3: Franny (1/2)

3. Franny

When I get off the school bus, the sun shines down on me, blinding me slightly as I haul my bag over my shoulder, trying to keep it from constantly sliding off. My house is a little further out from school than others. I could easily walk home, but it would take a good half an hour—twenty minutes if I run.

My house is old with white outer walls and a farmhouse look to it. The building itself is small and narrow, with two floors and a little attic with a single, circular window. Behind that window is all of my mom's things. Her clothes that we never got rid of, her bags and shoes, all her work and papers from the job, and everything else that remains of her.

My dad doesn't like me to go up there. He keeps it locked most of the time and doesn't know that I pick at it every Friday when he's out until it pops open for me. I sit there a lot, just going through everything. Sometimes I don't even bother to open anything—I just sit. It doesn't help me at all and I know it's probably only hurting me more.

But nothing else in the house has anything to do with Mom.

No pictures, fridge magnets, notes, nothing. It's like she never even existed. I guess that's what my dad's going for. He doesn't want to have to be reminded of the fact that she really was there, living and breathing until . . .

I sigh and walk past the large oak tree with the tire swing hanging from its largest branch. I don't swing on it anymore. Mom used to go on it with me.

I walk along the still-wet grass and stop at the front door, pushing open the unlocked door. The house is cold inside, and I know that my dad hasn't bothered to put the heating on. I drop my bag on the floor and kick my shoes off. I head toward the sitting room and stand in the doorway.

”Good day?” my dad asks me as he lounges on the couch, his arms resting out on the back of the furniture and his eyes glued to the television screen. His clothes are rumpled, and his face is darkened by a short stubble which is starting to grow back.

At one time, my dad's appearance was everything to him. I don't know where that man's gone, but the one in front of me is messy, uncoordinated, and currently knocking back a bottle of beer.

I take a deep breath to calm myself and nod. ”Yeah. It was good. You? Work okay?”

I head into the kitchen, discreetly opening the fridge door.

”Yeah, it was alright,” he says, and I shake my head to myself. By the state of the house and the six missing bottles of beer from the fridge, he hasn't even left the house, let alone go to work.

I look over at the microwave to see the time.

3:20

I glance back into the mostly-empty fridge and realize that there's nothing we can actually consume, unless I wanted to make a ketchup and hummus sandwich in a stale bread bun. I close the fridge door and walk back to the sitting room.

”Can we go out for dinner?” I ask. ”Head down to the diner? It's cheap on Tuesday.”

My dad turns his head back to look at me and nods slowly. ”Sure. I'll drive us over in about an hour.”

I look at his beer bottle and swallow. ”Um, I'd actually prefer to walk. If you don't mind.”

My dad nods again before looking back at the television and that's it. End of conversation.

***

After the fifteen-minute walk to the diner, the building comes in sight. It's one story high and has a lit-up sign that says, 'Bennie's Diner' along the front of it. The windows are large, and the lights are bright as we walk up to the front door. My dad goes in first and I follow. He gets us a table.

The floor is covered in red tiles. There's a large counter in the corner where people sit on high stools, drinking, some of them eating. The rest of the room is surrounded by large booths adorned in red with light wooden borders and white tables.

My dad slides into one side of the booth and I sit opposite him. I look to my right and the sun is still shining, glistening against the large window beaming down onto the table in front of me. I lift my hand and press it onto the table, feeling the light warm my skin.

A waitress comes over before I have to try to make small talk with my dad. I smile at her and she smiles back.

”Welcome guys. Are there any drinks I can get you to start off?”

I look over at my dad then turn back to the woman, the tight smile still on my face. ”I'll just have a Coke.”

She nods and looks at my dad. He runs his hand over his stubble and frowns a little, as if he's only just noticed that the facial hair is there. ”I'll have a Corona.”

The waitress smiles quickly and then turns around, walking over to the main bar. A silence encases us then, and I just look down at the table, letting out a quick, short breath.

”This is nice,” my dad says, and I take pity on him for a moment and nod, giving a forced smile.

”Yeah, it's nice,” I say. ”We haven't done something like this in a while.”

My dad leans back against the seat and sighs contentedly, his muscles relaxing and his shoulders sagging as the tension in his body is released. The waitress comes back after a few more minutes of silence and places my Coke in front of me and the beer in front of my dad. My gaze lingers on the beer but I force myself to look away, realizing that I'll just have to bite back any snide comment I have and keep going.

”Are you ready to order?” the waitress asks, and I look down at the menu that I haven't even opened yet. I look over and my dad doesn't seem in the slightest bit ready yet, so I shake my head.

”No. Can we have a few more minutes?” I ask.

”Sure,” she says. ”Just call me over when you're ready. My name's Kate.”

Kate walks off and I open the menu, flicking through until I get to the dinner meals. My eyes don't go to what's the most appetizing or what makes me hungrier. Instead I look at the prices in small print at the end of each description. Everything is relatively cheap, but I pick the cheapest option anyway. It's just something I do to help my dad out, even though I know that a few dollars off a meal won't make much of a difference.

”Decided yet?” my dad asks. I nod.

”I'm gonna get the pasta,” I say.

”You always get that,” my dad comments. ”Must really like it.”

I must.

I swallow and reach over to grab my drink. I move the straw around and take a long sip. The shaky breath I let out directly after is not from nervousness but from the complete awkwardness of the moment. I feel like maybe it would have just been easier if I'd stayed home and had my dinner on my lap while my dad watched television. But there's no food at home, and the guy needs to actually get up and go somewhere at least once a week.

I sigh and move the drink further away from me, watching the line of water appear underneath it as it moves. I look over at my dad and give yet another forced smile, which makes me feel guilty. It shouldn't be this difficult to talk to my dad. We should be able to just talk like a normal dad and daughter. But that isn't how it works with us.

We've never been close. Even when Mom was around. The two of us just didn't click. Maybe it was because my dad just never bothered much with me. I never thought anything of it, but now with Mom gone and no one else showing any care towards me apart from sporadic visits from my grandparents, I realize how much of a stranger he really is.

We call the waitress back and place our orders. I wait a minute, counting every second and open my mouth to make small talk when my dad speaks up instead.

”I'm selling it,” he says.

My brows furrow in confusion and I lean back a little. ”Selling what?” I ask.

”Her stuff.”