By the time Raymond Langer got home from work, it was 7:30 at night, and Cyra and Caleb had eaten dinner, gotten Caleb ready for bed, and were reading quietly in the living room. When the door opened, Caleb didn’t even look up, so absorbed was he in his small chapter book, but Cyra glanced at her brother, then closed her book and stood up. Looking back at Caleb as she headed for the foyer, she noted, with some gratification, that Caleb hadn’t noticed her any more than he had their father’s return.
“Good evening, Cyra,” Raymond said as he hung his jacket on the rack next to the door. He spoke formally, as though he were visiting a business colleague. Or maybe, Cyra thought uncomfortably, as if she was a guest in his home.
“Dad,” she said shortly. She often had trouble talking to her father, something that had never been a problem with her mother. Once or twice in the last five years, she had caught herself wishing that her mother had lived and her father died, but that made no sense (how could her father have died from her mother giving birth?), and it was also a horrible thing to think, especially about her father. Even if he was not exactly the kind of father she would have chosen if she could.
“I assume you’ve fed Caleb,” Raymond said, picking up his briefcase and heading in the direction of his office.
“Naturally,” Cyra said, deciding this was better than “Duh,” but more of a sting than just “Yes.” She followed him, surprising him when he turned around.
“Is something the matter, Cyra?” he asked, giving her a stern look. He didn’t like to be sneaked up on.
“As a matter of fact, yes,”she replied. “We should speak in your office.”
He frowned at her. “It is not for you to say, Cyra,” he said. “I am your father; it is inappropriate for you to tell me what to do.”
Cyra forced herself to stay calm. Her father could infuriate her to no end, sometimes. “You told me to tell you if Caleb ever started asking about the city,” she said. “I just thought it would be better to do that where Caleb can’t hear us; the office seemed the logical choice.”
Raymond sighed. “Correct, but disrespectful,” he said, grudgingly acknowledging her point. Yet still, she thought, managing to reprimand her at the same time. He had a talent for that. “Come.” Gesturing for her to follow, he led her into his office on the other side of the foyer. She shut the door behind them, and sat in front of the desk; he, behind it. “Well?” he said. “What did he want to know?”
His impatient tone irked her. “You know, the only reason he wonders is because of you,” she said, even knowing it wouldn’t help. But he had a way of making anything that went wrong seem like her fault, even when there was nothing she could have done to prevent it, and she was getting tired of it. He left her alone to deal with Caleb all day, every day, and then got upset when he discovered she hadn’t done things his way? Even though he had never told her what his way was? It seemed highly illogical, but more than that, it was plain annoying, and to some extent, rude.
“Cyra,” Raymond said, in a warning tone.
She sighed. “He asked what you did; where you work; what the city’s name is; and if he could ever go there,” she answered. “I said you were an accountant, you work in an office at the company building, the city’s called Boston, and I don’t think he’ll ever get to visit it.”
Her father considered her for a time, and she him. She couldn’t be sure what he was thinking, but she inferred from the disapproving and slightly worried frown that he was displeased with her answers. Well, what had he wanted her to do? Refuse to answer? Lie? Maybe. But neither of those would have worked, she knew they wouldn’t have. Caleb was not only curious, he was relentless; the only way she’d gotten him to stop talking about it in the first place was by shutting him down. And she had hated doing that. She wished she could take Caleb into the city, that they didn’t have to hide here, that he didn’t have to be some big secret no one could ever know about. But that was the way things were.
“Cyra,” Raymond eventually said, “did it ever occur to you to simply not answer him?”
There it was. She had known, known, he was either going to say that, or tell her she should have lied. But since she was the one who actually knew Caleb, his personality, his tendencies, she thought her way was better. Try telling her father that, though, and she knew he would just get angry; that he would just tell her it was not her place to criticize him.
“I did, in fact, think about it,” Cyra said, clearly surprising him; his expression was almost comically shocked. “But, upon consideration, I decided this would only fuel his curiosity, and tried to make your job and the city sound boring. I decided that would be far more effective, as Caleb would lose interest quickly if he became confused and bored with the subject. And it worked; he hasn’t asked me since, and this was almost four and a half hours ago.” She tried to speak calmly and rationally, to make her point without seeming disrespectful. But deep down, she knew it wouldn’t matter how she said it; as long as she disagreed with her father, he was never going to be happy with her. She could live with that, though. And she could also live with disobeying him by raising Caleb her own way. He was happy, wasn’t he? He had only asked about Boston once, hadn’t he? And now that he’d become bored by it, he was unlikely to ask again, right? That was the way she saw it.
But she and Raymond had never seen things the same. Cyra had inherited aspects of both her mother’s and her father’s personalities, and developed many all her own, and these factors all led to her and her father inevitably clashing. They were too similar in some ways, too dissimilar in others. When Delilah was alive, she had tempered them somewhat; but she was gone now. There was nothing to stop them from fighting, except themselves. Sometimes they did.
More often not.
“Cyra,” her father said eventually, slowly, carefully. He had clearly considered his words before speaking. That meant he was definitely angry, angrier than Cyra had first thought. Despite her attempts to try and be respectful, he had gotten mad regardless. Which only served to make her mad, too; the fact was that Cyra was expected to be Caleb’s mother, and he left her to do this alone every day. He had hardly given her any instructions, even back when Caleb was a baby. Sure, he had referred her to a few parenting books in the library, but she hadn’t found them particularly helpful. And other than that, the only real direction he had given her was the one about Caleb and the city and talking to him, Raymond. Yet he somehow expected her not only to know exactly how he wanted Caleb to be raised, but also to do so perfectly. It drove her mad.
“What?” Cyra said shortly, leaning back in her leather chair and crossing her arms.
Raymond’s expression hardened, for the first time fully betraying his emotions. “I do not appreciate your tone, young lady,” he said. “I am your father, and as such, there is a certain level of respect I deserve. Lately, you haven’t met that level, Cyra, and I expect better from you. I would have you remember that raising Caleb is a privilege.”
Cyra couldn’t hold it in. “Privilege?” she demanded, sitting forward, gripping the arms of the chair tightly. “And just who else do you think can raise him? Last time I checked, he’s a secret. You can’t exactly hire a nanny.” She glared at her father, fighting back tears of anger. She couldn’t believe how unreasonable he was being.
“I am perfectly capable of raising him myself, Cyra,” Raymond replied coldly. “I choose to let you take care of him because it arouses less suspicion. But if I think you’re not doing a good enough job, I would be fully within my rights to take away this privilege. I made it clear to you what I expect you to do, and from what I’m seeing, you’re not living up to the expectations I set for you.”
Cyra took a deep breath, forcing calm. “You…made it…clear,” she said slowly, flatly. Not believing he actually thought that. Nothing could be further from the truth.
“Crystal clear, Cyra,” he said, resting his arms on the desk and folding his hands.
“You’ve barely given me any direction at all!” Cyra exploded, jumping up. “When I was eleven, a little girl, when I’d just lost my mother and had no idea how to take care of a baby, all you did was tell me to read a parenting book! It was so bombastic and highfalutin I could barely understand half of it! I certainly couldn’t put its advice into practice. Besides, I’ve shaped the way I take care of Caleb around his personality, the way he learns and processes things, who he is. There’s no one generic way to raise a kid, especially not one like Caleb! And I think the way I’m doing it is working pretty well, thank you very much. This is the one and only time he’s ever expressed any kind of interest in your job, and I’m fairly sure he won’t ask again. If something starts boring him, he pretty much stops thinking about it, because he thinks there are so many other things out there to explore. And you want to know how I know that?” she added, raising her voice as her father opened his mouth to interrupt. “Because I know Caleb. Who spends almost every minute of every day with him? Who has taken the time and care to teach him and feed him and nurture his interests and love him? Me!”
“You think,” said Raymond, standing slowly, “that I don’t love him?”
Cyra paused. “No,” she said, regretting saying that last part. But was it really the only thing he’d heard? “No, I know you love him. But that wasn’t my point.”
“I know,” Raymond said.
Cyra looked up at him. “You do?”
“Yes,” her father replied, nodding, an understanding expression on his face. “You want me to spend more time with Caleb.”
Cyra blinked, taken aback. She had expected him to miss her point, but she hadn’t expected him to so completely miss it. “That…” She shook her head, puzzled. “That wasn’t my point at all.”
Raymond frowned. “Oh?” he said. “Then what, pray tell, was your point?”
Cyra sighed. “My point,” she said quietly, “was that, as the one who has spent the most time with Caleb, I think I should have more say in how I raise him.”
There was a pause, as Cyra looked evenly up at her father, and he stared down at her stonily, a crease between his eyebrows. Neither one was willing to look away first, to submit. Cyra, because she was stubborn, and Raymond, because he wanted to establish his authority. Their staring contest continued for some time, until, without looking away, Raymond said, “Cyra, I would like you to go to your room.”
Cyra frowned. “Why?” she asked.
“I believe you need some time to think about authority and respect,” Raymond answered. “Please go upstairs and remain in your room until morning. Perhaps we can talk then.”
Cyra crossed her arms. “Are you willing to compromise?” she asked.
“Cyra, as a father, it is my job to dictate how my children will be raised,” he replied. “There is no reason for a compromise to be made. Now, go.”
Cyra stared at her father for a few moments, then turned and swept out of the room. She was careful not to yank the door open, or slam it behind her, and she walked rather than stomped up the stairs. She proceeded calmly down the carpeted hallway to her room, and shut the door quietly behind her. Then she walked over to her bed, sat down gently, picked up her pillow…and buried her face in it and screamed as long and as loud as she was able.