Let's Get Lost

II. Ryan

LET’S GET LOST

 II. Ryan

         THE ONLY THINGS I remember of my dad were his poetic manner and stoic appearance.  The last day I saw him was when I was four-years-old and he gave me a giant book about dinosaurs.  I quickly outgrew the fascination in which I so vigorously appreciated and moved on to sports and philosophy.  I tended to be reserved and aloof, pondering upon much more vast things that I couldn’t grasp and pertain in my mind. Because of this, I was the type of person that said things before I thought about the outcome.  When I got to middle school, I was a genius, though.  Everyone said it was a trait I got from Dad.

I don’t remember him much, my dad.  My mom doesn’t talk about him anymore, but when she does she gets emotional and has to change the subject.  When I try to get answers out of Johnny, my older brother, about Dad, he pushes me away and disappears for a couple of days.  Some days, though, I’d get a small gesture or a simple answer and then a slammed door in my face.

“Ryan!” I heard my mother call from downstairs.  I was in my room writing music, er, more like poetry, but I’d called them lyrics at the time.  Sauntering downstairs, I peeked through the banister and saw my mom wiping down the counters in the kitchen.  At the moment, I felt a sudden urge to bolt; I assumed Johnny had left again, and I’d be blamed for it. “Ryan, get down here!” Mom yelled louder this time.

I walked down the last couple of stairs and traipsed into the kitchen.  My limbs felt weak, and all of a sudden, my stomach churned into entanglements.  She lifted her head and her countenance was softer, but only for a moment.  “Yeah, Ma?”

“Dinner’s ready,” she said apathetically.  I sharply sighed and got three plates from the hutch, along with the silverware and glasses.  “Just us two.”

“Oh,” I said, my mouth forming an ‘o’ shape, and put the extra silverware back.  My mom brought the green-bean casserole into the dining room, along with steaming hot mashed potatoes and applesauce.  She was big on the vegetarian kind of meals.

We sat down and began munching, and within minutes, my curiosity overflowed my thoughts.  “Did you and Johnny have another fight?”

Mom glared at me through her spectacles.  “No, we’re fine, Ryan.”

“Just an assumption . . .”

“And why would you assume that?” she barked, slamming her fork down.  She was normally a calm woman, but when you pushed her buttons, she got mad -- real mad.  I never got her there, unless I’d asked about Johnny or Dad.

I shifted in my chair, picking at my food, shrugging.  “I dunno. . . . It’s just that you two fight a lot and he always goes away . . .”

“We’ll be fine,” she muttered, downing her glass of wine.  I watched her drink, letting herself go.  The conversation was over.

We finished our dinner -- well, Mom barely did -- and I cleaned up for my mother.  She went to the bathroom and showered, taking a long time.  All the while, I was wiping down the dishes and making the sitting room look nice for her when she got finished.  Once I was done, I went up to my room and picked up my phone, going through my speed-dial.  Johnny was the first one, Mom was the second, and Dad was the third.  I hadn’t called Dad in four months . . . I didn’t even know if the number I had was still an available number.

Reluctantly, I clicked on his name and pressed the call button.  It rang and rang and rang . . . but someone answered just before it would direct me to the voicemail.

“Hello?” someone with a raspy, deep voice answered.  “Hello?”

“Dad?”