“Dad, we never talked like…family does,” I said. “I never got to have a conversation with you about boys, at least not a serious one. Whenever I talked about it, you’d always say something flippant, like, ‘it’ll work out’ or ‘you’re young.’”
“Was I wrong?”
“That’s not the point,” I said, drawing in a breath to try and not let myself get too frustrated. “I just wanted to be listened to, and to be heard. And right now, because that wasn’t there very much, I feel like I have issues that I’m dealing with still.”
A long, long silence came on the other end of the line. Only my father’s breathing and short starts, before stopping himself, let me know he hadn’t hung up. I held out as long as I could.
“You called me to tell me that I’m the reason for your problems?”
He didn’t sound angry. But unfortunately, this very response was exactly what I’d worried about. He would engage, but he wouldn’t dive in. He’d talk, but he wouldn’t really speak to me. He’d listen, but he wouldn’t process it.
“Not the reason, no,” I said, desperate to try and salvage a conversation that already seemed on the verge of sinking past the point of recovery. “More just like, it’s part of many things that are contributing to it.”
My father sighed.
“What did I always tell you growing up?”
“Dad—”
“Leigh, what did I tell you?”
I knew it so well, I’d sometimes dream about him saying it.
“The only person responsible for their problems is themselves,” I said, “and to blame others is an excuse not to blame yourself.”
So then why don’t you take responsibility for what I am telling you right now? Why are you making it so I am the one at fault?
It was like my father was incapable of realizing that it could be simultaneously true that I was working on my problems myself and I wanted him to do his part better. Maybe he was too afraid to face his part of the problem. Maybe he just didn’t have the emotional maturity to even realize he had a part to play in the problem.
“Exactly,” he said. “I’m happy to help you if you’re dealing with anything, but I can’t be held responsible. I can’t fix you.”
I didn’t know if this was better or worse than him yelling at me, but in some ways, it was worse. I could get lost in anger or a shouting match and just be stupid. When he was acting like this—dense, yet somehow sounding rational—it was tough. There was no redirecting emotion because there was no emotion.
“I know,” I said, “but I appreciate the effort anyway.”
“Of course. Everything good with work?”
And there it was. The only thing in the world that my father could ever handle well.Work.
Give him the topic of business and he could talk for hours about marketing and customer acquisition and negotiation. Ask him about emotional availability and it was like trying to explain the acronyms P&L or SWAT to a kindergartner.
“It’s going well,” I said meekly.
And from there, I actually had a real conversation with my father. Not because I gave much of a shit about work. I didn’t even mention the shooting. I just…I guess I just wanted a conversation with my father in which it felt like he was listening. If I mentioned the shooting, he’d just revert back to cliché “take control of yourself and control what you can control” father.
It wasn’t much, admittedly. Work for me was a way to make ends meet and enjoy the weekend. Work for my father was life. It was like a football player talking strategy to a sister that worked in theatre. But at least I felt like I was talking to my father.
It went on like that for about a dozen minutes, a sort of strung-together moment, before my father said he had to get back to, what else, work.
“Do you need anything else from me, Leigh?”
In theory, any father asking that question was opening the door for his daughter to ask literally anything else. Job stuff, sure, but also emotional help, boyfriend advice, life advice, whatever. But with Mr. Carlton…
“No, Dad, it’s OK,” I said. “Thanks for talking to me.”
“Of course, we’ll talk to you later.”
“Bye.”
