The Institute: Daddy Issues by Evangeline Anderson

as he con­tin­ued to rub my foot.
    “No,” I said guardedly. “Be­cause it re­minds me of one…one I had when I was a kid, I think. I didn’t re­mem­ber it un­til I saw my­self in that big, old mir­ror in the entry­way.”
    “Is that why you kept star­ing at the re­flec­tion?” he asked. “I was wor­ried—you seemed…what is the word? With­drawn. Like you had gone some­place else—some­place I could not fol­low.”
    I was sur­prised that my part­ner was so at­tuned to my emo­tions.
    “Well, yes,” I said care­fully. “I guess you could say that. I was…re­mem­ber­ing. I…my dad bought me a dress like this one be­fore…be­fore he left.”
    “Yes?” Salt asked softly.
    “Yes.” I nod­ded. “He…he bought it for a Father/daugh­ter Valentine’s Day dance we were hav­ing at my school.” I didn’t know why I was telling him this but some­how I couldn’t seem to stop. My mouth kept mov­ing and as I talked, more and more memor­ies seemed to rush in from the dusty corners of my brain where I’d locked them away so many years ago. “We used to prac­tice for it,” I heard my­self say. “I would put on the dress and he would have me stand on his feet and dance me around the room. I looked for­ward to it for months .”
    “This Father/daugh­ter dance—was it good?” Salt asked.
    “I don’t know.” I looked down at my hands. “He—my father—left us about a month be­fore it happened. On the…on the night of the dance…” I cleared my throat. “I…I…”
    “Go on,” Salt said, so softly I felt the words more than heard them.
    “I put on the dress,” I said, still talk­ing to my hands. “I was sure—so sure— he would come back just for that stu­pid dance. After all, he’d bought me the dress for that ex­act reason. He said he wanted to see his ‘pretty little sweet­heart’ twirl­ing around on the dance floor in it.” I gave a bit­ter laugh that seemed to stick in my throat. “That’s what he called me—his little sweet­heart. I knew he wouldn’t stand me up—I knew he’d come back for the Valentine’s Day dance at least.”
    “And did he?” Salt asked.
    I looked up at him. “I’m sure you already know the an­swer to that. No.” I sighed. “No, he didn’t come back. I sat in front of the house for hours un­til it was way past my bed­time—way after the dance was over with. Fi­nally my mom came out and dragged me in­side. She kept say­ing, ‘he’s not com­ing back. I told you, Ant­oinette, he’s never com­ing back.’ Then she made me take off the dress and she stuffed it…stuffed it into the…the garbage…”
    “Andi…” Salt’s voice was in­fin­itely gentle. He stopped mas­sa­ging my foot and reached out to cup my cheek in­stead.
    I pulled away from his touch.
    “You don’t have to do that—don’t have to com­fort me,” I said sharply. “I’m fine.”
    “Then why are you cry­ing?” Salt asked softly.
    “I’m not!” I put my fin­gers to my cheek and they came away wet. “I…I have some­thing in my eye,” I said, de­fend­ing my­self.
    “I see much in your eyes,” Salt rumbled. “And none of it is very happy.”
    “I have to go. I need to take a shower.” I pulled my feet off his lap and this time he let me.
    I hur­ried past him, not look­ing at his face, and locked my­self into the huge bath­room. There I stripped off the aw­ful dress and threw it on the floor. In my head, I kept hear­ing my mother say­ing over and over that my father wasn’t com­ing back. But there was one other thing she’d said that I hadn’t told Salt—and now I was glad I hadn’t. She’d said…
    “He left be­cause of you,” I whispered to my­self as I stood na­ked in the middle of the vast bath­room, shiv­er­ing. “Your father left be­cause of you , Andi. And he’s never com­ing back.”
    *
    By the time I fin­ished my long, hot shower and toweled my hair dry, I had mostly