The Swailing

Optima: Thirsty

The house is dark when I get home and just as I start to wonder where my dad is, my arm band pings with a message. He's working late. He's been working late a lot lately.

I pull together the ingredients for my dinner and toss them together robotically in a wok. As I stir, distracted, I think about my day and my feelings of irritation and impatience return. Nothing seems to relieve it anymore – not exercise, not time with friends, nothing.

I sit down at the table and take one bite of my meal before pushing the bowl roughly away from me. For a moment I just stare at it, willing it to be something it's not. I know I have to eat – my run put me well under my calorie requirement for the day – but with a kitchen full of healthy food, I can't seem to eat enough to fill me up.

I stand up and open the cabinets, staring at the orderly shelves. Nothing. Nothing "bad", anyway. Brown rice, whole grain pasta, spices, a small bottle of olive oil. Dried fruits, nuts, oatmeal. A bottle of honey, a small container of raw sugar.

No chocolate. No butter. No saturated fat of any kind.

I suddenly feel angry. The humiliation of Logan's rejection yesterday, the trouble at school, the empty, repetitive conversations with my friends. The black hole where my mother is supposed to be.

I storm to my dad's room and grab the key from under the carpet again. It has to be the right key, and maybe liquor tastes like chocolate chip cookies. If it weren't irresistible, we wouldn't have to lock it away with specific restrictions. Plus, it is caloric, and I need some calories right now.

Back in the living room I take a deep breath and try the key in the lock, willing it to work this time. But it still won't go in, no matter how I wiggle or push or swear at it. I bang my hand against the cabinet in frustration. Even the old fashioned technology is stymieing me.

I sigh and head back to my dad's room, feeling sorry for myself. My stomach grumbles. Even my skin feels itchy and restless. In the closet I lift the rug to replace the key and notice again how the strange crack in the floor looks almost like a door or a hatch. I move my dad's shoes off the rug and fold it back to get a closer look.

The cracks form a square just smaller than the size of the rug. I tug the rug out of the closet and find that along the back edge of the square, right in the middle, there is a small metal circle with a hole in the center. I touch it with my finger, thinking it is a button or a bio-reader, but nothing happens. And then I look at the key in my other hand and smile.

I reach over, holding my breath, and insert the key into the hole. It slides in without any resistance. I turn the key to the right and something clicks. I hesitate before lifting the door, wondering what is inside. Has my dad sensed my restlessness and moved his liquor to this other hiding place, just in case? Why else would he have two locking cabinets in the house? Especially these old-fashioned ones that required these very specific keys?

I lift the hinged door and peer inside, expecting to see liquor bottles or maybe even pornographic iMags – after all, he's been alone and single for a long time – but instead I find a leather case. It's small – only about the size of my computer keyboard – and the leather is old and worn, buttery soft and beautiful. I pick it up, let the door of the compartment close, and back out of my dad's closet.

I sit down on his bed and study the case. It must be pretty old – not much is made out of leather anymore. We have laws about killing animals and about how their parts are to be used. Animal products are rare, and leather is expensive. I hold the case up to my nose and inhale. It smells earthy and pleasant. I finally slide its zippered closure open and dump the contents onto my dad's neatly made bed.