Inheritance by Design

I want to smash his desk. That smug look on his face—how does the light hit him just right? Makes him look so damn punchable. He smiles, completely oblivious to how close I am to screaming.

“How does that make you feel?”

“How’s a stupid picture of a barn supposed to tell you anything about me?”

“Humor me.”

I hate that phrase. No one's laughing.

“I don’t know. It makes me feel itchy. This is stupid.”

“Why don’t you tell me more about your week? Did anything new happen at home?”

“I don’t understand why I’m here. You could just sign the stupid paper and save us both the trouble.”

“That would be unethical. Besides, I’m happy to talk with you. So start small. Tell me something that makes you smile about being home?”

“That I get to leave.”

“So, you don’t feel safe?”

“I didn’t say that. Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“Fair enough. You don’t strike me as the kind of person who speaks without intent.”

My eyes roll as I look at the clock. “Is that right?” I can feel the urge to break things rising. “Look, the hour is almost up. Can I just go?”

“If you’d like to end the session early, we can.”

I grab my backpack and sling it over my shoulder. “Great.”

“Same time next week, Isiah.”

I’m already out the door.

***

The parking lot is mostly empty. Just a white Prius and an orange Mustang. I know which one’s my therapist’s. A tingle trails up my spine. The air is crisp—not quite bone-chilling, but not comfortable either. An annoying in-between. I’d kill for a hot tea.

A red Corolla pulls up. The familiar hum of the engine makes my stomach lurch. I clench my teeth, and they ache from the pressure. I toss my backpack in the back, get in, buckle up, and lean against the door.

The ride is mostly quiet, just classical music drifting through the car. Dad’s taste is at least interesting. I prefer the sound of the piano to talking anyway. Outside, changing leaves—reds and yellows—add a splash of color to the cityscape.

“Well, how did it go?”

My back tenses. “Fine.”

That familiar grunt lets me know he is displeased with my answer.

“What?” I blurt out.

“If you don’t start making progress, you’re probably going to get expelled. That doesn’t reflect well on either of us.”

I huff. “Right, you’ll look bad. That’s all you care about.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“It never is.”

“Enough of these games, Isiah. If you want to say something, then say it.”

I can see his hands squeezing the steering wheel. His tone remains flat, but I know him well enough. Tense shoulders. Chewing on his cheek. He’s furious.

“It doesn't matter.”

“You don’t get to say no. You’re the one who beat up that boy at school. You’re the one with the attitude problem. I’m at my wit’s end. What do you expect from me, huh?”

I’m breathing too fast. I can feel the tears forming. This won’t do at all.

His tongue clicks sharply. “Oh, now you’re quiet? Of course. Get called out and act like I’m the vill—”

“It’s never enough!” My voice cracks. “I’m never enough.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Are you really such a narcissist that you don’t know?”

His face is red now. I think I've got his attention.

“You do not speak to me that way.”

“What does it matter, Dad? You don’t care. You don’t even love me. You only care about your stupid appearance.”

“That’s not fair! I care. Why do you think I’m talking to you?”

I sink into the seat. “You think talking means anything? That’s all you do—talk. Tell me how much of a disappointment I am.”

I can hear the leather steering wheel creak as his grip tightens. “I wouldn’t have to remind you of your actions if you would think before you act.”

I don’t reply. My body buzzes with static, muscles aching. Heavy breathing and piano notes fill the car. That pit in my chest is back—the same ache that never fades. My eyes water; my nose runs. I wipe it with my sleeve, staring out the window, wishing I could be anyone else.

My father checks his phone, doing his best to avoid the situation. Typical. He checks a few emails at the next red light. The soft glow of his phone makes his face look like old leather. I wonder what could possibly be more important than his own son? Who am I kidding? I’d be lucky to even be a priority.

He sets the phone down, and I hear his stomach audibly growl. It reminds me that I haven't eaten today either. I really need to get better at remembering. Shit… did I drink water?

“How many more sessions do you have?”

I don’t answer. My eyes stay fixed outside the window.

“The silent treatment? You’re really going to act like this much of a child?”

My teeth clench. “Says the asshole who ignores me for his phone.”

“Unbelievable. I give you food and shelter, and all you do is complain.”

“So then why do you even bother keeping me around!” I shout back. “Just leave. Do us both a favor.”

“You wouldn’t last a day without me.”

“I’ve lasted 15 years. I think I can do more.”

He laughs. It feels like a slap to the face.

“You’re such a spoiled brat. You know nothing of the world or how to take care of yourself. You cried after I asked you one question. I lasted fifteen years. Please.”

“Is that why I’m here, huh? So you can make yourself feel superior? You’re such an asshole, you never once, not a single fucking time, asked me how my day went. You don’t give a shit!” My voice cracks again. “So tell me what I did so wrong, Dad? Tell me what I did to deserve your hate.”

“BECAUSE YOU’RE THE REASON SHE’S GONE!”

My mouth falls open, and I can’t speak. He finally said it. Why can’t I breathe? I’ve never heard him bring her up like this before. Not once. I sit staring at him. He is… wiping his eyes.

A car passes us as the turn signal fills the silence between us. My mouth opens and closes. The static is gone. All I have left is a terrible pressure in my chest. I stutter as I try to get the words out. Trying to even think of the right words is difficult.

“I didn’t ask to be here…” My mouth is so dry. “You think I wanted her dead?” I look directly at him. “I’d trade my life in a second for mom’s if it meant—”

“Don’t.” He sniffles. “Don’t talk about her like you understand.”

“You selfish asshole! I lost her, too! I never had a mom! You had five years with her! I never saw her face outside of a fucking picture!”

The car turns, and he watches the road silently. After a few minutes, he finally replies.

“She was everything to me… Do you get that? I haven’t been the same since.”

“And I never had a father. Do you get that?”

His hands tremble on the wheel. He stays silent, eyes locked on the road. I sink into my seat. He looks haggard; I can see his age now. The music returns—a calm flute melody, grating as sandpaper.

We pull up to the drive-through and order. Both of us get our usual. Nothing more is spoken. Once we have the food and drinks, we are back on the road. I take a sip of my soda. It’s bland and barely carbonated. Figures. I set the drink down and let my gaze drift to the trees again.

Twenty minutes later, we pull into the driveway. I gather my things and notice—his hand lifts, pausing just above my shoulder. It hovers, then drops. He gets out of the car. That’s all the confirmation I need.