The Fleeting Happy

Three

When I got home from my first day at Severn Valley High, I was exhausted. The house was empty, as it usually was at this time of the day while my mom was at work.

I threw my bag down on the floor and collapsed on the sofa, unwinding contentedly in the dim illumination of my living room. School always drained me, no matter how bad or good it went, and I usually stayed limp like this for half an hour before regaining energy.

I was expecting a typical quiet Monday night, watching TV and doing homework until my mom came home with takeout for dinner. That was usually the plan. However, when I checked my phone, I was surprised by a text from my dad in all capital letters telling me to call him.

And so I did. He picked up immediately. "Rory?" His voice sounded insanely happy.

That was the thing about my dad-- he had up days and down days. I didn't know which ones were worse.

His up days were usually like today. He'd be urging me to call him, and I would, and he'd sound frantic and maniacally overjoyed, going nuts about something that wasn't that great-- or at least not worth melting down over. Usually, it would be how he won $7 at the gas station lottery, or how his penpal in Cambodia replied, or maybe how he found a penny on the ground at work.

During his down days, I wouldn't even hear from him at all. I would have to call or text first and sometimes, he wouldn't even reply. If he did, his voice would be quiet and hoarse and he'd sound as though he'd had the life taken right out of him. I would sometimes visit his apartment, just to check and see if he was okay, and it would be a mess. The dishes would be unwashed and overflowing at the sink. The laundry would be undone for weeks. He'd be lying in bed, unshaven and unshowered and I'd have to help him get back on his feet.

I worry about him. I have to. Nobody else does. I used to always get angry at my mother for not caring about him. I soon realized that you can't force other people to care. That's why it's such a miracle when someone actually does.

"Hey, Dad," I said, smiling. "What's up?"

I could hear his excited breathing over the phone. "You'll never believe it, honey."

"What?"

"I'm booked solid, all week next week! Atlantic City! And I want you to come with me, sweetheart! What do you say?"

"Congratulations! Dad, that's amazing... I wish I could go. But I have school. Remember?"

He was quiet for a painfully long time. "Oh. Yeah. Right." He sounded crestfallen. "I forgot."

"But that's okay! Take someone else with you. How about Mark?"

Mark was my dad's assistant.

See, my dad was a motivational speaker. He worked freelance. At first, things were rough, but he was now starting to see some success with his speeches and seminars. At 31, he was going around the state talking to groups of dejected people about how he turned his own life around and how they could do the same, if they just believed in themselves.

He became known as Scott Caples, Motivational Speaker to the Stars. He even had a bus bench ad, and was so excited about it at the time that I didn't have the heart to tell him it was already vandalized.

I've been to a million of his speeches. He was a good motivational speaker, there was no denying that. I'd always had the uncanny feeling that he was simply talking to himself.

Nevertheless, people loved him. They sympathized with him. His story was inspiring, after all.

He was supposed to play college football after high school, and join the NFL. He'd had a scholarship and everything. He was the star quarterback, the beloved high school hero-- he was en route to success. His life was seemingly perfect.