Free Space by Emily Sue Harvey Page B

Something about the litter and stain, heaped atop my pulsing edginess, stung me more than usual.

    â€œYou need to sweep the cigarette ashes off the porch,” I said, trying to sound civil. “And pick up the butts that have fallen on the floor.”
    â€œI know, I know,” as in nag, nag, nag. “All you ever do is tell me what I’m not doing.” Another flippant pull on the cigarette. “I’ll sweep them off in a minute. Don’t know why we can’t just have a normal conversation without lectures.” Her flat reply, as always, left me feeling even more desiccated.
    I marveled again that she was such a master at playing with one’s mind. Her ability to skirt the actual subject was legendary. Faith knew her father and I both hated that the entrance to our home resembled a ghetto movie set. Neither did I like seeing her dirty dishes dumped in the sink, forgotten, for hours at a time.
    â€œWhen are you going to wash up your dishes?” I then asked. “I leave the kitchen clean each night.”
    â€œIn a minute.”
    Irritation sizzled. “You never wash them quickly — ”
    â€œThere you go again.” This, trailed by expletives. “I’ll wash them in a minute. After I smoke.”
    Smoking preceded everything. Always. And I knew she would not wash the dishes right away. They would sit for hours.
    That was invariably the direction of our “duties” exchanges. I don’t think Faith planned it that way, but somewhere along life’s way, she developed this extraordinary sense of control.
    â€œFaith missed her calling by not becoming a prosecuting attorney,” I told Dan repeatedly. He agreed. “She’s a genius at turning words to her advantage.”
    Even worse, somewhere along the way, she decided she didn’t care what others think of her. She didn’t give
a hot dang about orderliness. Trying to teach her to have a place for everything and to put everything in its place was like daily banging my head against a chipped, bloodied cement wall.
    Intermittent bouts of neatness did seize her following the drug-riddled years. But they soon stifled and fizzled beneath an impatiently discarded outfit followed by a ton of others.
    There is, to Faith, a flame-like aura, one fired by an eagerness that, when prodded, instantly evolves into snapping impatience. Her rash disregard of decorum, I think, comes from gestational hard-wiring.
    I do not excuse it. I simply observe her struggle to conform, when over and over, the impetuosity wins out.
    Dan and I do care what others think of us, but in a wholesome way. A messy, cluttered house is not us . Cleanliness. Little things like self-respect and character and ethics of behavior remain important to us.
    We’re into relationships.
    Faith is a near-recluse. She avoids extended family get-togethers except on rare occasions. And she hasn’t been interested in the opposite sex for a long, long time.
    Today, I pushed these thoughts aside. Weary beyond words. Thought about how unnatural this was, to have an adult child under my roof.
    Needy. Demanding. Controlling.
    I stood and started into the house.
    Then stopped.
    I turned. “By the way, Faith. Your inconsiderate, stingy, unloving dad is planning on buying you a car.”
    Her mouth dropped open on that one. She looked at me, truly looked at me.
    â€œYou serious?”

    â€œHas a cat got a tail?”
    I slammed the door behind me.

    â€œThanks, Dad!” Faith gushed and threw her arms around Dan. He patted her back as she squeezed exuberantly, allowing the luminous warm side of her to emerge. Nobody does affection quite like an overjoyed, abandoned Faith. He handed her keys to the mint-condition, white Mercedes Benz he’d found.
    One owner. For whatever reason, the owner was letting it go at a price Dan could afford.
    Parked in our driveway, it glistened beneath the afternoon sun.
    Moments earlier, Dan had sat