Touch

A father and daughter learn a painful life lesson together.

“Touch”

by

Kelson Hargis

She has a flower on her hand. Some people might call it a clover I suppose. But to me, the inch diameter brown spot between her thumb and forefinger never really had the broken symmetry of a clover, four leaf or otherwise. There certainly wasn't any luck in it. I don't know. Maybe, despite the current circumstances, or many others before this one. I focused on it for some reason as she fished through her purse again and again until her gaze rested, straight out onto the horizon of Twyckingham Street. The portion beside the zoo.

“I had a feeling I should've taken it to computer lab,” she said almost whispering the self admonishment before fishing through the half-dozen or so pockets of the small, Vera Wang bag again.

“Come on!” I replied far more harshly than I wanted already late for an afternoon call, accommodating my schedule to retrieve her from International Baccalaureate High School Summer classes.

We exited the Dodge Caravan simultaneously like cops on a newly realized mission, moving quickly down the block leading to Adam's High School. Her generation four iPod Touch mysteriously disappeared from her purse, “During computer lab” after leaving the Wang bag in home room.

“We'll find it,” she said, her blond, straight hair bouncing in the already oppressive sunlight for a South Bend, Indiana Summer.

“Two weeks into High School�"Not even real High School, and you loose a three-hundred dollar iPod Touch!” I said more angrily still at the thought of it (at the thought that we did not have the three hundred dollars to replace it). “I told you! I told you, I didn't want you bringing it here didn't I? Someone probably saw you using it, new when you went to lab and snatched it.” I said outpacing her for affect, making her struggle to keep up with my brisk gate.

Sydney, like all the others I had seen before and after classes, shuffled around zombie-like as if carrying a load of crap in their pants. I swear to God that we didn't do that when I was her age. We navigated the halls of my schools with purpose at a decent pace or you regretted being late to class the rest of the day. These urchins shuffled before moving cars oblivious to the two thousand pound steal threats every morning. All were rapt by their little, shiny toys just like the one we're returning to the school to find. It was a damn miracle dozens didn't perish every morning.

The afternoon excitement of escape and the prospect of a night of beer and necking propelled them into the parking lots and streets navigating moving cars just as recklessly. (Others still stared into those same phones arranging the nights festivities. Paid for with my daughter's iPod, I thought.) “Which way?” I bit out upon finally reaching the school doors, Sydney directing me with exasperated motions of her flowered had.

She plays guitar, clarinet and organ. She speaks several languages already. Her heroes are George Harrison, Joan Baez, and Kurt Cobain. She has a 1973 portable Elektra record player. She haunts vintage vinyl and dress shops for Abba and Pink Floyd records and Patty Boyd dresses. And, as far as I know, at fourteen, she hasn't even kissed a boy yet. These skanks and b******s are going to eat her alive I think while passing a scantily clad group of upper classmen flirting around a Mountain Dew vending machine. All are now suspects as we navigate the nearly empty halls, passing obese, lazy guards lounging around lunch tables too lethargic to even rise and question us. God forbid anyone ever attack her. These clock punchers would never reach her in time. What would they do with their tiny walky-talkies and bushel of keys anyway?

Then exhausting minutes later in the class room, nothing. The iPod is gone. The same shocked expression dulled her hazel visage behind her thick rimmed glasses as she gazed out of the classroom window resigned.

“I am getting it back,” she said, swinging her head to one side, flinging her hair off her pale shoulder the way she does when angry with me or Julie. “I am!” She finished before preceding me from the room.

Once back in the Caravan, doors slammed, breathless and sweaty from the brisk afternoon Summer walk, I paused, finding myself mirroring her gaze out of the windshield despite being late to my meeting. She checked the bag once again, absently placing the thumb of her flowered hand to her mouth before catching herself, stopping. “I'm sorry Daddy.” She said, unintentionally stabbing me in the heart.

Not when, even at fourteen, security stolen, she stopped herself from instinctively sticking her thumb in her mouth. Not when she rifled her purse again and again. But when she apologized, my heart ached. My anger in the preceding thirty minutes was so thoughtlessly misdirected at her carelessness. No, her pure naivety. Naivety I wanted and knowingly fostered. The anger came crashing back onto me as a wave of guilt. Guilt that I hadn't demanded that she leave it in the car. Guilt that I couldn't go right now and replace it. Guilt...that crashed over me again in waves until I was chilled despite the record Summer heat for early June. She didn't even cry.

“We'll get you another for your birthday here in a few weeks,” I offered as an apology.

“I don't want one. I don't anything that can be stolen ever again,” She said allowing the understanding to settle between us. The thought sickened me. For all of her fantastic intelligence and talent, she still didn't understand what almost all fathers do. It is not just objects that are often stolen from young girls.

Stolen from any of us I thought, slamming the van into gear, pealing out.

“You can't fix everything Dad.” She said, finishing with, “There were songs, I've written... A lot of things on there, I'll never get back.”

That's when realization settled over me upon turning my guilt over and over again, navigating the lights and turns leading us home. I too had something stolen. I had just lost the illusion that I could protect either of my girls from the pain that a hopefully long, healthy life endowed on those of us lucky enough to live it.

Reviews

[Dee Okolotowicz]

This seemed to be a rather intellectual story, I think. I rather enjoyed it, although I admit it is not generally the style of writing I personally tend to read. My review of it may not be as helpful to you, as I will also admit, I had to re-read a couple of your sentences more than once to understand the intent you had when writing it.

Until the last five or six paragraphs, I did not see where you were going with the story. After the sixth paragraph, I had a much better idea. I continued to be sure of the theme of the story as each paragraph followed.

Something that felt a bit uncomfortable while reading was not getting the character's name until well into discovering her problem. This was accentuated a bit by the point of view being from the dad's perspective, without actually knowing he was the father. I wasn't exactly sure that the man in the story was her father until halfway through the story.

I did enjoy the story. It's simply a style of writing I'm not used to.

[Kelson]

Hello Djokolot, thank you so much for the review. I disagree with you though. I think you are more than helpful in your review. Someone else made a snide comment on the title and something similar (not knowing it is fater & daughter) so I understand. I don't think your comment is snide, I think it is incredibly constructive. I was following a particular style though. I mentioned in my review of your work I wrote screenplays a long time ago. I just started writing again a little while ago (short stories). I read some stuff about it, including Stephen King's on writing. The gist of much of what I read was, don't overthink it. Write your heart (stream oc conciusness sorta) & let the story guide you.

Now, on clarity: would you please be so kind as to just copy/paste 1-2 sentences that you had to re-read? I want to be better, clearer.

Thanks! ~Kelson

[Dee Okolotowicz]

>Maybe, despite the current circumstances, or many others before this one. I >focused on it for some reason as she fished through her purse again and again >until her gaze rested, straight out onto the horizon of Twyckingham Street.

This sentence in the opening paragraph confused me slightly. Until I learned of the lost iPod Touch in the third paragraph, and that Sydney had lost it, I didn't know what the "circumstances" were, or what the significance was of how lucky the flower was suppose to be, in relation to those "circumstances."

However, as I mentioned, once I realized she left the iPod and it was stolen, then I understood the "luck" the flower was supposed to have in relation to her bad luck.

Once again, I'm not sure if I clarified that well enough. I do want to tell you that I re-read the entire story immediately after the first reading, and I found all the elements then fell into place well.

It did take a couple paragraphs for me to be sure that the man in the story was the father. I was thinking it was a brother or a boyfriend because the language and actions seemed less like a parent *at first.* After a paragraph or two, it just clicked that this is an angry parent, that later he felt guilty about that anger.

I thoroughly enjoyed this story though. Why? Because it challenged me as a reader.

[Kitty Davies]

Let me start with how much this story is relatable to a teenage girl in high school. The sense of loss you feel when the narrator describes his guilt towards his daughter for all of the work that was lost due to someone deciding to take something that wasn't there. There were a few missing words as well as the improper capitalization of "Summer". The line "It is not just objects that are often stolen from young girls." is probably the most emotional thing I've ever read. Innocence is stolen, like with the skanks who cling to each other and strange boys in the middle of the night as they try to make up for lost dignity and will to live. All in all, there should only be a few edits but I would keep this story going. :)

[Kelson]

Kitty thank you so much for the wonderful feedback. I am going take your gracious review to heart and really comb over this after some distance. The saddest thing about it is it is a true story. I essentially reported how the whole thing went down. I couldn't believe that someone like my daughter was victimized THE FIRST DAY! Thank you, thank you, thank you... I really needed this. (I am going to continue working my way through your stuff too which is a pleasure!)

~Kelson

[Kitty Davies]

I hate to sound cliche, but teenaged girls are more savage than a starving pack of wolves. I was bullied out of my old school so I fled to SCPA. She sounds like a wonderful person with vast talents and a bright future in music.

[Kelson]

As are you as a poet and a writer Kitty. That is one of the reasons that I gravitated to your work out of the thousands of entries on this site. I am the only writer in my family LOL... ;)