Washed Up

Seamount

Ross

Seamount. Noun. [see-mount]. A mountain rising from the ocean seafloor that does not reach to the water's surface, formed from an extinct volcano.

The flier in my hand wrinkles from how tightly I'm squeezing it. I can't quite force myself down the stairs to where I hear Dad chomping on potato chips and watching Wheel of Fortune. I've told him a thousand times how he needs to get over himself and be a real father, but nothing's worked. I know he's capable of being a good father; that's what makes his transition into lethargy so much more painful. He could be a good father, but he's not.

I know he's like this because of Mom, but I'm not drowning my sorrows in a beer bottle. I'm not wasting my life and ignoring my family and wallowing in my own misery. I'm moving on with my life--or at least trying too--and for me to do that, Dad needs to get off his butt.

I shove the flier into the back pocket of my shorts and enter the living room. The shag carpet reeks of spilled beer and Dad closed all the windows so none of the afternoon sun can filter in. He doesn't even turn to look at me, his eyes dark and skin sallow beneath an untrimmed beard.

I walk to the TV and turn it off, turning to Dad. "We need to talk."

Dad runs a hand through his dark, gray-stained hair. "The last time you said that you yelled at me."

Well, at least he's not drunk. He's not slurring his words so there's at least a chance I can get him to listen to me.

I sigh and run a hand through my hair, echoing my Dad's gesture even as I try to distinguish myself from him. "I don't want to fight, Dad."

"Are you sure?" he asks while pulling himself into a sitting position with a grunt. His plaid shirt is unbuttoned, revealing a stained white v-neck undershirt. "Because you turning off my TV tells me that you do."

I release a choking laugh. "I'm tired of this, Dad. I'm so tired."

"You think I'm not? We're both working hard to put food on the table."

"I don't mean that."

For a moment, I struggle for words. Despite Dad's absenteeism, he has continued to provide for the kids and he never lost his job. But I'm not talking about the hard work or the awful hours. It's this feeling of being locked into a cage that life has put me into.

"Then what on earth are you complaining about?"
"Dad, I...someday, I want to leave. I want to go out on my own and find a career that's better than this stupid warehouse job. I'm 24. I need to figure out my own path for myself."

Dad cackles in laughter, slapping his hand on the scarred coffee table. "Too good for your old man, huh?"
I sure hope so. "I want to leave soon. Maybe this year."

It's the first time I've admitted this out loud. I want to take the global internship. I want to leave, and the first step to leaving is getting Dad to take responsibility for our family. Also for the first time, I'm admitting that I have my own desires outside of the demands placed on me.

Dad's back straightens and his dark eyebrows furrow. "This year? You're serious?"
"Yeah. I--I've tried to tell you, but I want to leave, and I want to know that you can take care of the kids. Mrs. May will help watch them, but you--you have to step up."

"You can't leave!" he cries incredulously. "This is ridiculous."

"Dad, please..." I reach into my pocket and pull out the wrinkled paper. "I want you to give this a try. I know--I know this is because of Mom, and I want you to get better for you, not just for the kids."