Takeaway

My coffee isn’t hot enough. This always happens, they see a kid order a coffee and they think if they make it hot, I’ll burn myself and sue them. So, my coffees are always tepid. Luke-warm. It is a nice café though. I’ve never been here on a school day before; I’m usually at school. Lots of mums here with prams and activewear. Eating thick slices of French toast with cream, eggs with hollandaise sauce. 

I’m the only one sitting alone.  

Waiting for that to change. 

I down the last of my coffee, crunching on the few sugar crystals that didn’t dissolve properly. The owner is giving me the side eye, he thinks I haven’t noticed. He’s waiting for me to leave. I’m taking up prime real estate. I might order something else; you don’t know. 

The bell above the door jangles and in he comes, motorbike helmet under one arm, wrap-around sunglasses on. He lifts them up onto his head, scratches his beard and scans the room. I give a timid wave. The corners of his eyes crinkle, and he waves back. He has a magnetic smile.   

He’s not old, my dad. Not like most of the other dads I see at parent-teacher night at school. He does look a bit older; I suppose. It’s the shaved head and grey-streaked beard that does it. And the belly. Old men always have big bellies. Mum says it’s from the beer. Dad’s not that bad though, and because his shoulders are so mountainous, it doesn’t stand out as much. Most people get distracted by the sleeve tattoos, anyway.  

“Hey there, Meerkat. Thanks for meeting me.”  

“Hey.” 

“It’s good to see you.”  

I tense my lips. “Yeah.”  

Dad seems heavier than last time I saw him. Not in weight, but how he carries himself. He is hurting, he doesn’t want to show it, but he is. He says it is good to see me, but I know he’s thinking what I’m thinking. Seeing me reminds him that I’m not around. That Mum’s not around. Or more accurately, that he’s not around. He waves down the barista.  

“I’ll take a green tea,” he says, “and a slice of that black forest cake. Did you want anything, Kat? My treat.”  

“Already had a coffee.” 

He spots the empty mug in front of me. “That’s all for now.” 

“No worries,” the barista says, before leaving. 

“Your mum said you want to leave school,” he says.  

“Yeah.” 

“She’s worried that you’re too young.” 

“I’m not.” 

Dad strokes his cheek. “You’re sixteen, Kat.” 

“Yeah.” 

“She also says we both have to sign you out.” 

“Are you going to?” 

The barista slides Dad’s tea and cake in front of him. Dad nods his thanks. I won’t lie, it looks delicious. He cuts it in half with his fork, then slides it across to me on a napkin. “I don’t want you thinking that this is something that your Mum and I will use against you. Or against each other.”  

“Then don’t.” 

Dad picks up his tea, blows away the steam. “Guess what I was doing at sixteen.”  

I shrug. 

“Shitting myself,” He leans forward on his arms, his tanned skin creases his tattoos. “Because your mum was preggers, and my Dad kept saying we’d made a terrible mistake, the worst mistake you could make. We weren’t ready, he said. He thought I’d drop you on your head or leave you on the top of the car or drown you.”  

“Geez, Dad. Grim much?”  

“I know. He was a prick.” Dad clears his throat. “Point is, he was wrong. People your age are underestimated, all the time. But your mum and I did good with you. Right?” 

I nod.  

All I want is for him to hug me, to pass me my helmet and say, ‘let’s ride’. We’ll hit up the great ocean road, his sidecar stuffed with camping gear. I’ll hate it, I’ll get bitten by mosquitos and sleep on a rock. I’ll wake up with a sore back, and my feet will stink from walking through wet bushlands all day. He’ll take me up to see some waterfall with a long and hard-to-spell name. Then we’d watch Mum build a campfire, like we used to. Except she wouldn’t be there. 

“I’m not okay with you leaving school,’ he says.  

My heart and stomach collide. 

“But I’ve signed the papers anyway,” he says. “Your mum just needs to pop down and sign them too. Then you’re out. Officially.” 

God damn it.   

Why can’t he just be the villain? It would be so much easier if he was. Why can’t he just slam his fist and yell ‘you’re not leaving school!’, make a scene, break a plate. Anything like that. Because then I could hate him. Then I could say to myself ‘it’s good that he’s gone. It’s good him and mum aren’t together anymore’. I could say ‘he is a horrible, heartless bastard. He doesn’t understand!’ But he does. He understands it all, and it’s still not enough. It’s still not enough to have him home. Home with mum, home with me.  

I can’t cut him out of my life, but I can’t keep him in it. Not like how it is supposed to be. Not like how it was. He’s looking at me. Patiently, expectantly. I muster my quietest smile, just enough to let him know I’m happy.  

“Thanks, Dad.” 

We finish our cake and he tells me about his work. While he is talking, I can just get lost in the stories, and not think about anything else. Dad goes and pays, orders a takeaway coffee. On the footpath, Dad passes me the cup. “Here,” he says. “For your walk home. I know they never make it hot enough for you.”  

I take the mug and say thank you, then we walk to his bike. My helmet is sitting on the back seat, held in place with an ocky strap. My heart hurts.  

God damn it. This sucks.   

It sucks more than anything else has ever sucked.  

“Reckon I can get a lift?”  

 “Sure thing, Meerkat.” He passes me my helmet. “Let’s ride.” 

Home