Lovers Were Here

Savannah

“No.” His eyes are dead set and resolute on his words. That’s the only way I know he’s listening to me. His other body languages show that he isn’t even taking me seriously.

He keeps his eyes and hands on his drawing sheet and continues marking lines and angles with his pencil.

Ugh… annoying.

“What do you mean, ‘no’?” I ask, knowing what he means but wanting to keep the conversation under my control. His attention is the most important thing, and knowing that I have his attention would guarantee his listening to my other points of argument.

“I mean ‘No,’ baby. No means no. It’s not supposed to mean something else, is it?” He adds salt to the burn by keeping his nonchalant attitude.

I shake off the urge to take the pencil lying by the side and draw a thick, long line over his work. That’s a ticket to an early grave, and I know that because I was five when I first did it. Let’s just say I haven’t tried it ever since. “You’re not listening to me.”

“I am listening, honey.” He replies to my gruff accusation.

“No, you’re not. All you heard was me mentioning something about work, and you already know your answer to that is ‘No.’ I hold my stance. I know I’m right when he drops his pencil and turns his face to me.

He wasn’t listening all this while, and it makes me wonder if he had ever been listening all the time. I was trying to convince him about allowing me to work.

“No, you will not look for a job, at least not yet.” He picks his words meticulously like he’s talking to a little child, trying to get me to understand how imperative it is for me to sit at home all day.

“Dad…”

“Sweetheart…”

I hate his firm determination, but I’m going to break through it today, no matter what it costs me.

“I’m strong enough.” I grit my teeth.

“You still have a limp.” He raises his brow.

“It’s like a scar… it’s part of me now.” I groan, but he shakes his head.

“Only genetic limps are unavoidable. If it’s from an accident or trauma of some sort, a limp is a sign that the person hasn’t fully recovered.” He spews out the painful truth… again.

“I don’t care, Dad. I don’t. Aren’t you the one that says that mistakes only strengthen us? Aren’t you the one that kept telling me every day that if life throws lemons at me, I should make lemonade out of it? What about that now? I’m ready to make lemonade, Dad.” I put as much strength as I could into my voice.

He looks like he’s holding his breath for a while.

“Fiiinnne…” he releases his breath along with the drawl of the word, making my eyes almost physically light up.

“Wait. For real?” I cock my head. Wait. I can hear a ‘but’ incoming.

“Fine, you can work…” he sighs “…but I have a condition.”

Of course, here it is.

“Beggars really can’t be choosers, now, can they?” I roll my eyes, a cue for him to go on with his condition.

“I get to pick where you work, at least for now.” His eyes become dim and pleading in the last part of his sentence, enough for me not to lay any counter to his words.

It would have been a long night otherwise.

“Fine, just nothing in finance. I have a degree in business administration. Not finance. I hate ledgers.” My voice is croaky to drive home the fact that I really don’t want anything to do with bookkeeping.

I think that’s the only field for which I would rather stay at home than work.

“I’ve got the perfect place for you.” Dad smiles in that parental way that makes you not like what they’re about to do. It’s that kind of smile that is done when you allow them to do your personal shopping, and they get you a late nineties woolen turtleneck sweater instead of the hoodie you specified, claiming that they had something better.

“Don’t tell me you already had this preplanned.” I convey my suspicion in my gaze at him.

“Well, I was going to let it slide, but I already told a friend in case you refuse to budge. Looks like fatherly instinct is the best, after all.” He laughs as he slides his hands into his pocket and takes out his phone.

His thumb flies through the screen with precision, much like he really knows who he wants to contact.

“George!” he greets the man over the phone and has a conversation about me when I’m literally still in the room.

“My leg is fine!” I hiss through clenched teeth when he and whatever business associate he’s discussing about my limp. He just shushes me and continues with the conversation.

It doesn’t take long, though, and in five minutes, the call ends.

“My leg is f…” I want to say as clearly as I can, but again, he puts a finger on my lips to quieten me and places a hand on my shoulder to gently lower me back to the couch I was rising from.

“That’s beside the point, don’t you think, darling?” He still had that smile on his face. “Besides, I just got you the job!”

Oh, my gosh!

I can hardly contain my excitement, and it’s bursting out in a scream.

“Hold on,”

I’m super excited, but I don’t even know what job it is yet. “What’s the job, anyway?”

He thinks about it for a few seconds of awkward delay before responding with, “Not a finance-related job?”

That gets me screaming again and hugging him.

“Oh, thank you so much, Daddy! You’re the best!” I squeeze him tightly enough for him to croak and moan.

“Alright! That’s enough, sheesh!” He begs me to release him. “If I keep getting this kind of hug, I’m going to fracture a rib soon.”

“Shows you I’m strong enough to work, doesn’t it?” I throw my proudest, wide-mouthed, toothy grin when I finally let go of him.

“Whatever, you little husky.” He pats me on the head, mocking my whining from earlier.

He’s not wrong.

“Now, let me get back to work. You prepare to resume tomorrow.” He shakes his head.

My eyes would probably soon lose their elasticity and pop out of their sockets due to how many times I’ve held them wide open in this brief interaction.

“Tomorrow?!”

“Hey,” he raises his arm in defense. “You’re the strong one, aren’t you? Besides, the position is urgent, so no interviews are required… or I’m guessing the interview would take place tomorrow.” He puts his pen to slash at his paper, ending the conversation.

He once told me that whenever he starts his drawings, it’s almost like the pencil-and-paper transport him into a three-dimensional life model of his work, and he fills in the shapes and lines in real time, almost like a simulation.

All I could imagine from that was him in some kind of weird, life-sized Minecraft world.

That said, I leave him to his work after a peck on his cheek and skip to my room to prepare myself for the next day.

I would’ve loved to get full experience of the actual work sector, almost like how I got my first job. I would have loved to go on a job hunt and search online, dropping off my resume and being given fake promises to be gotten back to. I would’ve loved the disappointment, for in them fuels my need, strife, and determination to push for more.

But here I am, about to start a job I barely even know the nature of.

Sometimes, the old man overdoes it a little too much, but I don’t blame him.

If my daughter was in an accident that had a seventeen percent survival rate, I would monitor her this closely as well, despite her iron will.

I see his gesture towards me concerning this job as worthy of every bit of appreciation and gratitude, not the bother that one would expect.

Besides, some other privileged children would consider this a norm and a right they have over their parents to get a job after college without going to hustle it out for themselves.

I’m kinda upset, but I’m different. I was never bred with a mentality that promotes entitlement, ensuring that I earned whatever I got with due diligence, but the accident might have just changed all that.

”Ouch.” My father is right. I have a very pronounced limp… and it hurts. I just got used to the pain because I decided that I would not use a wheelchair for over three months, despite how baffling my father thought I was.

Now, I hobble up the stairs to my room and begin preparing for work tomorrow. My first dilemma presents itself in what to wear.

It would largely depend on the industry I’m going to be working in. An office environment would have me in corporate attire, while physical labor would make me favor jeans and a t-shirt combo.

In my condition, I doubt my father would try to get me a job that is physically demanding, so I give more preference to corporate wear. This is something that should be done tomorrow, but I just can’t help staring at the clothes. My eyes close as I fantasize repeatedly, myself in them, typing away at a computer. It would be in response to what a boss instructed me to do, hoping to get promoted to a position where the only person to answer would be the CEO.

It would be outstanding to get back in the game.

I practice walking in front of the mirror, trying to minimize my limp, ignoring completely how delusional I must look in the mirror. It will pay off tomorrow.

I practice my walk, smile, speech… everything! It takes me back to when I got my first interview for a job; how much I practiced everything until it was past 4:00 am, and by the time I woke up to prepare, I was almost late for the interview.

I smile as I practice this time, noting my mistakes and programming myself not to repeat the same mistakes.

Of everything that has happened to me since my accident some six months ago, this is a moment that I probably won’t forget in a while. I’ve never felt this energized… this full of hope and positivity.

I’ve never expected a day ahead as much as I am for tomorrow, knowing that it marks a new phase in my life, and I go to bed with that exact mindset.

I owe it all to my father. He always looked after me, no matter what the odds. No matter my mistakes and no matter how stubborn I was.

How can I easily drift off to sleep with something this significant on the horizon? Being cooped up in this house gives off the nostalgia of my teenage years, and now, a newfound sense of freedom envelopes me.

“I’ll make you proud, Daddy. I’m determined to show you that your baby girl is a source of pride and need not be a cause for concern.” These are my last words before my eyes close to force myself to sleep.