Flash #13

An introduction to Sheila, Mac's sixteen year old daughter.

“Hey Daddy,” Sheila calls sunnily.
She is wearing a tiny fake-fur-trimmed parka. The girl can’t help the fact that there are big-chested women on both sides of her family, but she doesn’t have to amp the whole thing along by wearing that silly excuse for a coat that zips right below her bust line. The jeans she is wearing are a little on the tight side for Mac’s liking as well, and the snow boots look as if they couldn’t keep anything warm or dry. But he keeps his mouth shut, he’s happy to see her and tells himself it’s just Jo getting slack with her. He watches as Sheila kicks off the boots at his door and pulls a bundle from her bag.
“Presents!” she exclaims.
“Ah Angel, that’s nice of you,” he says. Mac opens the bag and sees a loaf of Irish Soda bread. “This looks good. Let’s have some right now.” He braces his left arm, maneuvering to get up.
“No, no. Let me,” she says and takes the bag from his hand. “Do you want some coffee?”
“Don’t know if I have any more,” Mac answers, although he would love some coffee right now. If he spends another midday asleep, he’s going to feel like even more of a loser.
“There’s some in the back of the freezer,” she answers. “Ooo, it’s gourmet.”
“Oh right,” Mac says, “Justine gave me that for Christmas.”
Christmas feels like six months ago, but it is only the end of January.
He listens as Sheila works in the kitchen, but is uncomfortable with the silence. He knows she is waiting for him to say something, be himself. Be her Dad.
“How’s school?” he asks and almost winces at how lame a question it is.
“Well…it’s Saturday, Daddy.”
“Jesus, I know that much,” he replies. “I mean, in general. How’s it going?”
“Fine,” she says absently.
“What does fine mean?” he asks.
“Oh you know…same old stuff.”
“How’s basketball going?”
He hears her movement stop in the kitchen.
“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” she says a little too breezily. “I decided not to play this year.”
Mac stares at the wall between them. Sheila has played basketball every year, community league or school teams, since she was old enough to bounce a ball. He wasn’t pinning a scholarship hope on it or anything, but Sheila is one hell of a player, can guard like a boy, has a quick move to the hoop.
“I’d remember you telling me that,” he replies.
“Maybe it was when you were in the hospital,” she adds conversationally. “There were times you were pretty sleepy.”
Something about what she’s said makes Mac feel worse than he already does. He waits for her to come in with the bread, toasted and buttered.
“It’s from the new bakery near the T,” she says.
“New?” he says skeptically, “I’m pretty fussy with Irish Soda bread.”
Sheila giggles. “Try it Daddy. It’s good.”
Mac takes a bite and lets the texture, the smell, the taste sink in. It is good.
“Right?” Sheila pushes, taking a bite herself. She keeps her eyes on him, waiting for his reaction.
Mac nods. “Pretty good.”
“What?” she scoffs. Sheila makes a face just like Jo: crooked lips, twisted into a smirk of a smile. “Whatever Dad.”
Mac finishes chewing his bite and studies his daughter. “Hey,” he says quietly. Sheila looks up.
“Why’d you quit basketball?” he asks.
Sheila looks down and starts picking raisins out of the bread. She shrugs and puts
one in her mouth. “Just wasn’t fun anymore, I guess.”
Mac keeps studying her. It still doesn’t add up.
“Somethin happen you want to tell me about?”
“No…I mean nothing happened.”
“A fight with one of the other girls?”
She shakes her head.
“Your coach?”
“No Daddy…I told you.”
Mac looks down at the bread and doesn’t know if he’s hungry for it anymore.
“Is it a boy?” he asks.
“Daddy!” she says, sounding frustrated. “I told you, no. Nothing happened. I just didn’t feel like playing anymore. I’m a junior now and there’s other stuff I want to do.”
They hear the bell tone that means the coffee maker is done brewing.
“I’ll go get it,” she tells him and disappears into the kitchen. “So you didn’t tell me,” she calls. “How are you feeling today?”
The answer is like crap, but he won’t share that.
“Good…better.”

Flash #12

Mac can’t imagine that getting the idea to call his brother Neil is a good sign. Sitting on the couch as Friday turns into Saturday, cycling through channels, wondering again – but only briefly – if drinking beer with the pain medications he is on is a mistake, he is determined to stay as far away from Neil as he can. Then why is Neil taking up head space now, as thoughts of how to set a date to get back to work dog him? He lets the feeling of dread fill him every hour on the hour, as if electing to get into a car with no steering wheel over and over again, knowing that the accelerator will stick every time. It makes him worry he has lost his nerve, and that once it is gone, the kids can smell it off of you – there is no going back.

The noise from the door closing downstairs makes him hit the mute button on the remote. His heart pounds for a couple of seconds while he listens to the footsteps, trying to tell by their sound who is coming to visit him. First of all, if they’re on the stairs then they’ve got a key to the downstairs door and that brings the number of people it could be way down. If the steps are at a quick jog, it sure as hell ain’t his mother. Before his front door opens, he knows it is his daughter, Sheila. Mac tucks his open can of Budweiser between the wall and the couch.