(no subject)
"Meghan, can I talk to you?"
There are certain immutable facts of Meghan Ford's life, and lately she's been very grateful for them. They're touchstones, handholds, signposts.
One of them is that requests from her father that start with Meghan rather than Meg are not really requests. It doesn't necessarily mean that she's in trouble; in fact, it usually doesn't, because Meg just isn't in trouble all that much. But it does mean that whatever John Ford wants to talk about, he's not going to accept no, for anything short of her needing to be rushed to a hospital.
"Sure," she says, trying to sound casual and unconcerned, not quite succeeding.
Meg follows her father into the kitchen. John takes the chair that faces the window; what was, by years of family mealtime tradition, Kim's chair. Lately, it seems like her parents sit there more and more. Never for a meal, but if they're writing a letter or reading the paper or making a shopping list or something like that.
Meg takes the chair opposite it -- her own chair, because it's where she belongs, because it's clearly the chair her father expects her to take.
And she waits. She's not surprised; she's half-expected this every day since . . . since what she thinks of as That One. The day she came back from . . . whatever that was.
"Meghan, what's wrong?"
"Nothing," she says, careful and automatic, eyes wide, as if in innocence or puzzlement.
"Meghan."
"What? Nothing is wrong." And she thinks about adding Why would you think that something was? but the answer to that will likely lead places she doesn't want to go.
They'll likely get there, anyway, and she knows it, but there's no point in helping it along.
"Meghan--"
"Please stop calling me Meghan, Dad."
"Meg," he amends, and continues, "I don't know what happened a year ago, though I'm pretty sure it had something to do with you and your sister."
A year ago, or so, was when Kim said she wasn't going to be able to make it home for Christmas, and when Meg stopped pretending that everything was fine and she didn't mind.
But Meg doesn't explain that, even though her father pauses to let her, if she wants to.
"What I do know," he says, finally, "is that you've gotten more and more . . . serious, since then. A little more withdrawn. A lot quieter. But the last few weeks . . . you've barely spoken unless we've asked you something."
Meg shrugs. "I've just been doing a lot of thinking," she says. "I have some big decisions coming up, which university and--"
"Meghan," John says, restoring the second syllable of his daughter's name. "You've never been good at lying to me."
"I'm not--" Meg starts. But she is and she stops.
John Ford sighs. "Just tell me if that boy hurt you."
Meg blinks. "What boy?" And then stares. "Wait--you mean Derek?"
"Yes."
"Derek? God, no. Of course not. Why would you even--?"
"Because you came back from a date with him and you've been unsettled ever since. You were distracted when you got home that night. Your mother and I noticed that you kept your hand hidden for almost a week. You go through doors and around corners like you don't know what you'll find on the other side. And you're not talking to either of us, which isn't like you. So you have us worried."
"Dad, nothing like what you are suggesting ever happened. Not with Derek, not with anyone. I promise. And if, God forbid, it ever did, I would tell you and Mom.
"I just spilled tea on my hand, that's all. And I really do just have a lot to think about, and until I get it clearer, I don't think there's any way to tell you about it."
Even if she wanted to.
"When you're ready . . ."
"I'll let you know."
She won't, though. Because John Ford is not the member of her family she needs to discuss this with.
The person she needs to discuss this with is her sister.
When she's ready.
There are certain immutable facts of Meghan Ford's life, and lately she's been very grateful for them. They're touchstones, handholds, signposts.
One of them is that requests from her father that start with Meghan rather than Meg are not really requests. It doesn't necessarily mean that she's in trouble; in fact, it usually doesn't, because Meg just isn't in trouble all that much. But it does mean that whatever John Ford wants to talk about, he's not going to accept no, for anything short of her needing to be rushed to a hospital.
"Sure," she says, trying to sound casual and unconcerned, not quite succeeding.
Meg follows her father into the kitchen. John takes the chair that faces the window; what was, by years of family mealtime tradition, Kim's chair. Lately, it seems like her parents sit there more and more. Never for a meal, but if they're writing a letter or reading the paper or making a shopping list or something like that.
Meg takes the chair opposite it -- her own chair, because it's where she belongs, because it's clearly the chair her father expects her to take.
And she waits. She's not surprised; she's half-expected this every day since . . . since what she thinks of as That One. The day she came back from . . . whatever that was.
"Meghan, what's wrong?"
"Nothing," she says, careful and automatic, eyes wide, as if in innocence or puzzlement.
"Meghan."
"What? Nothing is wrong." And she thinks about adding Why would you think that something was? but the answer to that will likely lead places she doesn't want to go.
They'll likely get there, anyway, and she knows it, but there's no point in helping it along.
"Meghan--"
"Please stop calling me Meghan, Dad."
"Meg," he amends, and continues, "I don't know what happened a year ago, though I'm pretty sure it had something to do with you and your sister."
A year ago, or so, was when Kim said she wasn't going to be able to make it home for Christmas, and when Meg stopped pretending that everything was fine and she didn't mind.
But Meg doesn't explain that, even though her father pauses to let her, if she wants to.
"What I do know," he says, finally, "is that you've gotten more and more . . . serious, since then. A little more withdrawn. A lot quieter. But the last few weeks . . . you've barely spoken unless we've asked you something."
Meg shrugs. "I've just been doing a lot of thinking," she says. "I have some big decisions coming up, which university and--"
"Meghan," John says, restoring the second syllable of his daughter's name. "You've never been good at lying to me."
"I'm not--" Meg starts. But she is and she stops.
John Ford sighs. "Just tell me if that boy hurt you."
Meg blinks. "What boy?" And then stares. "Wait--you mean Derek?"
"Yes."
"Derek? God, no. Of course not. Why would you even--?"
"Because you came back from a date with him and you've been unsettled ever since. You were distracted when you got home that night. Your mother and I noticed that you kept your hand hidden for almost a week. You go through doors and around corners like you don't know what you'll find on the other side. And you're not talking to either of us, which isn't like you. So you have us worried."
"Dad, nothing like what you are suggesting ever happened. Not with Derek, not with anyone. I promise. And if, God forbid, it ever did, I would tell you and Mom.
"I just spilled tea on my hand, that's all. And I really do just have a lot to think about, and until I get it clearer, I don't think there's any way to tell you about it."
Even if she wanted to.
"When you're ready . . ."
"I'll let you know."
She won't, though. Because John Ford is not the member of her family she needs to discuss this with.
The person she needs to discuss this with is her sister.
When she's ready.