Rated: G
Themes: Slice of Life, Family, Humor
Words: 1,536
Notes: I have determined that small children are fun to write, and little Tati is about the epitome of all that I enjoy. She is delightfully spazzy and it's a lot of fun to envision all her actions
Written for Father's Day, though not really. A little slice of the weird relationship Russell and Tati share, the not-quite-parent-child thing.
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June was always hot. Why in the world he was suddenly acknowledging this was beyond him, but it probably had to do with the fact that there was now a small child (really an adolescent yet to hit her growth spurt) complaining about it.
“Russell, it’s hot,” the young Tati whined as they made their way down the street to the café. Every morning, without fail, no matter the temperature or the weather, it was Russell Dahl’s ritual to pick up a cup of black coffee from the little hole-in-the-wall place.
“It’s been hot, kid,” he shot back, though his grip on her hand was noticeably sweaty. “That’s the way it goes. And besides, you’ll be complaining about the cold in four months, so buck up.”
Tati puffed her cheeks in annoyance. “At least there’s snow with winter,” she grumbled, testing the limits of Russell’s grasp and trying to fall behind. He was used to this, sliding down to catch her wrist and picking her up an inch to get her to move again.
“You didn’t like winter this past time,” he continued as they rounded a corner. “You said it was too cold.”
Trying to make up for her fallacy, Tati quickly said back, “I didn’t know what to expect.”
…Okay, point to her, because as annoying as it was for that card to come up, she rarely played it.
But the point had to be taken away. “You know what summer’s like. You knew what to expect this time around.”
The girl fell silent, whispering numbers quietly. “No. No I didn’t. There’s no overlap yet.”
It took a second for comprehension to hit Russell, but once it did, it smacked him like a ton of bricks that he didn’t want to admit he had been in the way of. “Hasn’t been a full year…”
“Nope!”
Russell sighed. It was too early to be matching wits with a ten-year-old, especially with the added factors of caffeine deprivation and heat. He instead decided to play a cheap and easy trick – distracting her – and began to swing his arm. Tati grinned and let out a squeak of excitement, running back and forth to match his momentum.
Another distraction soon came into view, and that was the café that served as their destination. Tati broke from Russell’s grasp and ran to the door, catching onto the handle while speeding past and wrenching it open. She grinned widely as he smiled, just a little, and ruffled her already messy hair while walking in.
“Mister Dahl, good morning,” greeted a young man behind the counter. He wasn’t even a young man so much as an old boy, thereabouts of fifteen or so. Trevor Finch – that was his name, the only child of the middle-aged couple that ran the café. Russell didn’t care to admit it, but he had known the boy since before he could walk. Admitting it meant he was getting to be “middle aged” himself.
“Mornin’ Trevor,” he replied instead, looking over his shoulder to confirm Tati’s whereabouts (currently occupied with a small tree in a flower pot in the corner). “Sunday usual.”
“Coffee, milk, three bagels, two fruit cups, for here. …Right?”
“Right.”
Trevor gave a quick sigh of relief, gladly accepting the payment that had become memorized and unnecessary to speak. Returning the change, he jumped at the sudden appearance of the little girl peering up at him, fingers clenched on the counter, eyes transfixed on the baskets of baked goods behind his head.
“You know which one you want?” he asked, far used to that stare (well, sort of, it was still a bit creepy, her wide yellow eyes completely fixed on their goal). She nodded stiffly and pointed to the basket of chocolate chip bagels. Russell sighed, the idea of injecting more sugar into her already hyperactive being not a popular idea with him, but allowed it anyway with a half-hearted hand wave.
“Russell, I thought it was you!” The misses Finch poked her head out from behind the back wall, wiping her hands with a towel.
“Morning Dahlia,” he greeted, glad that the days of ‘my name’s Dahlia and your surname is Dahl, haha that’s funny’ were long over.
“Hi Misses Finch!” Tati added, jumping to see over the counter properly and waving her arm. The lady smiled, striding behind her son and fixing the order she knew had been placed.
“Good morning, Tati,” she said, chuckling as the girl’s mouth hung wide open in a smile at seeing the food items.
“Hey, where’s Tony?” Russell asked, fingers drumming on his pants legs. “There was something I wanted to –”
“Dad’s got the day off,” Trevor answered glumly, clearly wishing he did. “You know. Father’s Day and all that.”
“…Oh.”
“Are you doing anything special?” Dahlia wondered, stacking two fruit cups on the tray in front of her. “It’s your first one, isn’t it?”
“Uh…”
What with his folks dying when he was a teenager, it had probably been twenty years (give or take) since the day had crossed his mind. Added to that was his reluctance to consider the unbridled ball of energy manifested into a girl as his own daughter. All signs pointed to them having such a relationship, but to actually confirm the word of “father” just seemed to tack on a whole new level of responsibility.
But if he had to be honest – and really, when talking to a mother whose son was right in front of her – then there was really no point in denying it. “Yeah…Yeah, guess so.” He paused, looking at the food order, squirming his lip. “Oi, Dahlia, sorry – can you change that to a to-go?”
A brief spark of annoyance came to her eyes, but that was quickly masked when she saw the way he was looking at Tati, his mind clearly racing faster than he could speak.
“Just this once, Russell, next time we charge you again.”
“Yeah yeah, got it, no need to lay on the guilt.”
Within a minute, Russell was dragging Tati out the door, who was facing backwards and waving her arm again. “Bye Misses Finch! Bye Trevor! See you tomorrow!”
If one thing was certain, there was zero chance of the two being biologically related. Well, maybe a bit of a chance, they had the same hair color. And, well, there was always the wildcard of who the mother was, so maybe the chance wasn’t so small. And who said personality was biological?
With the last thought created and scraped within ten seconds, Russell took to leading Tati to their next destination. She pulled at his arm at the street corner she was used to turning at, but seemed doubly excited at the idea of going somewhere new when he yanked her in the opposite direction.
“Wherewegoing?” she jabbered, swinging the plastic bag in her hand a bit too wildly.
“Nowhere if you ruin the food.”
“Oh.” She frowned and ceased movement in that arm, compensating for it by transferring the would-be energy to her other arm, the one tethered to Russell. The process completely unfazed him, which would have worried him more if he bothered to care.
“Do you think I’m your dad?” he asked point-blank, looking down at the girl as he asked the question. She glanced up at him, bottom lip protruding in thought, though the blank look in her eyes suggested otherwise.
“No.”
People sometimes questioned if he had a heart, or better yet, a soul. Well, it was times like this that confirmed he had one, as a chill settled in his chest at the very simple, one-syllable word.
“Why’s that?”
“Because you told me that somebody’s dad is like somebody’s mom and that the person comes from those two people and I didn’t come from you, I found you.”
“I found you.”
“No, I did.”
(In about five years time, Tati would pick up the habit of explaining the proper definition of words to further prove her point and even further annoy him. Remembering the current conversation made him realize how much worse it could have been: “Found means you were actively seeking something out, which is what I was doing. I was looking for someone for answers. You just happened to bump into me.” Sheesh, how annoying and mouthy she grew up to be.)
“So what’s your point?”
“You’re not my dad.”
Another problem with having to teach her things she should’ve learned as an infant was her problem with definitions and words having more than one. “A dad can be any man you were raised by, one you have a strong attachment to. It isn’t just who…helped create you.”
“…Ohhhh. Okay. That makes sense. Then – I guess you are.”
That helped ease the ice patch, though he wasn’t sure why it was such a big deal.
“Why? Is there something wrong?”
“Nah.” If she barely understand the multi-faceted concept of fatherhood, there was no use trying to explain why a holiday existed for it. Nor would she understand the nostalgia factor that came from sitting on that one hill with the tree that grew from its side that overlooked the river.
Though she would complain about how hot it was.
