Warning: This is not pet-the-dog reading. Could trigger.
My older sister slapped my dad. At the foot of the stairs, she slapped him hard. He grabbed her arm and pulled her down to the floor. She pulled his leg out, and he toppled onto her.
I had just emerged from the bathroom. They blocked any further passage. I was 12; she was 16. Same year I got beat up; what a year.
Mom appeared in the hallway and raised her hands to her face. “Oh, my Lord, Oh, my Lord,” she said.
My dad spanked my sister. She screeched like a raven shot out of the sky. Dad smirked. I thought that odd, like he was enjoying himself. She wriggled out of his grasp, tore the front door open and took off. Dad sped after her, dragged her back into the house and slammed the door shut. She lurched up the stairs into her bedroom; her door smashed closed. She reemerged and screeched, “I hate this house, I hate both of you, I can’t stand it here,” then tore back into her room punctuated by another frame shaking slam of the door.
I followed my father into the living room along with my mother. We sat down, mom and he in the sofa, me across from them in the overstuffed chair. I hugged my knees tight to my chin and cried.
“Don’t cry. Why are you crying?” my dad said smiling.
I stifled my sobs, embarrassed. Nobody said anything.
My dad motioned me to follow him. We went to the grocery store.
Sitting in the Chevrolet Caprice beside my dad, we pulled into a parking place. I gazed out the window. Pedestrians ambled by. Some new membrane separated me from that world out there. It wasn’t a conscious choice; it just happened, like a scab. They looked so normal out there. Inside, in this car, felt like anything but.
From now on, this was the way it had to be. Keep the world inside this car hidden while commingling with that normal world out there.
Inside the A & P, I pushed the grocery cart down aisle five. Trailing behind dad, he picked items off the shelves: toilet paper, Entemann’s coffee cake, Wise Potato Chips, T & W strawberry ice-cream.
I loved dad with all my heart and mind and soul. My allegiance was to him. I hated my sister for all the trouble she caused.
Her anger scared me, so bold and loud. I wanted to run away from it. I tried to ignore it, but it gnawed my insides. My muscles tightened, ready to bolt.
I should have bolted, or I should have screamed, “Shut up. Take it outside.”
Home was no longer safe. I was always on guard. I couldn’t help it. Any raised voice or tightened tone portended more violence.
I distanced myself from my sister. She was evil. I distanced myself from my brother. His silence spooked me.
By high school, I distanced myself from my whole family. The place was poison, I decided. The less time I spent there, the better. I stayed out weeknights until eleven, weekends, until one or two in the morning. My grades were fine; I played baseball; I looked like a happy, normal kid. The membrane held up.
Dad minded my staying out, but he didn’t put up much of a fight. I was the last of three children, and he was just tired, done with this parenting crap. Let the kids blow up, whatever, he was done.
Early on, I spent a lot of time with him. He didn’t talk, not to me anyway, unless he wanted me to do something. That’s too bad. I was available, at least in the beginning. He didn’t listen to music. He didn’t read for pleasure. He worked on projects in the basement but not projects like other dads, like building a shelf or fixing the car. Instead, he created scrapbooks and edited Super8 family films.
Some weekends Dad took me to his office. He showed me the elevator that responded to body heat only. “See?” He tapped a key on the up button. It didn’t light up. “Only the heat from my finger.” His office had an expansive view of the Hudson River and Palisades Cliffs. I waited for him to be done, bored out of my mind.
I accompanied him to the beach when he took my sister and her friends. One time my friends were at the front door. They wanted me to play baseball with them. My father was at the top of the stairs. “I thought you’d come to the beach with me,” he said. I went with my dad.
The summer after graduating from high school, Dad invited me on a weekend camping trip. “Before you go off to college, you know, for old time’s sake, just you and me,” he said.
The first night in the tent, in our sleeping bags, I couldn’t sleep. Something was wrong. Time was crawling. I felt it as soon as we arrived. I panicked. My being with dad, something as essential as air was missing. This membrane I had all around me, that protected me, was also suffocating me. I was stuck; couldn’t get away. I had to gut it out to the end of the weekend, and that was an eternity away.
How was I going to make it through the night? Not to mention tomorrow. I couldn’t breathe. My chest pressed down on my lungs, squeezed every last bit of air out of them, as if someone was sitting on me. I heaved up for air. My heart pounded.
Morning came. I faked casual. Sure, I slept great. Sure, let’s go hiking. Inside, the torment raged. But outside, every move, every word, I prescreened to make sure it conveyed no concern.
Off we went. What time is it? Only 7:30! I’m going to die. At least hiking kept up with my palpitating heart. At least hiking distracted me from the gaping black hole inside me.
As we hiked, me following him, my mind scrambled for scraps of information that would help me understand my predicament. He’s just my father. Why am I so uncomfortable? Why can’t I talk about this with him? Maybe he can help. Nope. Keep up the act. Nothing’s wrong, this is just a casual weekend.
And so it went.
My first semester in college, I returned home for Thanksgiving. My mother asked me from across the candle lit table how college was going. Dad, sister and brother also sat around the table eating.
“Not so good,” I replied.
“Oh, for heaven’s sakes, why?”
Sobs surged. Drool drooped down to my mash potatoes. The membrane finally ripped.
Dad sprang up and stood behind me. He placed his hands on my shoulders. It felt like I was being pushed back into a box, like a Jack in the box. I was Jack who had just sprung out, and he was the kid with the toy who just wanted the box’s music to keep on grinding.
My sister said, “He needs a psychiatrist!”
My brother said nothing and disappeared into the wall paper.
“It’s just hard, that’s all,” I said finally.
We finished dinner.
Nobody ever mentioned it again.
At 29, psychoanalysis freed deep blue demons from their dungeon, darker memories of me and dad, inappropriate, boundary crossing moments.
When I was 15, Dad entered my bedroom. He pulled down the covers. I lay on my stomach in my underwear. He rubbed my calves. He slid his hands up my thighs. He grazed my testicles. This he repeated several times.
I tormented about saying something, but that’s as far as I got. Maybe it was my problem. It wasn’t sexual, was it?
Stuff like that.
After these revelations, I invited dad out to visit me in Sacramento. We hadn’t spoken for years. I had questions.
I picked him up at the airport.
He seemed diminished, out of synch with the intimidating image in my head. Bowed, jowled, cataract clouds, this was a harmless, old man before me.
“Dad.”
“Son.”
A smile sprang forth on his PlayDough face. We hugged. He kissed me on the lips.
It was just the two of us for the weekend.
I took him to a favorite spot of mine along the American River. We hiked. He loved the outdoors; I did too. We settled atop a slab of slate. The river burbled in the background. Ravens cawed above playing cat and mouse.
My plan was to sleuth stuff out of him, play the good cop.
“Dad, do you think you have a good sexual relationship with mom?
“I suppose. She’s a good woman.”
“Yeah, I know, but, you know, in bed, how is it?”
“Getting pretty personal. All right. Fair game. She’s not too interested, never has been, which has been frustrating. Her idea of making love is lying on her back. I have to do everything.”
My mind whirred hyperspeed, next question, next question, stay calm, look unconcerned.
“Do you have any interest in men?”
“Well, I think we’re all bisexual.”
I didn’t push it. Bisexual? Oh really? Yawn. You hungry? Thinking about french fries.
“Do you masturbate?” I asked.
“Everyone masturbates.”
“Right.”
“I remember my older brother taught me.”
“That’s too bad with mom.”
“She’s given me a good life.”
We stood beside the rolling water. We skipped stones. Dad taught me during a family camping trip. The sun dipped behind the cliffs. All fell into shadow.
He put his arm around me and settled his hand on my ass.
“Dad, what are you doing? Don’t do that.”
He pulled back. His eyes grew cold. “Then I won’t touch you.”
“That’s not what I’m saying. Just don’t touch me there. None of my friends do that. Put your arm around my shoulder.”
We stood apart in silence.
We returned to the car and headed home.
Back at my house, there was only one bedroom. At night, we got in the one bed. I switched off the light. I laid there beside my father.
My inside voice screamed, Get away. Get away.
“I’m going to sleep on the floor. I’m not falling asleep,” I said.
“Don’t leave me.”
“I’m not leaving you. I’ll be right here beside the bed.”
Oh, dad, I’m seeing it now. I’m no longer sacrificing my needs for yours. I’m calling it quits on taking care of you. I’m speaking up for myself. I set a boundary; I said no. I’m breaking up with you.
I slept on the floor. And really slept, not fake sleep.
The next day he wanted to work in the yard. But I was on a roll now, declaring my own wants, breaking out of his routine. I didn’t want to work. I wanted fun.
He mentioned earlier that he used to roller skate. I had been doing that lately. I pushed for that. He acquiesced.
He sure didn’t look like he’d roller skated before. Perhaps I forgot that he was 65. He wobbled and leaned and finally toppled. Big dad, in a heap, on the sidewalk. Young people sidestepped around him.
We headed over to the hospital.
He broke his wrist.
At the airport the next day, I thanked him for coming. We didn’t hug.
I watched dad plod down the boarding ramp. My heart tore apart. My love and devotion swirled around the rage and resentment. It crackled and stung like water mixing with acid.
Oh, dad.
I was your favorite son. You said so.
If I look at our family photo albums composed by you, I see nothing wrong. There’s me smiling to the camera in front of my birthday cake. It’s easy to miss the slouched posture and the vacant eyes. Look, there’s me practicing piano, look at all those Little League pictures, look at the family Easter shot beside the blooming forsythia bush.
Look, there’s me with hands on hips, naked save for the scanty gym pants. Wait, what? And there’s me, in my bedroom, in my underwear. There’s me, bare chested college kid in the backyard. There’s an awful lot of shots of me barely dressed in this happy, normal album.
He’s dead now. How I wish he could have leveled with me: Yes, I’m gay. I never got to check that out fully; yes, I was sexually attracted to you; yes, it was a struggle; I screwed up; sorry.
I’ll never have that kind of closure.
Instead, in my mind’s eye, he looks at me with insouciant eyes: Who? Me?