Free Whisper by Phoebe Kitanidis Page B
Authors: Phoebe Kitanidis
conversations were like this. I never knew what he wanted from me, and I couldn’t even Listen in to find out. His Wishes were all about work, cases, cars, stuff . “I—I don’t know, Dad…I just wanted to say thanks, that’s all.”
“Oh. Oh, okay. Well, good. You’re very welcome.” Dad cleared his throat and coughed. “So,” he said. “Uh…how are you?”
We went through the how-are-you-fine-how-are-you script. Dad’s face was reddening, just from the stress of chatting with his own flesh and blood. Though his gaze was settled on me, his thoughts were already flying back to work: how much research he hoped to get done today, how bad he wanted to win this case. I couldn’t even hold his attention for ten minutes.
“Looks like you’re swamped,” I said, and pivoted as if to go.
But suddenly Dad leaned forward, shook his head, andgrinned. “Am I ever!” he began. “So much on the docket, Joy, October’s shaping up to be even crazier than September was. I’ve got one deposition Tuesday in Eugene, one in Bend the next day.” He leaned back in the chair and pointed his thumbs in opposite directions. “And those damn repair specs for Winchester, they’re not even eight-oh-three’d yet, and it’s already the seventh….”
I want to get that new paralegal up to speed ASAP.
I nodded, blinking to keep my eyes from glazing over. “Uh-huh…?”
It never failed. My brain spaced whenever Dad spouted legalese, no matter how hard I fought to stay on track. Instead of asking smart questions like Icka would, I caught myself wondering if Ben would wear his ripped jeans to the party, or maybe those tight black ones Parker secretly thought of as “the butt pants.” Then I reminded myself it didn’t matter; there was no point in thinking about Ben that way. But turning off the thoughts was harder now that Icka’s big mouth had made everything complicated.
“…and then there’s the Tisdale building.” Dad was winding down. “Opposing counsel’s already harassing me with a whole redwood tree’s worth of memos, I swear to you. Demanding ETA, like I could give a meaningful ETA without those reports…”
Wish they’d stop breathing down my neck.
Again I bobbed my head sympathetically, but I had no clue what he was talking about. ETA? Eight-oh-three’d? Was there something I was supposed to be saying in responsehere? Should I look concerned? Cheer him up? What do you want from me, Dad?
Times like this made me think how much simpler life would have been if Dad had been a Hearer like the rest of us. Then he would have understood what he was putting me through right now. And maybe I’d have understood him better too. It seemed like he lived in his work world more and more each year, venturing into our living room so rarely that when I did spot him perched on the couch, reading, he looked like a stranger. I glanced at the mug and plate balanced on his printer. Was that breakfast, lunch, or dinner the night before? And why couldn’t I shake the feeling that I was a stranger in here , and when I left his office, Dad would be relieved to see me go?
“I think I’m going to go lie down,” I said, and started to explain about the headache, but that’s when I realized it had gone away on its own. Maybe it was the fresh air outside. Well, that was one good thing at least. Dad didn’t ask for more info. Just nodded and tapped his keyboard to wake up the screen. “Thanks again for the necklace,” I added.
“Of course. Happy birthday, honey.” The lower half of his face wrinkled into a pained smile. I smiled back, but suddenly—not for the first time, either—all I could think of was how much older than Mom he looked. Even though they’d been prom king and queen of the same high school class at Lincoln.
Even weirder, I couldn’t have told you exactly why he looked so ancient. It’s not like he had marionette wrinklesand a turkey-gobbler neck like Granny Rowan had had, or a long white beard
“Oh. Oh, okay. Well, good. You’re very welcome.” Dad cleared his throat and coughed. “So,” he said. “Uh…how are you?”
We went through the how-are-you-fine-how-are-you script. Dad’s face was reddening, just from the stress of chatting with his own flesh and blood. Though his gaze was settled on me, his thoughts were already flying back to work: how much research he hoped to get done today, how bad he wanted to win this case. I couldn’t even hold his attention for ten minutes.
“Looks like you’re swamped,” I said, and pivoted as if to go.
But suddenly Dad leaned forward, shook his head, andgrinned. “Am I ever!” he began. “So much on the docket, Joy, October’s shaping up to be even crazier than September was. I’ve got one deposition Tuesday in Eugene, one in Bend the next day.” He leaned back in the chair and pointed his thumbs in opposite directions. “And those damn repair specs for Winchester, they’re not even eight-oh-three’d yet, and it’s already the seventh….”
I want to get that new paralegal up to speed ASAP.
I nodded, blinking to keep my eyes from glazing over. “Uh-huh…?”
It never failed. My brain spaced whenever Dad spouted legalese, no matter how hard I fought to stay on track. Instead of asking smart questions like Icka would, I caught myself wondering if Ben would wear his ripped jeans to the party, or maybe those tight black ones Parker secretly thought of as “the butt pants.” Then I reminded myself it didn’t matter; there was no point in thinking about Ben that way. But turning off the thoughts was harder now that Icka’s big mouth had made everything complicated.
“…and then there’s the Tisdale building.” Dad was winding down. “Opposing counsel’s already harassing me with a whole redwood tree’s worth of memos, I swear to you. Demanding ETA, like I could give a meaningful ETA without those reports…”
Wish they’d stop breathing down my neck.
Again I bobbed my head sympathetically, but I had no clue what he was talking about. ETA? Eight-oh-three’d? Was there something I was supposed to be saying in responsehere? Should I look concerned? Cheer him up? What do you want from me, Dad?
Times like this made me think how much simpler life would have been if Dad had been a Hearer like the rest of us. Then he would have understood what he was putting me through right now. And maybe I’d have understood him better too. It seemed like he lived in his work world more and more each year, venturing into our living room so rarely that when I did spot him perched on the couch, reading, he looked like a stranger. I glanced at the mug and plate balanced on his printer. Was that breakfast, lunch, or dinner the night before? And why couldn’t I shake the feeling that I was a stranger in here , and when I left his office, Dad would be relieved to see me go?
“I think I’m going to go lie down,” I said, and started to explain about the headache, but that’s when I realized it had gone away on its own. Maybe it was the fresh air outside. Well, that was one good thing at least. Dad didn’t ask for more info. Just nodded and tapped his keyboard to wake up the screen. “Thanks again for the necklace,” I added.
“Of course. Happy birthday, honey.” The lower half of his face wrinkled into a pained smile. I smiled back, but suddenly—not for the first time, either—all I could think of was how much older than Mom he looked. Even though they’d been prom king and queen of the same high school class at Lincoln.
Even weirder, I couldn’t have told you exactly why he looked so ancient. It’s not like he had marionette wrinklesand a turkey-gobbler neck like Granny Rowan had had, or a long white beard