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theatrical_muse“Your father loves you.”
Dani is twelve years old the first time she realizes this might be an excuse, and not a truth. She stands in the kitchen with her mother, while that man sits in the dining room, waiting for dessert. There are times she cannot stand to think of Jack Reese as her father. Not because she’s angry (though she is angry), but because the thought of it makes her ill.
“Your father loves you,” her mother repeats, reaching into the freezer and pulling out a carton of Breyer's Neapolitan. “This is why he does those things.”
While her mother scoops the ice cream into hand-painted ceramic bowls, Dani stares at the pan of Ranginak resting on the stovetop. Hot, angry tears are forcing their way through the back of her eyes.
“No use crying,” her mother says, though not unkindly. “He’s right. This neighborhood isn’t safe for ethnic children.”
Her mother doesn’t stumble over the words “ethnic children” like she once did.
Dani says nothing, still staring at the evening’s intended dessert. She and her mother spent all afternoon making them, and the kitchen still smells of dates and cinnamon.
“You know, Dani,” her mother had whispered in Farsi, not four hours ago. “Things like this make me proud.”
She smiled at Dani in a way she rarely got to smile. Her hands were covered in sesame seeds and powdered sugar, and when she reached out to touch Dani’s cheek, the mess got all over her.
Dani hadn’t minded.
Now Dani’s mother stands, unsmiling, spooning factory-made ice cream into a bowl, while that man waits to be served. He’s turned on the television, and Dani can hear a rerun of MASH. The speakers are turned up loud enough that he can hear it from the living room, and Dani finds the sound jarring. She knows her mother does too, but won’t say anything.
“Dani.” Her mother has finished getting the ice cream into bowls, and puts them on a serving tray. “Please bring these into the dining room.”
Trying not to look so angry – for her benefit, not for his – Dani does as she’s asked.
When she leaves the kitchen, she can hear her mother dumping the ranginak into the trashcan, and then rinsing out the dish.
Her father sits at the head of the table, and lights from the television cast shadows across his face.
There are days, growing in number, where Dani hates her father. Today is one of those days.
She suspects that tomorrow will be no different.
Dani is twelve years old the first time she realizes this might be an excuse, and not a truth. She stands in the kitchen with her mother, while that man sits in the dining room, waiting for dessert. There are times she cannot stand to think of Jack Reese as her father. Not because she’s angry (though she is angry), but because the thought of it makes her ill.
“Your father loves you,” her mother repeats, reaching into the freezer and pulling out a carton of Breyer's Neapolitan. “This is why he does those things.”
While her mother scoops the ice cream into hand-painted ceramic bowls, Dani stares at the pan of Ranginak resting on the stovetop. Hot, angry tears are forcing their way through the back of her eyes.
“No use crying,” her mother says, though not unkindly. “He’s right. This neighborhood isn’t safe for ethnic children.”
Her mother doesn’t stumble over the words “ethnic children” like she once did.
Dani says nothing, still staring at the evening’s intended dessert. She and her mother spent all afternoon making them, and the kitchen still smells of dates and cinnamon.
“You know, Dani,” her mother had whispered in Farsi, not four hours ago. “Things like this make me proud.”
She smiled at Dani in a way she rarely got to smile. Her hands were covered in sesame seeds and powdered sugar, and when she reached out to touch Dani’s cheek, the mess got all over her.
Dani hadn’t minded.
Now Dani’s mother stands, unsmiling, spooning factory-made ice cream into a bowl, while that man waits to be served. He’s turned on the television, and Dani can hear a rerun of MASH. The speakers are turned up loud enough that he can hear it from the living room, and Dani finds the sound jarring. She knows her mother does too, but won’t say anything.
“Dani.” Her mother has finished getting the ice cream into bowls, and puts them on a serving tray. “Please bring these into the dining room.”
Trying not to look so angry – for her benefit, not for his – Dani does as she’s asked.
When she leaves the kitchen, she can hear her mother dumping the ranginak into the trashcan, and then rinsing out the dish.
Her father sits at the head of the table, and lights from the television cast shadows across his face.
There are days, growing in number, where Dani hates her father. Today is one of those days.
She suspects that tomorrow will be no different.
