Charlie.
I sit up straight with my hands folded neatly in my lap as I wait for my mother to bring out dinner. My father sits right across from me, but doesn't speak a word. It's a wonder that he's here at all.
Classical music plays through the small speakers in our dining room: Mom's doing. She thinks playing peaceful music like that will help keep me calm. Instead the scratchiness of the speakers makes me cringe and bite my bottom lip.
My eyes glance across the table at all the things set out for dinner; the silverware, plates, glasses, salad bowl. Each and every one of them are placed in a perfect spot, not even a single inch out of line. I let out a deep breath.
The joys of having Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.
A piece of my hair falls out of place and brushes across my cheek. Without a moment of hesitation, my fingers snap to work, securing the piece of hair beneath it's respected bobby pin. I can feel my dad's eyes on me, trying not to stare, but being unable to help it.
You think he'd be used to it by now; me and my freakiness. Perhaps he would if he didn't spend every waking moment not at home. When he's not working, he's going out to eat with friends from work, or going on golfing trips with his friends, or helping my grandma do some housework. I pretend not to notice, and I'm usually pretty successful.
My mother on the other hand can't hide her disappointment with him. I would be pissed too if I were stuck at home to deal with me all day long, having to keep the house clean as a whistle in order to keep my breakdowns to a minimum.
"I hope you're all hungry because I made enough to feed a village," Mom announces, carrying a large pan of lasagna out for us. The smell makes my mouth water, but I sit still in my chair, waiting for my mom to set it down and place the spoon at an exact 90 degree angle, facing me.
And she does it exactly the way I like it, as she does every night at dinner time. My father waits and watches me carefully, not wanting to move a muscle in case it causes me to freak out.
Okay, I lied. I'm never successful at ignoring his lack of participation. He makes it blatantly obvious that he's nervous around me. It's almost as if he's scared of me. When I was little, I had asked my mom if he was scared of me. Of course she told me I was being silly, but I'm not an idiot.
I'm not lucky enough to be that naïve.
"So, Charlie, how was your day today?" Mom asks as soon as we all serve ourselves, shattering the awkward silence that falls upon the dinner table more often than not.
I glance up at her, trying to chew what I had just put in my mouth as quickly and thoroughly as possible. I cough ever-so-slightly before responding with my usual response,
"It was fine."
That's all I ever say at the dinner table; tonight's no different. Mom takes that as her cue to go on and talk all about her day. Tonight's story involves her running into an old colleague of hers at the floral shop and getting their flowers mixed up. Just as always, her stories never make much sense and are incredibly irrelevant.
But she feels the need to fill the silence, that's her quirk. I figure she puts up with all of my 'quirks' (that's what she calls my disorder) that I could very-well put up with her useless stories.
As my plate gets emptier and emptier, I struggle to scoop up all the lasagna on my fork without getting my fingers dirty. If even a speck of sauce gets on my fingers, I'll have to get up and wash my hands thoroughly. That'll only upset my parents more.
"Charlie, do you hear me?" Mom pulls me away from my frustrating task of finishing my plate of food.
I look up, surprised that she's actually pulling me into the conversation. Usually I'm more than fine to tune her out the remainder of the evening. Being put on the spot like this makes me anxious.
