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."

I pass him the flier, a handout on grief counseling offered at the local Wesleyan church. I would recommend seeing a therapist or going to AA, but I know he would shoot those ideas down right away. But maybe, just maybe, he'll give this a chance.

"Grief counseling?" he sputters, knuckles white as they clutch the page.
He looks at me, his dark eyes wide, and then back to the page. C'mon, Dad. Just give it a chance. Indecision marks the wrinkles on his forehead, and I wonder if this will be enough. Have I pushed him too far? Not far enough.

"Don't you want to get better, Dad?"

This is the crux of the problem. If Dad wants to keep living this way, then nothing I do will ever change him. But if he actually wants to change, then maybe he has a chance. Dad sags back against the choice, cradling his head in his hands. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse and cracked and ancient.

"You don't think I've tried?"

My heart twists inside of me and pity seeps into my soul. I don't want to pity him; I want to blame him for how my life's turned out, but how can I?

"I--I don't know."

"I've tried, Ross. I have. But nothing--I can't shake her. She's with me all the time and I just don't want to feel her or see her and this is all I can do to get her out of my mind." He points to an empty beer bottle lying cockeyed on the carpet.

"Can you...can you give this a try? Maybe you need outside help. Maybe you can't do this alone."

My heart aches at the look of misery in Dad's eyes as he raises his gaze to mine--all the pain and the loss in my own soul are reflected in his expression. The difference between us is that I've forced myself to keep moving forward, letting my responsibilities and work numb the pain, while Dad shut down, booze and TV his anaesthetic.

Dad studies me for a moment, and something in his brown eyes softens. "I'll try."
"You'll try," I repeat.

There's no guarantee things will get better. Life doesn't offer any promises, but there's a chance, and a chance is more than I've had for years.

The crackling of the fire entrances me and I stare at the flickering embers and leaping sparks. I rest my elbows on my knees and massage my temples, exhaustion aching through my body. As lifeguarding goes, today was a difficult day. I had to rescue a kid who was pulled out to sea, and my muscles scream from the exertion. Luckily, he lived to doggy paddle another day, but now I'm exhausted.

"Earth to Ross," Riley says, wrapping her hand around my arm and leaning onto my shoulder. "Come in, Ross."

Strands of her auburn hair brush against my face and I turn to smile at her. "Sorry. It was a long day."

I know my exhaustion has more to do with the conversation with my dad than with rescuing the kid from the ocean this afternoon. For the past few years, I've managed to demonize him and turn him into my captor, the reason I can't leave, but I think I'm just as screwed up as he is. My version of grief is just more high-functioning than his. Insidious empathy threatens my carefully conserved anger towards Dad.

"Want to-to tell me about it?" Riley asks, voice hesitant.

I turn to look at her and the green eyes that threaten to capsize me. I don't like to talk about my Dad with anyone; even though he makes me livid, I don't want others to judge him for the binge drinking and laziness. It may infuriate me, but I understand where it comes from. But Riley, she's dealt with her own crap. Before I can stop myself, I start talking.

"It's my dad." I heave a sigh, massaging my temples. "I--he doesn't do much with the kids. My brothers and sister. I tried to talk to him today."

She lifts an eyebrow. "How'd that go?"

I don't know what to say. I haven't told Riley about my mom or about just how repressed I am here. I don't know how to explain the guilt and responsibility that bind me to this island. I know she's faced her own difficulties, but I don't want her pity.

"It--well, he's going to start counseling, which is a pretty big step, I guess."

Riley watches me carefully, the typical humor gone from her face, as she runs her fingers down my arm. "Is he the reason you've never left the island?"

My entire body stiffens at her words. "I don't...let's not talk about it."

Riley's partially right, but I'm afraid to let her see the true depths of pain in my life. This is supposed to be a summer fling, and flings aren't meant to include the deepest parts of our souls. Summer flings are meant to help you forget about your life and lose yourself in another person for a few months until they leave.

"Okay, uh, sorry."

She draws away from me and I feel the absence of her touch like a bullet. Crap. Maybe I should have told her. Maybe I should have avoided this conversation all together. Now I've alienated and hurt her, the last person I want to lose.

"You shouldn't be. I'm just...tired."

Silence swells between us and I search for something to say to relieve the tension between us, but I come up short.

"So, uh--let's pretend we could go anywhere and do anything we want," Riley says and she turns to face me, legs crossed in front of her on the plaid blanket.

I turn towards her, our knees touching, and reach for hands, squeezing them in a silent apology.

"I like this fictional world."

"Where would you go first?" she asks while I pull her hands into my lap, making her scooch closer to me.

"South Africa."

Her eyebrows shoot up. "Seriously? That wasn't what I'd thought you'd say."

I shrug. "I like being unpredictable."

In truth, I want to go to Kirstenbosch in Cape Town, South Africa. It's a beautiful, world-renowned garden that my mom always dreamed of visiting. We could never afford to go and she was gone before she had the chance to see it. I want to go there and buy seeds to some of the indigenous African flowers, bring them back, and plant them on her gravestone.

Riley studies me for a moment, but before she can question my odd choice, I say, "What about you?"
She tilts her head sideways, her auburn hair falling over one shoulder. "Honestly? I've always wanted to live in a yellow house with big white shutters. Growing up, we always lived in houses passed down by other Army people. They were big and empty and impersonal, and I always wanted--I don't know, a place to call my own."

I nod. "A home."

Riley ducks her chin and tucks her hair behind her ears, evading my gaze. "Yeah, I guess."

I struggle for words--she longs for the one thing I want to escape. I have a home, the type of home Riley's wanted since she was a kid, but I want to leave it.

"I think I just want someplace to come home to. Traveling is great and all, but when there's no place to return to, it makes me feel like--I don't know, a nomad. A vagrant."

An idea springs into my head and I start to speak before I can catch myself. "I have an idea."

She grins at me. "As long as it doesn't involve crabs, I'm in."

A few days ago, we went crabbing and I thought she was going to hurl when we put the raw chicken on the hooks. According to Riley, she ate duck tongue in Cambodia that was less disgusting than raw chicken meat drenched in seawater and algae.

"Spend the 4th of July with my family."

Riley snatches her hands back into her lap, straightening her slender back. "What? You're joking."

"No. You can meet my siblings and hang out with us for the day. Our house has mold and a spider infestation instead of yellow siding and white shutters, but it's a home."

What are you thinking? A few minutes ago, I was telling myself that I need to keep Riley at arm's length, and now I'm inviting her into my house?

"You want me to meet your family?"
Fear and indecision linger in the depths of her pale green eyes and I wonder if I should rescind my offer so we can go back to casual conversations on the beach. But it's too late for that, and I don't want what we had. I want what we could have.

"Yeah. I mean, if you want to. You don't have--"

Riley leans towards me, taking my face in her hand, and kisses me, silencing my doubts and my fears in one searing moment. I forget about the crowd gathered around us and return the kiss, reaching for her and drawing her towards me.

Perhaps the problem isn't Riley getting too close to me; maybe it's her not getting close enough.

~~~~~

I know this chapter wasn't quite as fun and silly as some of the others, but Ross has a deeper side he doesn't like to show very often. Let me know what you think of the change in tone!