moving back home to live with her cop dad was not really what minnie had in mind when her aunt gave her the talk about how sheâs missing out on getting to know him. aunt ziyi could be harsh like that. for a woman who seemed to always have her head in the clouds and blew through a series of irresponsible boyfriends, she saw the truth in things and wasnât afraid to call you out on it. especially when you were someone she loved. minnie on the other hand, ever her fatherâs daughter, was content to vacation in the isle of denial. checking in with her father only when necessary until auntie z spelled it out for her clearly: someday, that poor man is going to die, too. then youâll really wish you hadnât wasted all those years mad at him for doing whatâs best for you. sometimes her motherâs sister could be painfully right.
still, she had pictured herself in some funky loft downtown ( did charming even have loft apartments? it didnât matter ) with her own separate life. her first night back home, she spent lying upside down on her bed, letting her head dangle off the foot so she could really see how askew everything is. the radio station pay is jack shit, but at least they let her play whatever she wants ( within reason ). if she wants her own apartment, sheâll no doubt have to get a second job. this place, even more than the town of charming itself, feels like a cemetery for all her long forgotten selves and her bedroom is a carefully curated shrine put together by her father in memoriam. it has all her favorite things from when he knew her most.Â
peering into the darkness of her closet, she spent her first night home wondering if her polly pockets were still thereâloyal, hidingâa bunch of mini minnies living in their carefully contained worlds. they havenât been opened in so long, they donât even know that their mother is dead. walking back home from the station, headphones omitting all other sounds, that night seems like a dream. as she enters the house, thereâs no tula to greet her and she figures that means her dadâs taken the dog out, so she doesnât even bother taking off the headphones as she searches for a bowl of ice cream, drops up her bag and heads up to her room.Â
she doesnât take the headphones off until she realizes her door is ajar and, even then she only exposes one ear before she realizes her dadâs inside of it. she should be angry, but she really doesnât know what to say. what are you doing in my room? sounds so fucking juvenile. instead she takes her headphones all the way off and crosses the room with her bowl of ice cream, sitting across from him in her desk chair as he speaks. when she finally does ask, âwhat are you doing in my room?â itâs not accusatory. instead it sounds more like sheâs asking him why heâs reading in the dark, as if heâd spent all day reading and hadnât thought to turn on a light when dusk came.Â
taking a bite of ice cream, she mulls over his question, considering if she really wants to room to change. âi donât know. it feels sort of weird to change it.â she admits. maybe not knowing one another anymore makes it easier to be their true selves. âitâs like building a mall over a cemetery or something.â she doesnât mean it to be morbid and immediately regrets the analogy, wishing sheâd said something different. âi didnât know you were home.â she admits, changing the subject. âi wouldâve brought you some ice cream too.â
rick remembers the days when entering minnieâs room would elicit an irritated scream and the silent treatment for a whole afternoon. he remembers when the love his daughter had for him slowly then suddenly went from the regular adoring admiration children had for their parents to all out teenage angst; he had plenty himself, though he also had two older brothers to guide him through it. that last part, he didnât experience it as long as other fathers, because the normal troubles of high school turned into the loss of her mother. now, caught laying on her bed with his dog, she only seems mildly confused. should he have expected that sort of reaction? rick doesnât know what to expect of minnie anymore. he canât anticipate her emotions anymore, like he could when she was a child. he has to get to know her all over again, as an adult, when heâs only ever known the child version of her, and briefly as a teenager. (thatâs all his fault, though, itâs always his own fault.)Â
he still doesnât look as she crosses the room and sets down on her desk chair, his shoulders shrugging lightly even with his hands still behind his neck. âsorry.â rick apologizes, trying to think of a response that doesnât put a spotlight on how long theyâve been absent in each otherâs lives. itâs the reality of the situation but theyâre both experts at dancing around the subject, no amount of time will erase either trait from them. âi came to see if you were home and i got a bit nostalgic.â does it sound like heâs nostalgic for a time when she wasnât living here, just a few months ago? shit. âi remember the day we all painted it together.â
his house felt more like a dollhouse, not that he had intimate knowledge of them, his motherâs children were all boys. what he knew of them, it was analogous to his home. not so much artificial as it was forgotten, dusty no matter how many times you wiped it clean. he hadnât meant for it to become such a tomb, as if the clock stopped the moment lily took her last breath, a crypt that only has living ghosts. thereâs barely any life left inside, despite the two humans and a dog that inhabit it, but rick never meant for it to be that way. there was no conscious decision to keep the couch his wife picked out and the paint colors twelve-year-old minnie liked, it just never occurred to him to change it. and at the end of the day itâs just another reminder that all of this is temporaryâminnieâs not staying for long, and when she does leave, everything will remain the way it was before she even came back.
despite how morbid her analogy is, in a place where death is never the topic of conversation but always lurking in the corners like easily ignored mold, rick laughs at it good-naturedly. minnie has a wit drier than her fatherâs, that much rick could never forget, that much will never change. he lets the comment go unaddressed, heâd have to think about how everything in this house needs an upgrade and itâs not just minnieâs bedroom thatâs a cemetery. rick never considered himself a sentimental man before lilyâs death, but he nearly cried when he had to replace the oven four years ago. his own officers might agree with that assessment, sentimental, but he doubts minnie would ever think of him that way. he doesnât want to know what minnie thinks of him, because what she thinks of him is probably on par on how he sees himself. what lily loved about rick, heâs never actually been sure, but those parts mustâve died with her. heâll never take a hard enough look at himself to realize he thinks heâs unlovable, despite the therapist he sees every other week knowing that for years.
finally he sits up from the bed, petula roused lightly from her sleep but quickly laying her head back down. âi knocked off early. everyoneâs mostly focused on foundation day coming up and planning that shit makes me want to shoot myself.â rick darkly jokes, his own morbid bon mot. itâs weird to curse in front of his daughter, but sheâs an adult now, and he let out more swears in front of her than he remembers. even with his dark joke, rick shows up every year to man the barbecue pit as the captain always does. âare you thinking about going?â he doesnât remember if sheâs ever been to the foundation day celebration when she was a girl. then he gestures towards her ice cream, âis that all youâre going to have for dinner or should i get out some takeout menus?â
