A Loud Silence

by Charles C. Cole

My adult daughter, Morgan, is all I have in this world. She works at a grocery store as assistant manager of produce. Not a great salary, which might be why she still lives at home with me. We don't talk much. She mostly reads “fan fiction” stories online. After a quiet dinner, I go to my room and watch sports. I honestly think I enjoy the banter between the commentators more than the games.

I guess you could say Morgan is shy. She never did sports or music in school. She studied and came in the top ten of her class. She asked to live at home when she started college. I probably should have told her no, told her to try new things. But I didn't.

Her mother and I met at college. She hated her dorm mate for bringing boys back to the room in the middle of the night, acting like they were alone. She asked if she could move in with me, and I guess that's how we started dating. One minute we were just friends, the next we were engaged.

A few years after college, she said I was too unemotional, not passionate enough. Ultimately, she left Morgan with me and headed to New York City for a stage career. Morgan gets a lurid text from her once every two weeks or so.

Recently, Morgan's manager invited her to his ren-faire wedding. I went with her to buy nice clothes. She has a great sense of style. She looked like a movie star, though I thought the makeup was a little heavy. She was gone most of the afternoon and all night, getting home long after midnight. I waited in bed with the lights off, in case she needed help or a ride.

She's been texting a lot from her favorite corner of the couch.

“Friends?” I ask.

“Just friends,” she says without looking up.

Her manager is being involuntarily moved to another store over an hour away. They have the same work ethic. He's not afraid of getting his hands dirty. He's even been known to come in for a couple of hours on his day off when somebody calls out sick. Morgan says his wife is good for him, helps him balance work and life. I guess they're trying to get pregnant.

There's a boy at my office about Morgan's age. He's shy, too. He's super bright and super fit. He has a degree in cybersecurity, so he can pretty much write his own career ticket. I've seen him in meetings, and at lunch, bouncing his leg like he's rocking a baby to sleep. A co-worker says it's called restless leg syndrome and not serious. My hairdresser says it can be a side effect to taking antidepressants.

My therapist says I'm not going to be around forever, which makes me sad for him because I think I pretty much singlehandedly paid for his new car. Anyway, we're having a company picnic in a month, with family invited. I was thinking Morgan could meet this hunk and fall instantly in love (or lust). But then I heard two HR Recruiters, who are gay, gossiping over coffee and saying they're pretty sure he plays for their team.

Yesterday was the first official day of fall. Maybe that's why I feel “change” in the air. Or maybe it's Morgan's endless texting.

One night, I'm cooking in the kitchen. Morgan is late. When she comes in, she rushes by me to her bedroom.

“Things okay?” I ask.

“I got invited out for drinks. I wanted to change first.”

“I was just making dinner. Your favorite,” I say.

She calls down the hallway: “I'm sure it's delicious. Can you stick it in the fridge?”

“Who are you meeting?” I ask, interested. “Anyone I know?”

“Just friends.” She comes down the hall in a sleeveless, knee-length black dress, with one red high heel on and one in her hand. “Can you zip me?” she asks, turning her open back to me. I don't have time to blush.

“Are they from work?”

“Some are,” she says.

“If I'm not here when you get back,” I tease, “it's because I'm out on a date.”

She checks her phone for messages and grabs her keys. “Okay,” she says, not paying attention.

She heads out the door, closing it behind her. My cell phone on the counter rings. It's Morgan: “Wait, you have a date?”

“I was kidding,” I say. “You know me: I'm married to God.” It's true: I pray before meals, pray before coffee, pray before driving. It keeps me from feeling so alone.

“Thanks for dinner. I'll probably snack on it when I get home.”

“Do you remember when you were in the sixth grade, and the school counselor said the world was your oyster?” I ask. “You thought it was stupid.”

“It was stupid,” she says. “Why?”

“Because you're young and smart and driven; you have so many potential futures ahead of you.”

“Are you drunk?” she asks.

“Just old, but the side effects are the same: overly sentimental and a habit of stumbling into things.”

“I've got to hang up. You don't want me talking while driving. We'll talk soon, okay?”

“Did I ever tell you about the birds and the bees?” I ask suddenly.

“No, but cousin Mildred did. She was painfully thorough.”

“I love you,” I say.

“Are you sure you're not drunk?” she asks.

“Talk soon,” I say and hang up.

At that point, I fall to my knees in the middle of the kitchen floor and pray: “Dear God, thank you for my job, my house, my daughter, and all my many oysters.” I don't hear an answer, but I don't expect to. I'm used to the silence in the house, which is probably a good thing, because I think I have even more silence ahead.