Christina Lee - Whisper to Me

“Mom, I’m just not sure I’m cut out for school,” I said in a show of honesty. “I mean, I liked the classes I was taking, but I liked working at the studio more.”

“The classes are necessary in order to get to the thing you love,” my father said through a clenched jaw. “Haven’t you figured that out yet?”

I shrugged. “Yeah, sure. I just know music is where it’s at for me.” The only two things I’d even been good at in my life were playing music and taking care of Rachel. Even my parents told me how proud they’d been of me during her stay at the hospital.

“That’s obviously not working for you.”

“Then I’m out of ideas,” I said simply. Because it was true. I was at a roadblock. Or maybe a crossroads. Nothing really made sense anymore. Nothing ever really did to me.

My father stood to his full intimidating height. “Look around this casino, son. You’ve been given an opportunity to get an education. Something that many of our employees will never have.”

Same argument, different day. He thought he was doing a service to our people by giving them jobs and bringing money into the tribal nation. And he definitely was. But my uncle Elan disagreed. It was an old argument between him and Dad that dated back to Dad’s initial decision to invest in this casino with other tribal owners and become the majority shareholder.

Uncle Elan had argued that Dad was only adding to the problems plaguing our community. Alcoholism. Gambling. Elan mostly stayed away from the casino because of it. He’d always been inflexible. My father was stubborn as well, but he was also compassionate and giving.

But at least they both stood for something. I didn’t know where I stood on the issue. I could see both sides. And that had always been my problem. Nothing really mattered to me besides music and Rachel. I went through the motions, and if shit happened around me or to me, I just shrugged it off and kept on going.

“I understand, Dad.” I brushed my fingers through my hair in exasperation. “I’ll figure it out. I promise.”

My mother, who had been raised in the Netherlands, stayed out of my dad and uncle’s argument as well. But she supported my father fully. I could see the admiration in her eyes. Privately, she told Dakota and me that every culture had examples of failures and successes—the Dutch Eighty Years’ War, for example.

Before I moved overseas, she gave me a quick lesson in her homeland’s history—about the pinnacle of her culture, called the Dutch Golden Age—which I appreciated. Amsterdam had its share of culturally tolerant and liberal thinkers, and I’d felt comfortable there—even though my heart had been someplace else—despite the fact that I was referred to as an allochtoon, the Dutch word for foreigner, everywhere I went. I snickered to myself at the memory.

My father’s booming voice brought me out of my reverie. “Today I’m putting you out on the floor under Stuart.”

“Got it.” Stuart was one of Dad’s oldest and most trusted employees.

“And you’ll get a regular paycheck,” Mom said. “Depending on how many hours you work.” Mom handled the books in the casino with a team of accountants under her. Dakota was learning the ropes from my very intelligent mother. Apparently she’d gotten all the smart genes.

According to my late grandfather, I took after some distant relative who loved smoking his peace pipe, dispensing advice to the tribe, and beating the poplar drum every morning. Cool by me. At least he’d been accepted by his people.

“I want you to take out those piercings you love so much,” Dad said.

“Honey, he’s fine,” Mom said, squeezing my shoulders. But had she known all the places where I was pierced, she’d have fainted right on the spot.

She leaned close to my ear. “Ik houd van jou.”

I love you. It’d been the phrase Dakota and I had heard our entire lives. One that was a quick reminder of our Dutch ancestry. Thanks to Mom, I’d been able to pick up basic phrases in Amsterdam like please and thank you. But I had certainly never used the words she’d just uttered with anyone besides my family.

My mother still retained a slight Dutch accent, but it really rose to the surface when she was upset or angry. That was her tell, and right now, I knew she was frustrated with my father. Probably thought he was being too rigid. But I deserved it. I’d never compare to Dakota, who had blind ambition and worked hard to please my parents and make them proud.

I’d just always preferred flying under the radar and doing my own thing. Except that plan wasn’t quite working out for me. I should’ve protested more to my manager in Amsterdam. Honestly, girls came on to me all the time. How in the hell was I supposed to know that Johan would walk in right at that moment?

Sure, I needed to cut back on the weed. It slowed my reaction time and made me care even less about the things happening around me. Even Rachel had noticed. Which was so not cool.

Last night probably needed to be my last hurrah with pot. The phone call with my father this morning was only the beginning. Mom apparently had a nice little chat with her cousin in Amsterdam about the stash of dope I’d left in a drawer. Dad said if I didn’t shape up, he’d make me submit to the company drug policy. He probably would anyway. So I’d better not come in looking like I’d smoked.

I may have stopped lighting up whether or not Rachel had asked me to. But old habits die hard, so I needed to be more determined than before. If only she’d allow me to believe that she was soley thinking of me when we’d been together last night.

I tightened my fists at the same self-loathing thoughts that had filled my head the last couple of years. When would I finally get my shit together?

My problem was that I never stood up for what I believed in. Everything I did was half-assed. I didn’t fight for Rachel, for my education, or go after the jobs I wanted. I deserved a swift kick in the balls from my parents.

I was good at making people feel things—lust, happiness, anger. But never admiration. The thought of that hit me so squarely that I was thankful to be sitting down.

“You’re not saying you’re a fan of his piercings,” my father said disapprovingly to my mother.

“No. I’m not a fan,” she said, and then stifled a grin. “Well, maybe a little.”

My father huffed, and my mother strode over, laying her hand on his arm in an intimate gesture I’d seen hundreds of time. Still, I looked away. I felt an ache—a longing, deep inside my bones.

“Have you forgotten what it was like to be young already?” she mumbled to my father. His eyes softened. “Let’s not be the type of parents who stifle their children. We never have, and I don’t want to start now.”

Mom was one of the coolest women on the planet, and I loved that she and my father were equals. She was confident and feisty and reminded me of a certain someone who wasn’t related to me. Even Dakota was practically her twin. Too bad I hadn’t inherited the confidence gene, either. Other than in the bedroom.

“Maybe that’s where we’ve gone wrong with Kai,” my father muttered, but I got the message. Typically my parents didn’t speak openly about rearing their children, but I could feel my father’s stinging disappointment from across the room. And lately it was really starting to affect me.

“It’s a good thing you’ve got Dakota to be proud of,” I said, and my father cringed. His eyes reflected regret, and I immediately felt awful.

“Son . . .” he began.

“It’s okay, Dad. I get it,” I said. “Whether you believe it or not, I actually do think that I have rocking parents.”

“And we have a rocking son,” Mom countered, but I wished it had come from my father’s lips instead. “Your father is understandably upset. I hope one day you’ll tell us what the bloody hell really happened in Amsterdam.”

“What always happens,” my father’s voice roared through the small space. “He screwed around and didn’t think about the consequences.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dad!” I said, my own anger finally unleashing. “There’s no way in hell I screwed around with her. Do you think I have a death sentence or something? It was a total misunderstanding.”

“Then why didn’t you stand up for yourself?” Mom asked, her gaze searing into mine. “Fight for what’s right?”

My shoulders sagged. I was pretty sure my father didn’t believe me. And he had no reason to in the past. But this time had been different. “I . . . I don’t know.”

The truth was I didn’t care at the time. I was ready to come home. I hadn’t been happy for a long while. And I’d figured that since people had preconceived notions about me, why try to change them?

“When are you going to finally settle down, son?” my father said, quieter this time. As if the fight had gone out of him. “Figure out a way to make a decent living. Make some girl proud.”

“He’ll find himself a nice girl when he’s ready,” Mom said. “We had our own rough start, you know that.” Mom and Dad were initially friends in college but were in love for a long time. My paternal grandparents didn’t exactly approve. They’d been nervous about the Native American culture dying out. But you can’t stop love from happening, Mom had said. Didn’t I know it. Instead, Mom agreed to honor Dad’s culture and our native traditions.

“But I have to agree with your father about the job part.”

“I hear you loud and clear.” I stood up because I no longer wanted this conversation to continue. “So, where can I find Stu?”

Dad walked around his desk to open the closet at the back corner of the room. He handed me some kind of itchy polyester suit jacket. It was the color of cranberries and had the name of the casino emblazoned across the front pocket.