As a child, I saw my parents the same way many of the children of my age did. My father was larger than life, and my mother, always the one to get me out of trouble that I had inevitably gotten myself into. When asked who my hero was, my answer was bound to include one of their names, depending on the day. But we cannot stay children forever, and that is where I start my story.
It was Sunday night, and I was anxiously awaiting my brothers’ return from a weekend at our father’s house. Looking back on it, the night was beautiful; the stars shown brighter than usual, and there was the crisp smell of spring in the air rustling the few leaves now on the trees. If one was quiet, they might hear the life of a thousand creatures just beginning to stir in the forest; the crickets trying to find mates, the squirrels hiding away for the night, the cicadas lighting up the evening with song, but I heard none of this. My mind was fully occupied by what I was about to learn. For as long as I can remember, I had been asking my father the single question that every teen of divorce asks. 7 days ago, my dad had called to inform me that he was finally ready to tell me why he had left my family six years earlier. I was understandably nervous as to what he would tell me. I had many theories, most of which I hoped would be false, but I could not help but wonder if he would say it was because of me. Any child of a divorce has asked themselves the same question, whether they try to ignore the possibility or dwell on it depends on the person, on that night however, my fear of the answer was all encompassing.
Dad had said that he would be there to pick me up at 8:00 that night, so I was planning on leaving at 9:00 PM, for he was always about an hour late. When 9:45 PM hit, I was a nervous wreck. A minute was never longer than on that night as the hand ticked from 10:00 to 11:00 to 11:30 and finally he pulled into the driveway at fifteen till 12:00 AM. To this day I will not know if he was hoping I would be sound asleep and he wouldn’t have to talk to me, or if it was completely circumstantial. At this point, it does not matter to me.
I do not remember what was said as I got into the car that night. I was so focused on what I would soon be told, my mind refused to allow the minute details of those moments to enter into memory. As we drove, we made small talk, speaking on unimportant matters like school, and the boy I was dating. Neither of us wanted to think about the question; and more importantly, its answer, at least not until we knew that there would be no interruption. So we spoke on small matters until we pulled into McDonalds. We walked in and there was a single customer there, his laptop on the table closest to the door. Neither dad nor I wanted any food, so we went straight to a table in the back corner. As I sat down, I remember feeling the salt on the table under my hands in sharp contrast to the smooth tabletop, adding to my nerves that were already zinging through my body faster than I had previously thought possible. It was just dad and I, no more excuses left to keep us from the conversation that the whole night was about.
I would like to say that what he told me reassured me, lifted me up, showed me that life did have reason and purpose to it; and that my life was a part of his. However, events like that rarely work out so picturesque and that Sunday night was no exception. He was very organized; he had a lot of papers piled in between several pages of what looked to be a diary. Why he would have a diary with antique flower patterns on it, I did not think to ask. He started out by confirming many suppositions I had had. His unhappiness in his and mom’s marriage was a common theme amongst it all, but nothing that would sanctify a divorce. Turns out he was just preparing me for an ugly face of the matter that had, supposedly, been previously covered by a mask. That was when I found out why he had an antique diary. The book was not written with his thoughts and pains, but with my mother’s. He tried to convince me that my mother was a lesbian, that that is why he had left her and us. Tried to tell me that she was still in love with her old college roommate. . . I was sickened. No wonder my brothers had stopped listening to mom. No wonder they were being so disrespectful. No wonder... It was my father's lies.
That was the night that changed my life, not because of what my father told me, but because of what he didn’t. My father dropped me off in the dead of night back at my mother’s house. He told me that I was a fool not to listen to what he had said, but then drove away, his silver Audi slowly being swallowed by the night’s blessed darkness, taking my innocent faith with him. That night he told me that his daughter was dead. From then on, he only had two sons. It was a few months before I was to turn 16 years old... My father did not speak to me again until I was almost 20 years old and has never once apologized for his actions. On the contrary, he is still waiting for my apology.
No comments:
Post a Comment