Daddy

by Madison Young

  I sat in front of my laptop in a dimly lit café in Melbourne, Australia. Tomorrow, I would be giving the keynote speech at the Femme Conference and I was struggling to find my words. I ran as far away from the comfort of San Francisco and the arms of Daddy as I possibly could. Out of my depth, I ran from the familiar things and people and places that reminded me of him. While preparing to head to Australia, I naïvely imagined a wild landscape of koala bears and kangaroos, duck-billed platypi, and an open wilderness in which I could walk about and embark on a journey of enlightenment.

  Colorful graffiti and murals filled city streets lined with pretentious cafés and overpriced clothing boutiques. Streetcars transporting locals and tourists from one stop to another reminded me of the city I had just left. Mev was going to meet up with me here. She had a lover in Melbourne and would take the same journey to Australia to follow her heart and her lover. I was grateful for her familiar face and warmth. I would feel less alone with Mev by my side. She had become one of the only people in my life that I truly trusted, and it felt like she had always been there.

  Holding a yellow ceramic mug of soy mocha in both hands I glared at the half-written speech. Try to stay busy, stay focused. It was those moments of silence and stillness that were the hardest. I couldn’t let myself think much about where I’d just been or where I was going next; for the sake of my daughter and me, it was crucial to be in the moment. I tried to fill my days teaching classes on sexuality, speaking at conferences, giving interviews, Internet conferencing and grant committee meetings for the art gallery, and performing. The wardrobe I packed for my nearly two months out of the country no longer fit my growing abdomen, so I was repeating the same three outfits. I had to get a bit creative with my performance outfits, mixing and matching colors and skirts in a patchwork of funky, artsy style that matched my awkward, shifting body.

  A waitress approached the table and delivered a big stack of pancakes smothered in maple syrup.

  “Thank you,” I smiled up at her, a young girl likely no more than twenty-two. I closed my laptop and moved the pancakes closer. With a bite of warm, doughy sweetness in my mouth I closed my eyes, smiling at the thought of my future daughter laughing with chipmunk cheeks full of pancake.

  I opened my journal, inspired, and found her image staring back at me, her recent sonogram. I ran my finger across the black and white photograph, picturing a healthy baby girl growing in my uterus, then moved my hand over my belly to feel the fluttering of my daughter, a faint but rapid beating. My eyes swelled with tears as I recalled the doctor hovering over my body and sharing the sex of my child to be.

  It was my thirtieth birthday. I felt old and alone when I lay back in the stirrups and chair in a small examination room at San Francisco’s Kaiser Permanente, my mother by my side, holding my hand. She traveled to San Francisco from her home in Ohio to be there with me. She missed me and was worried about me, and knew that James was rarely around. Even though she didn’t always agree with my way of life or decisions, she loved me deeply, and always called a minimum of three times a week. As mothers always do, she seemed to intuitively know when something was wrong, even from 2,500 miles away.

  The doctor left the room to print out the sonogram photographs and my mom squeezed my hand, her eyes full of liquid.

  “I love you, Tina. You’re going to be a good mother. You know that?” My mother’s hands were soft, her skin having lost most of its elasticity, freckles spotted her ivory flesh. Short, thin nails painted pale pink hid callused fingertips. My fingers trembled, enveloped in her hands, frightened by the impending possibility of failure.

  I tried to smile and nod at my mother’s assuring words, uncertain what exactly it meant to be a good mother.

  “You know, my thirtieth was a hard one, too. That was the year your father left. I was heartbroken, but I knew I had to keep pushing through, to keep on going, for you kids. There was a guy I was dating, Terry. I don’t know if you remember him?” My mother awkwardly cleared her throat and folded her hands in her lap. For a moment, she stared at her hands as if the memories of my father were stored there, like her hands could tell the story on their own. With her thumb she traced the ring that I gave her. It’s set with my and my brother’s birthstones, as well as a diamond from her engagement ring.

  “Yeah, I remember Terry. He was a real jerk.” I felt a chill run up my arms and down my legs at the memory of my mother’s one-time boyfriend.

  “Yeah, he was a jerk. But I needed someone, Tina, and sometimes a jerk is all you got. Anyway, for my thirtieth birthday Terry was supposed to take me out to dinner. Somewhere real nice, like Montgomery Inn, where they have those delicious ribs, you know the ones that were endorsed by Bob Hope?” My mother’s hands remained in constant motion. As she was talking, she nervously bit at her cuticles, mumbling her speech.

  “Well, I put on my fuchsia suede dress and curled my hair, sprayed all up with AquaNet, and you watched me in the bathroom as I put on my eye makeup. You said, ‘Mama you look so pretty, like Barbie, I want to be pretty like that one day, too.’ You always knew how to get my waterworks going, Tina. I had to dry my eyes and fix my makeup. Your sitter showed up and I slipped on my black suede pumps and put on a movie for you kids and waited and waited. Terry never showed up. I sent the sitter home and put you and your brother to bed and spent the evening crying and cursing in the bathroom. I swore after that I’d never spend a birthday with another man. I’d go out with my girlfriends on my birthday, I could count on them.” She returned her hands to her lap, her thumb grazing the ring that was once a symbol of my father’s commitment and love for her.

  “I just keep thinking about that, Tina, and for the life of me I just couldn’t stand by and allow that to happen to you, I didn’t want that to be you, my little girl and your little girl.” She looked at me with a piercing gaze. I’d never heard this story before, and I thought I knew every story my mother had to tell. My journey toward motherhood was already bringing me closer to this woman in unexpected ways.

  “I’m not alone, Mom. I love you. I’m so happy you’re here for this.”

  I exhaled deeply and took a big bite of my Australian pancake, closing my eyes. I allowed the tears to run down my engorged breasts and changing body, the same breasts that Daddy once held tight in his ropes, circled in his arms, cupped with his hands. I pulled big black sunglasses from my purse to shield my blurry eyes from the gaze of other customers. The large, dark lenses had come in handy over the past year to hide my red sad eyes, dripping mascara, and sleepless nights.

  While rummaging through my bottomless purse I found one of Daddy’s handkerchiefs. The same handkerchiefs that used to gather like leaves in my purses, bags, and coat pockets, usually stained and occasionally crusted with dried mucous from my blubbery meltdowns. They were like love notes that had been left for me everywhere, except they were soaked with past sorrows and tears.

  The tears that were running down my face at this moment sprung from hope, the aching, sore instincts of survival. I stared down at my baby’s image: the little alien-like body curled up like a kernel of light in a dark abyss. With a deep breath in, I allowed the palm of one hand to rest on top of my belly. Her faint movements blew me a kiss from inside my uterus.

  I scribbled a list of names into my journal.

  Potential Names for Baby:

  Rilke Anne

  Caitlin Rainer

  Rilke Virginia

  Virginia Rilke

  Emma Louise

  I had been combining the first and last names of my literary and political heroes. I kept gravitating to Emma. Emma Goldman had been one of my feminist heroines since my early college days. Her spirit of fight and fearlessness in the face of social change inspired me in all of my endeavors. She was so precious to me that I adapted her famous quote, “If I can’t dance, it’s not my revolution,” into my own, more sexually explicit declaration, “If I can’t fuck, it’s not
my revolution.” In black Sharpie I signed my slogan on DVD covers and the walls of bathroom stalls. Louis has extra resonance, it’s both my dad’s middle name and the surname of the only family James ever talked about with love and adoration, his leather Daddy, Drake Lewis.

  I plucked a small stack of postcards from my journal.

  Dear Dad,

  I miss you and love you. I made it to Australia and have been incredibly busy with work. I’m speaking at a conference tomorrow, giving the keynote speech. I’m finally starting to look pregnant and I’m feeling a little fluttering.

  Your little red-headed angel,

  Tina

  Dear Mom,

  I made it to Australia. It’s raining but the people here are wonderful. Work is keeping me busy. I was just thinking about your visit. I’m so grateful to have you in my life.

  With love,

  Tina

  Finally, I prepared James’ postcard.

  Dear Mr. Mogul,

  My heart aches for you, my love. I’m starting to feel our little girl kick. It’s raining here. I miss you so much. I love you and I yearn to be curled up at your feet, on the floor, in my place.

  Your devoted Spaniel,

  Maddie

  I stuck them back in my journal for safekeeping until I could locate a post office. With care, I put my journal back in my purse and pulled my laptop back. I opened my email, holding my breath as I wished for a word, a bit of hope or encouragement, from Daddy.

  My inbox overflowed with correspondence. My cell phone bill was due, grant application deadlines approached, editors were asking for submissions to their anthologies, organizations and conferences were inquiring about teaching classes, artists were asking about upcoming exhibitions, volunteers and interns were seeking direction while they pulled together to run the gallery during my absence. I scanned through the emails for the only one that really mattered to me in that moment, the one from Daddy.

  Hi Maddie,

  I miss you so much baby. I hope you get this note well. I miss you terribly! It’s been a really hard week here with lots of draining shoots. When I feel I can’t keep up I just think of you and our little girl and it drives me to do the best I can.

  Do you have a flight number or the airport that the flight departs from so that I can track it and confirm arrival online?

  Do you have money? Are you well?

  Miss you, Love you, and I will see you soon.

  J

  I had left the country in a flurry, an attempt to escape constantly thinking of him, to make the aching go away. It didn’t work, he was still constantly in my thoughts. A child created by us was growing inside of me everyday. I didn’t know if we would be together when I got back, but it had become incredibly clear that I couldn’t care for him or fix his problems. The only thing I could do was care for the child growing inside of me and let him know that I still loved him, and that if he needed me, I would be there to support him.

  Hello Mr. Mogul,

  Wanted to let you know that the pregnant lady made it to the other side of the world in one piece. The hotel that the convention is set up in (and that I’m staying at) is amazing. They are totally treating me like a princess. There was a mix-up with the organizer on what time I was arriving so they forgot to pick me up but luckily Mev landed about an hour after me and found me randomly in the airport and her friends gave me a ride to the hotel.

  The hotel is downtown with a great view and they are very accommodating of my diet and the convention is covering all food costs for the weekend. I bought a swimsuit and I’m going to utilize the pool. I hear swimming is good for me and the little one. Between my baggage fee and having to buy a travel visa in order to get in the country it took a chunk out of my account.

  Do you know if any of my checks arrived at the house yet? Also if you could, let me know which day this week you can drop off the artwork so I can arrange for my volunteers to install it. Thank you so much.

  I have to do Internet from a public area during the convention so it might be best to wait until Monday evening to do a video chat. Does Monday work for you? If so let’s make a date around 10:00 p.m. your time on Monday.

  I love you.

  Your Maddie

  I checked my watch, 3:00 p.m. It was nearing my call time for a shoot I scheduled with a local sex-positive porn company. Speechwriting would have to wait. One local in particular was exciting to me: Gala Vanting. Gala was a twenty-three year old queer feminist pornographer in the making. I gathered my belongings and shoved everything into my purse and bulky backpack alongside dildos, vibrators, makeup, lube, and what lingerie my body could still squeeze into, and left the café.

  My heels clicked along the wet sidewalk, rain pouring down on me. My chocolate colored dress with petal-pink polka dots, soaking wet, hung heavily on my curves. My makeup was running down my face, streaks of mascara and blush bleeding on my pink cheeks, and the wind plastered my hair to my head in cold, wet clumps. My bags were soaked. The cold, Australian rain fell with fury in a rapid, spinning succession, like the sky had opened up and was having one big childish temper tantrum, especially for this trip. I took a shortcut through a children’s playground to get to the streetcar and encountered a large, pond-sized puddle in my way. I stopped at the puddle and dropped my bags on the muddy, grassy earth. Looking upward to the clouds, huge drops of rain beat down and stung my face, I smiled and screamed up into the sky.

  “AHHHHHHHHHHH I’m ready! I can do this. You think this is a challenge? Do you know who I am? I’m Madison Young! I’m a super hero. I’m this little girl’s mother. I am capable of greatness. I can do this!”

  I tore off my heels and tossed them in my bag and dropped my purse and backpack, now not just soaked in rain but also doused in splotches of dark earth. Mother Nature was attempting to baptize me and I had been putting up a fight. I looked at the large puddle, sixteen inches deep and at least ten feet in diameter. Can I go around? Yes. Will I? No. I sunk my toes into the muddy green blades of grass and recalled my first baptism, an eight-year-old girl wearing a pink ruffled Lycra swimsuit, standing among a congregation of farmers and factory workers, schoolteachers and grocery clerks. Our pastor called me forward and my mother gave me a little push in the direction of the chlorine-soaked backyard swimming pool.

  I knew that this muddy puddle was my pool, the pool into which I needed to descend, and I jumped. My bare feet landed full-force in the water, causing a wave of reactions, and I jumped again and again laughing, crying, laughing hard and loud, and crying with laughter. I danced through the puddle, nymph-like and fearless. My body shivered and trembled as I spun in circles, water running from my head to my feet, purifying me. I felt one with the throbbing, pulsing, wild passions of the earth. I knew there was nothing clean about life, but there was joy and fear and pleasure in life and I was in the cyclone of it all. I felt ready, cleansed and prepared for everything that might come my way. I found my breath. I felt ready to let go of all the sadness that had accumulated in my body, ready to cast off this shell.

  A few minutes later I stepped into the production studio. The waiting room was serene and powerful. “You must be Madison. Oh dear, it looks like you really got soaked out there. Why don’t I show you where our bathroom is in the guest quarters and you can take yourself a nice hot shower. I’ll have a hot cup of tea waiting for you when you get out. How does that sound?” The welcome in the receptionist’s voice warmed me immediately.

  After freshening up, I pulled a lavender polka dot slip over my head, careful not to smudge any of my freshly applied makeup. My breasts were sensitive to the touch, full and sensuous. I was in the throes of a second puberty and became amused and distracted by my transforming body. I always loved my small A-cup breasts, breasts that didn’t require a bra for support to stand up like perky pyramids with pink, gumdrop tops. Now, I had a new toy, a new body to admire and to love. My breasts were spi
lling out of my satin rose-colored bra and for the first time in my life, I had cleavage.

  The bathroom mirror was still steamy and the air warm from the hot shower. I inhaled the humid bathroom air and spritzed sweet, citrusy perfume on my pulse points. My ruby-colored lipstick felt out of place with the soft, lace detailing of the thrift shop slip. My long red hair had started to grow thick, and I felt like a curvy goddess with a new body that overflowed with life. I opened the bathroom door and stepped into the production studio where Gala sat on the bed in a similar satin slip.

  I felt comfortable with Gala. She was an intelligent young woman, trying to make way for a woman’s voice in the world of pornography. She represented the next generation. I saw her push her glasses up the bridge of her nose and tuck her shaggy brown locks of hair behind her ears, her unshaven legs tucked up toward her chest.

  “So, I think Richard will be back in fifteen minutes or so...he had to take a phone call down in the office. But I thought maybe we could talk a bit about the scene,” she said, carefully picking up a hot cream-colored teacup from beside the bed.

  “Yes, I’d like that. Do you want to start?” I smiled, impressed by her proactive nature for negotiation. An electric kettle began to whistle from a table in the corner of the studio and I followed its sound to prepare my own cup of tea. My bones were still chilled from the cold, rainy morning and impromptu puddle-jumping.

  “Sure. Well, I brought a few toys. I saw your stash on the table...it looks like we both brought Magic Wands. I love vibrators and hands. I’m a big fan of hands. And I ejaculate. I know you really like kink and I thought maybe we could incorporate some kink into the shoot. What do you think?” I nodded, slowly sipping my tea. Gala pulled out pretty pink vibrators and sparkling pearlescent dildos from a canvas tote that read, “Well Behaved Women Rarely Make History.”

  “Cool. That sounds great. Well, I love hands, too. Did you bring gloves?”