Father's Song

10 • V O I D • 10

Abby Jones
10/6/23 (Friday)

"Now, let's talk about this last week. Anything specific bothering you?"

I'm in therapy now.

I don't feel like that should be surprising, but I don't like to talk about it. Because if someone asks, then I answer, and I go into the detail why I started going...

Even though I literally just started. So I've only told people about it. Nobody has asked.

I'm not sure what I'm talking about.

Maybe this is why I'm in therapy.

And I'm just not up for talking about the death of my dad all the time, you know?

"Well, I don't know. My mom's been acting different, I think," I say.

Shella looks up at me. "Good, or bad?"

I shrug. "She has been a little more... "perky" recently. Not in the boobs, I mean personality."

"Do you think she's moving on quicker?" She asks me.

I wonder how many times I've lifted and dropped my shoulders in here. "I feel like she met someone- scratch that, I know she met someone."

"A guy?"

"Yeah."

"Does that bother you?"

I sigh. "I don't know. I mean, I want her to be happy, but my dad died, like, not even six months ago. Doesn't that seem a little fast?"

She adjusts her notebook. "Some people recover faster than others. I will say, you are correct. If she is starting to feel "normal" about Henry's death, it does seem a little soon. But do you think maybe she's trying to be happy for you?"

I shake my head. "She's always tried to stay positive. She's getting more happy."

"Have you met this guy?"

Again, I shake my head. "No. But she's only told me bits and pieces about him. I don't try to eavesdrop, but sometimes I hear her and Lucy talking, and usually it's Lucy who brings this colleague up. But I don't know, something just feels off-"

Her timer goes off.

Somehow, an hour doesn't feel long enough.

She shuts her notebook and stands up to open the door for me. "Well, sweetheart, I wouldn't worry about it too much for right now. If you notice any more changes, feel free to bring it up next week. I'll try to help you as best I can. That's what I'm here for."

"Thanks, Shella."

My grandparents are the ones who pick me up after. Mom is at work.

I wonder if she works with this guy a lot?

Now I need to find out.

But how do I find out without asking too much about her schedule?

"Hello," my grandpa says when I get into the car.

"Hi guys," I say, somehow feeling drained.

"How was it?" My grandma asks.

I stare out the window as we make our way back to my house. They already know I want to be alone at my own home. "Fine. Same old, same old."

They have their classic country station playing, and it's sort of grown on me. I don't necessarily enjoy the songs so much as I do the comfort it brings.

It'll always remind me of them.

"I have a question," I say after what felt like hours trying to build up the courage to make any sound at all.

"Sure, go ahead," my grandpa says.

"Um, so..." I'm not trying to stall; it's just happening naturally. "Has my mom mentioned meeting anybody new recently?"

"How do you mean, sweetheart?" Grandma chimes in.

"Like, I don't know... a new friend at work?"

"Hasn't said anything to us." Grandpa turns onto my street. "Why do you ask?"

I'm suddenly anxious they'll ask too many questions, and then I'll tell them what I'm worried about, and then they'll say something to mom... "No reason. I just heart she and Lucy talking about somebody at work."

"Must be a new colleague. They hire people all the time." Grandpa unlocks the car.

I thank them both for the ride home and make my way to the front door. They sit in the driveway until they know I can get into the house, and I wave them goodbye.

Because I know mom told me she'll be home around five thirty, I know that means it'll be closer to six thirty. And it's five now.

I open the fridge to see what I can whip up for dinner for the both of us.

I find a tomato sauce bottle and some heavy cream. So from that, I know we're going to have pasta.

"Sounds good to me," I say to myself.

I turn on the radio that's in the kitchen and start flipping through the channels. Ever since I we got one it has been my favorite item in the world.

I'm about to leave the kitchen so I can watch some TV when a message makes my phone ping.

I take my cell out of my back pocket and see it's from my mom.

Coming home now. Traffic is pretty heavy, so
I'll be a little late.

I laugh. This is early if anything.

I turn the volume up louder while I start on dinner. I'm dancing to Return of the Mack when I turn the heat up on the burner for the pasta water.

My phone buzzes in my pocket so I take it out and look at the contact. Emma.

What are you up to?

I respond. Making dinner. Did you wanna eat with us tonight?

If you don't mind.

While I finish up with the pasta sauce, I shoot a message to my mom asking if Emma can have dinner with us, and get her approval.

Emma is here before my mom is.

"Smells good. You were smart to take the FCS course," she says, using a piece of sour dough bread to taste it.

"Don't double dip, please. And thanks, I'm enjoying it a lot. How's your communications class coming along?"

She shrugs. "Fine. There's a competition to see whoever makes the best cover for the yearbook gets picked for the actual yearbook for this year."

"Do you have your design yet?" I ask. I'm curious to see it.

She shows me an outline she has started, and I'm shocked how creative it is. "That's amazing, Em'. I hope yours wins, I don't even have to see the rest."

"It's probably gonna be whatever Benjamin L. has in mind."

"What, our class president?" I asked. "If he gets picked then I'd say that's very biased."

My mom pulls into the driveway just as I stick the spaghetti into the boiling pot of water. I like it a lot when Emma eats with us, because things are so much less quiet at the table. She's got this insanely bubbly personality.

And it fills the void that was once not there just a few months ago.