to find a smaller card within, this one made of plastic, with a string of sixteen numbers stamped into its front. A couple words hand-written on the paper below. "Don't spend it all in one place. Love, mom."

"You got me a credit card." I'm just baffled, mostly, looking at it. But actually, wait; it says that it's-

"A cash card, yeah." She says it so enthusiastic, like it's the latest thing. "Load it up, and it acts just like a credit card. It's...you know, it's a little hard to shop for you, with us over here. I hardly even know what it is you like these days, and I understand your father is struggling a little with his business, so I thought this would be good. There's five hundred dollars on there - a chance for you to really splurge, to buy some new outfit you've been eyeing, or just to go out and treat yourself. I don't imagine that you get to do that very much."

God. I'm speechless. Furious. Revolted at this flimsy little piece of plastic that I'm holding in my hand - if she were here before me, I'd throw it in her stupid face. How fucking like her, to toss some money at me and think that I'll be happy, to fret about how much of it my dad is making. To hint again about how much more comfortable I'd be if I lived with her instead...I can hardly hold the bile from my tongue for long enough to spit a few short words. "Great. Thanks." Cold sarcasm twisted in my voice. I don't want this conversation to last a goddamn moment longer than it has to. "Mom, I gotta go."

"Oh." She sounds disheartened. Good. "Well, I...okay, honey. Just...have you given any more thought to coming out here for a visit, at least? It's beautiful in the winter, with the snow...I really think you'd like it."

"I'll think about it." That much is true - I'd think about it until the end of time, if it kept me from actually having to do it. "But yeah, I gotta go." Sharper this time.

"Okay. Well, ah..." A sigh comes down the line, quiet. "I hope you've had a nice birthday so far. I won't keep you from whatever it is you need to do." Her tone suggests she knows full well there's nothing in particular that's dragging me away. "I love you, honey. Roger sends his love, too."

Ugh. "He can keep it." I fairly snarl the words before slamming down the phone. Glaring at it hot enough that I wouldn't be half surprised if it melted down into a puddle. The breath hissing fiercely though my nose...it's a long few moments like that before awareness comes again of my dad there on the couch, looking at me with an expression gently disapproving. In any other circumstance, even that would bother me a lot - but not this one. We've been over it too many times before. And anyway, he doesn't know about her latest offense. "It's a five hundred dollar gift card." The irony is biting in my tone, pretending at enthusiasm as I hold it up for him to see. "You want it?"

He pushes with a sigh from the couch up to his feet. Speaks, a little chiding. "No, sweetheart. I don't want your birthday present."

"Well, then that makes two of us." I toss it back down on the bureau, wishing that it were the trash. Maybe that's what I'll do with it. Or just give it to some bum out on the street.

"Sweetie..." He's close behind me now. One big hand laid comforting atop my stiff and aching shoulder, squeezing it softly in his grasp...I might appreciate that more, too, if she didn't have me so angry. "She's just trying to be a mother to you. To make you happy."

"Well, then she's fucking terrible at it." A ripple of misgiving in my heart at my ferocity - not so much because of what I said about her, just how I said it. I don't usually swear in front of him. Not that he's ever gotten mad at me for it, just...I don't like to do it. "If she wanted to do that, she could start by admitting what an awful person she is."

"Sure, that's a reasonable place to start," he mutters dryly from behind me, half to himself. A moment's quiet. "Sarah, don't you think it's a little bit ridiculous that I have to be the one to tell you to get along with her?"

"Yeah, that is ridiculous!" Now this is just too much, enough for me to even raise my voice as I whirl around to face him. "She cheated on you, dad, remember? You should hate her guts, you should despise her. You should be taking every opportunity to rub her face in the fact that she's so terrible I don't even want to see her." My arms are rigid, straining at my sides, my hands balled up into fists. How can he be so easygoing about her, after all she did to him?

"Princess, we've talked about this." His hand sneaks up behind my head, his fingers stroking in my hair, on the back of my neck, the way he sometimes did to soothe me when I was just a little girl. It isn't quite as effective, these days. "I was angry with her, for a good long while. You know I was. Hated her guts, despised her, just like you said." The wry and earnest smile on his face doesn't even give a hint that he's capable of such a feeling...though I do remember when it was different. Just after the revelation of her infidelity, the only time I've seen him red with fury, screaming. "But it doesn't help anyone for me to feel that way, to keep that anger going. Not her, not me. Not you. It just drags everybody down. I'm happier without it. And anyway, it's not like it came out of nowhere, what happened. We'd had problems from the very start, and that's my fault as much as hers. As much as it is anyone's."

"Oh, puh." Mumbling dismissive, I drop my head a little, give him greater access to the back of my neck. Letting him gently cradle it in his grasp. "I was there, dad. You didn't do anything. You didn't cheat on her."

"I didn't." He admits it, shrugs, easy and philosophical. "But a lot of that is opportunity. If some rich, attractive lawyer had put the moves on me..."

"Oh my god, dad," I groan at this. "Roger is not attractive. You're about a million times-" I have to hit the brakes on that sentence, screeching to a halt as I realize where it's going.

"Tastes differ, I'm told. Though I appreciate the vote of confidence." A slender smile on his lips. He took it innocently. Of course he did. "The point is, I might have done the very same thing as her, if our positions were reversed."

"No, you wouldn't." As the rage drains slowly out of me, it leaves behind a kind of weariness, emptiness. Quiet. He's standing there before me, sturdy as a mountain. I don't think I have to feel nervous about stepping closer, leaning slight upon his chest. Taking comfort in his warmth. It's nothing that I haven't done before. "You're a good person, dad. Maybe too good. She's just a money-grubbing..." I don't have a way to finish the thought that doesn't have me cursing - I let it die away instead. "I hate her."

I can feel his chest rise and fall beneath me as he sighs. "Sweetie, you don't hate her." Gently remonstrating, his palm sliding down to rest stop my back.

It takes a moment, a long breath of my own, before I can reluctantly admit it. "I don't hate her." Quiet, low - then I add in, slightly fiercer, "I'm about an inch away from it, though."

He smiles at that. I can't see it, but I can hear it in his voice. "Well, that's an important inch." My hand is laid upon his shirt just beneath my cheek. I can feel the subtle rumble as he speaks, vibrating through his chest. "She's always going to be your mom. No matter what. That's reason enough why you should try to forgive her, try to get along. Heck," he ruffles lightly at my hair again, "That's why I can't stay mad at her myself. Whatever else she's done, she gave me you, and I'll always be grateful to her for it."

I can't help the smile quirking upward on my lips, the warmth I feel in the beating of my heart. Can muster up no more than just a playful indignation. "Dad, that is so corny."

"Well," his free hand pats me on the elbow. "I'm a corny guy. What can I say." And I have to struggle not to feel to disappointed as he lifts me gently off his chest, stands me up again on just my own two feet. "Now, how about we listen to that record of yours?"

---

The sound of it is better than I'd feared. Undeniably degraded - the first track of it especially, rough and scratchy, but still a pleasant thing to hear. Dad listens to it with me for a while, maybe halfway through, but he's got work again tomorrow; eventually, he has to beg off to go to bed, apologetic as he leaves me in my room. A final 'happy birthday,' a squeezing of my hand good night.

I think about that for a while, laying in my bed with the speakers turned down to just the edge of hearing. All those dirty stories drifting at the edges of my mind while I listen to the low and smoky crooning of a skillful sax. A goodnight kiss. That's what there would be, if this were one of them. What there often seems to be, at least in the stories where the girl and her daddy get along with one another. A little peck on the lips, which somehow neither one of them had ever thought was in any way unusual, or on the cheek, which so easily turns in to something more, if the daughter one night just turns her head as it's descending. Either one of them could be the impetus, the spark that lights the flame of want inside them. When their lips caress electric on each other in some tender evening together, when they already feel in their hearts how close they are to one another. When that little flicker of sensation is added to the kindling of love.

He used to give me goodnight kisses. Dad did, years ago. Not even on the cheek - on the forehead. I guess that's about the same thing as a peck on the cheek, except that you can't just turn your head to change its meaning...there wasn't any single moment that he stopped, no event, no explanation. It was never every night, anyway. It just happened less and less as I was getting older, until eventually it wasn't happening at all. I didn't even consider it, really; he still gave me hugs sometimes, or other little gestures of affection. I hardly felt that anything was missing - until now, thinking about it. Not because of what the stories say, not really, just...there's something special in it, isn't there? In a kiss goodnight. An expression of the bond between us, that I could share with no one else. Because he's my dad, because he made me, because I love him, trust him more than anyone. He was affirming all of that, giving me those tender little kisses before I went to sleep.

Gone forever, now. Realistically, anyway. I mean, theoretically I could ask him to start up again. It might even have been viable, if I had done so when he was only starting to taper off. But now? I'm too old. It's been too many years since it was done at all. Even if he agreed to do it, he'd raise an eyebrow at the request, he'd wonder why I wanted it. And that's a question that I can't afford to have him ask...I couldn't bear for him to even get an inkling of the thoughts, the daydreams I've been having lately. I couldn't stand it. Bad enough, the one time he caught me masturbating in my room, when I was fifteen, sixteen - he only wheeled around, apologised swiftly on his way back out the door, even told me later in the day that that sort of thing was perfectly natural and healthy, but I was still crimson for a week, didn't dare to touch myself again for months. Still makes me quail inside to think of it. I'd rather die than have him realize my present fantasies, unnatural and sick.

I don't know how the girls in the stories manage it. I guess being fictional helps out in that regard...but they hardly ever seem to be concerned about revealing their desires, never worry that their father might not feel the same. They parade around for him to see in just their bra and panties, they press against him, kiss him unselfconscious on the kips, they put on dramatic shows of licking at their lollipops and popsicles, permit the melting juices to smear upon their lips, trickle down their chin...utterly assured that these displays, that this teasing will only earn their dad's desire.

And of course, they're never wrong. Even when he gets angry at her behavior, even when he slaps her to the ground, calls her a slut, a whore, the lesson he decides to teach her is always what she wants, what satisfies her not-so-hidden cravings. It never seems to trouble them, the thing that I would fear. That such flirtation with my father would only make him frown at me, question what on earth I'm doing. That if he realised the truth, it would not be lust that I saw filling up his eyes, but concern, alarm, revulsion. That every touch thereafter would be scrupulously chaste and careful as he found me a psychiatrist to fix whatever's wrong inside my head, and the closeness that we once had shared would be forever ruined by the awkwardness of knowing what I tried to do.