DNA

Driving home, Sean broke the customary silence with his daily monotonous question. “How was your day?”

“Fine.” My answer was never altered. Sean had accepted that a long time ago and never attempted further conversation. We pulled into the driveway, where Sean kept the engine lingering. He tapped the steering wheel a couple times with calloused hands. I waited for him to utter something, maybe deliver a lecture or scold me.

Sean was conscious of his purpose in life at seven years old. His cheerful and carefree youth was sacrificed as soon as my mother disappeared. Instead of taking part in after-school kickball, he would race home to care for me and set up dinner. He became not three years older than me, but ten. So when he gave up his dreams of attending the University of Michigan to major in business and marketing, I was the sole person he surprised. Instead, he found a part-time job as a soccer coach as well as delivering pizzas. He attended classes at the community college and made sure there was an abundance of healthy food in the fridge.

I fixed my eyes on Sean’s freckles, the evidence of my mom’s genes across his face, shoulders, arms. He had dark, straight hair, but not greasy like my father’s. I escaped my mother’s vibrant appearance with only her dirty blonde hair. I was often relieved when looking in the mirror, because even though I wasn’t the prettiest or the tallest or the most proportional, I could have been anyone’s child.

Finally, Sean cut the engine. The routine quietude was unnerving, and yet I never gave up hope that maybe one day, Sean would speak his mind during the two minutes we were emotionally cemented in our seats.

I walked into the living room where my father was staring, eyes glazed over, at the TV where a football match was occurring. He was unwashed and redolent of cigarettes and alcohol. His face was covered in patches of fluff as well as short prickly hairs. A Samuel Adams beer present in his right hand, he casually flipped the channel to the news.

“Hey Dad,” I blocked the TV with my body. He eased his eyes shut and grunted. My father had ears for the television, his beer, and tobacco; everything else was background music. He was as absent mentally as my mother was physically.

“Callie, come help me with dinner,” Sean instructed from the kitchen. I obeyed.