Dad shook his head at them. “She isn’t coming back. She’s gone. I know that’s hard to understand, but she really is just gone.”
“Where did she go?” Sophie asked.
“Heaven,” I said, turning to look at Dad. Mom was the one that taught me about Heaven. Daddy said he didn’t believe in a Heaven or a Hell. But Mommy said that was just because he had a horrible father who didn’t teach him about things like that, because he never wanted Daddy to tell him that he was going to Hell for all the mean things he'd done.
Daddy looked at me and nodded. “I think you’re right, Penny. Because if anyone ever deserved to get into Heaven, it’s your Mom.”
Dad didn’t take the accident well, at all. He struggled just to get through daily life. And I don’t mean trying to adjust to taking care of five kids on his own, or sleeping in his bed alone. I mean, he didn’t do well.
In the beginning, he’d at least smile for our benefit if something was funny. And Grandma Scott helped out by coming to the house to watch us after school and would grocery shop for us all. Daddy would pick the twins up from daycare and come home and pop a frozen meal into the oven.
He’d get me up first in the morning, then I’d go get the twins up and dressed while he got Charlotte and Sophie up and brushed their hair and helped them put on whatever wacky outfits they chose to wiggle themselves into.
We were getting through it with Pop-Tarts for breakfast and lunch money in our pockets.
But then Daddy took a couple days off work for the trial. He ended up getting a settlement. The drunk driving murderer ended up in prison because he had a history of DWIs, a suspended license, and a list of whatever other charges the lawyer could think of to press on him.
The community lost a fun teacher. My brother, sisters, and I lost a really good Mom. My Dad lost his wife and was thrown into single-parenthood. And all that any of us got in return was some dumb money.
Dad didn’t need money. He made plenty to keep the roof over our heads.
He at least had the presence of mind to split the settlement money five ways and put it all in trusts for me and my siblings. He said it was tied up so tight that no one could touch it, only each of us, when we turned eighteen.
It was after that, that things really started going downhill.
His temperament started getting shorter and shorter with everyone. He always apologized to us, but we still began to shy away from him, not wanting to get yelled at, or watch him pound a fist on the table because we dared to ask a question.
He’d yell at anybody.
He yelled at his boss, and was sent home on two weeks unpaid leave.
Daddy stopped helping any of us get ready in the mornings. He just holed himself up in his office and worked on his app idea.
Things only got worse from there. When we started begging to spend every night at Grandma’s, she went into his office, slammed the door to get his attention, then began talking in a low, calm voice. We don’t know exactly what she said to him, but she talked him into going to group therapy.
* * * * * * * * * *
“What was it that your mother-in-law said to you?” the therapist of the group asked.
“I’ll tell you what she said to me,” Roger told the group. “She told me that I was slowly turning into my father.”
“What’s so horrible about your father?” she asked.
Roger’s head turned toward the therapist. “He took his every disappointment out on me.”
“Took out, how?”
“He yelled, berated, and beat me. Then he drank and did it all over again, until he passed out.”
“And do you yell at your children?”
Roger teared up and put his head in his hands. “All the time.”
“Do you berate them?”
“Not yet.”
“Do you beat or hit them?”
“No.”
“Do you drink?”
“Not a drop.”
“What do you do after you yell at your children?”
“I was apologizing and giving them a hug.”
“Was? Why did you stop?”
“Because they started to become afraid when I’d lean in to hug them.”
“What is it you do now?”
“I get up and remove myself from the situation. I put myself in a timeout in my office.”
“What do you do in your office?”
“I focus on something constructive. I work on building an app.”
“How is the app coming?”
“It’s good. It’s the one thing I feel like I’m doing well with in my life.”
“Are you really mad at your kids?”
“No.”
“Who are you mad at?”
“The man who had a complete disregard for the lives of anyone else on the road. I’m mad at the broken system that kept setting him free to repeat his crimes against literally everyone in his path.”
“What would you do to that man, if you had the chance?”
“I’d want to kill him. And I don’t mean that I’d want to see him die. I mean that I’d want to do it myself.”
“What do you want to do to the cops?”
Roger looked surprised by the question. “The cops? Nothing. They aren’t the ones in the wrong. They’re following the laws and doing what they can. It’s the system that is broken.”
The therapist let out a breath and leaned further into the circle. “I want to congratulate you on listening to your mother-in-law, and seeking help. I also want to congratulate you on recognizing that your actions towards your kids are headed in a direction that you don’t want to continue on with. And I want to congratulate you on knowing where the real blame lies. While I won’t condone your killing the driver, I’m not entirely concerned over your desire to do so. It’s that I don’t want you tracking him down, if he’s ever let out.”
The therapist took a breath before continuing. “Yours is not the average case of having a hard time getting over a loss of a loved one. You’re dealing with a lot of childhood trauma being dredged up here, especially with the driver of the other car having the connection of alcohol with your father. I’d really, really, like to see you in private sessions, in addition to coming to our group meetings.”
Roger let out a tired sigh. “Do you really think you can stop me from turning into my father?”
“If I can’t, I swear to pair you up with a therapist who can.”
Roger teared up again as he looked the woman in the eyes. “I have five kids at home, who need you to follow through on your word.”
She didn’t believe this guy was inherently bad. She believed he’d led a tragic childhood and had risen from the ashes by never turning back. She believed what he needed to do was to turn back, face what happened to him, and deal with the trauma. “I know they do. I promise you that I will do my damnedest to do right by you, and get you the help you need.”
Chapter Three
He’s Doing the Best He Can
I peeked around the corner at Grandma doing interviews.
Daddy said he was hiring a nanny to help take care of us, but it looked to me like Grandma was doing the hiring.
He said that Grandma was going to come help us get ready in the mornings and make us breakfast and pack our lunches. Then the nanny would pick the twins up from daycare in the afternoons, and be here right before the bus dropped the rest of us off. She said the nanny would help us with our homework, cook us dinner, make sure we all got our baths and teeth brushed, and the little ones all to bed. Not me, ‘cause I got to stay up an extra hour and she didn’t need to be here for just me.
Then, the nanny was supposed to be here all day every Saturday, and grandma was going to take us every Sunday.
“Sounds like a way for you to get out of being our Dad,” I whispered back to him as I trotted over to the table, where he was putting together peanut butter sandwiches.
He took a breath. I think he wanted to yell, but other people were here. “I’
m having a hard time doing everything I need to do.”
“Grandma says you’re sad because Mommy died.”
“No, I’m not sad that Mommy died.”
“I’m sad that she died.”
“I’m mad that someone killed her.”
“Is that why you yell?”
“Yes.”
“But why are you yelling at us?”
Daddy put down the butter knife and sat down next to me. “It’s not just you guys. I’m yelling at everyone.”
“But, why?”
“Because they won’t let me in to see the man who hit your Mom’s car. I’m yelling at everyone because I can’t yell at the one person I’m actually mad at.”
“But, would it help?”
He let out a sigh. “No. Because yelling at him won’t do anything to him. Yelling at him will only make me feel better for a couple minutes. I’d never want to stop yelling at him.”
“But the nanny—”
“Penelope,” he hissed, “I can barely talk to you without screaming. Do you think I’m doing a good job at being a Daddy right now?”
“No.”
“Okay. So, I need help. And, I can afford help, at least for a while.” He let out another sigh, trying to calm himself. “I’m not going to be here a few evenings a week.”
“But why?”
“Because I’m seeing doctors that help people work through their emotions when they can’t control them.”
“They’re going to help you not be mad anymore?”
“That’s what we’re all hoping for.”
“How many doctors? Are you sick?”
“That’s what they’re trying to find out. I’m going to see someone called a psychiatrist. He thinks I have depression, which they treat with therapy and medication. I’m also seeing a therapist, both in a group and one-on-one.”
“Is it going to work?”
“I sincerely hope so.”
“So, we need a nanny to take care of us? What about grandma?”
“I’m afraid we’re wearing grandma out. She wants to help, but she’s older and can only do so much. And the nanny here every day will help keep me away from the stress of feeling like I have to do everything, which will help me control my emotions.”
“You always controlled your emotions when Mommy was here.”
“The doctors think I was co-dependent with her.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I have a hard time doing it on my own. They think I modeled my behavior based upon hers, because I liked how she made me feel about myself, and I wanted to make others feel that way. But now that she’s not here to model my behavior from, I’ve lost control.”
“Lost it? Or modeling from someone else?”
His eyes caught mine. “You know my Daddy was a bad father, right?”
I nodded.
“The doctors are trying to figure out if I’m beginning to model my father’s behavior because that's the only example of a single father I've had set for me, or if maybe my father had a mental illness that I’m starting to suffer from, as well.”
“Can you fix a mental illness?”
“Listen, I don’t want you to worry about this. I’m getting help from people who know what they’re doing, to try and fix whatever is going on in my head. And I’m getting help from Grandma, and now a nanny, to make sure your guys are all taken care of, while I’m trying to get fixed.”
“How can I help?”
“Just keep being the sweet girl that you are.”
“No, Daddy. I mean it. How can I help?”
He nodded to himself. “You know that extra hour you get to stay up every night?”
“Yeah?”
“Spend it watching TV with me. Just the two of us, no toddlers running around, just you and me. Just quietly be with me. I think spending calm time with just one of you can help me relearn how to be calm around all of you again.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really. But I mean it, quiet time together. Okay?”
I beamed him a smile. “Okay.”
* * * * * * * * * *
“So, how have the last few days gone?” Dr. Lorraine White, the therapist, asked Roger.
'Dr. Lorraine' she'd told him to call her when she'd formally introduced herself to him, after that first group session. He had issues with calling a doctor by her first name. It was like she wasn't a real doctor, just a kid pretending to be one.
He let out a sigh. “I’ve gotten through them.”
“What was the best thing that happened?”
“I hired a nanny, and restructured how the day runs with the kids, to help take the stress off.”
“Good. So the day-to-day grind will be less consuming, that’s good.”
Roger nodded.
“Okay, what was the toughest thing that happened?”
“My oldest thinks I’m trying to get out of being a father.”
“Did you explain things to her?”
He nodded.
“Did she seem to understand?”
He nodded.
“Why is that a not a good thing?”
“All my kids want me to do is to spend time with them. And until Annabeth’s death, that’s all I wanted to do, too. They’re looking at me with such expectation, it’s ripping my heart out.”
“And how is their disappointment being interpreted in your mind?”
“At first, I feel disappointment, too.”
“And then what?”
“It turns straight to anger.”
“Anger at whom?”
“Me. Because I can’t be the man I want to be.”
“Who do you want to be?”
“Their father. Their protector. The one who stands between them and the rest of the world, giving them a wonderful childhood, while preparing them for the very world I’m shielding them from.”
“And your ability to do that, to be that for them, changed with your wife’s death.”
“Yes, exactly. And I know you want me to structure a plan of how to get back to who I was, without her, but I can’t give those kids what I want them to have, without a mother. I have four daughters. Four. There’s going to be hairstyles, and nail painting, and makeup, and dress shopping… I don’t know how to do any of that. And boys. I’m supposed to protect them from idiotic boys. How am I supposed to turn around, and in the next breath, give them dating advice? And I’m certainly not equipped to give them advice about sex and being confident on a date while keeping your guard up, and the different kinds of birth control and how long they should wait, because I doubt they’d want to follow my plan of virginal spinsterhood.”
Dr. Lorraine smiled. “That’s the most you’ve said at any one time, so congratulations on opening up. But, I think I know what’s coming next.”
Roger’s eyes rose to meet the therapist’s. “I wouldn’t be in this position, if that man hadn’t killed Annabeth.”
“And so, you circle right back around to anger at the driver.”
“The drunk driver.”
The therapist leaned forward. “I understand your hang up with this. I really do, but you have to deal with what is.”
Roger’s hands gripped the arms of the chair, released, and gripped them again. “I want to kill him.”
“The driver?”
He nodded.
“Look, I’m on your side with this one. The driver was a repeat offender, caring little about anything else but his own need to be drunk. If it’s any consolation, that drunken man has surely gone through the hell of withdrawal by now. And he’s locked up with a life sentence.”
He gripped the arms tighter. “And now he’s all dried out, and freeloading off the government. I still want to kill him.”
“Is satisfying that desire worth spending a life sentence in prison?”
He gritted his teeth.
“Are your children going to be any safer from him, when he’s already locked away?”
The set of his jaw be
came firmer.
“Killing him won’t bring your wife back. And the pleasure you receive from watching the life seep out of him, at your own hand, will be fleetingly momentary. At the end of it, you’re still left without your wife. And then what are you going to do with your anger?”
He nodded, staring so forlornly at the floor. “Exactly,” he whispered.
“What?”
“What I do next. That’s what scares me.”
“Have you hit any of your kids?”
He shook his head.
“Who else do you have to keep yourself from harming?”
He shifted in the chair, leaning forward, the heels of his hands massaging at his temples. “The nanny, for not seasoning a meal like my wife would have. The mail carrier, for delivering mail in Annabeth’s name. My coworkers, for looking at me with sympathetic expressions. My mother-in-law, for constantly keeping an eye on my interactions with the kids. You, for not being able to wave a magic wand to make these thoughts stop. My psychiatrist, for not giving me a pill that will make it stop. Myself, for feeling like this in the first place.”
The therapist took a deep breath. “Roger… I think we need to up your treatment.”
He looked up at her with haunted eyes. “How? I’m now in here to see you three times a week, group counseling once a week, and the psych once a week.”
“I think it’s time we discuss an in-patient facility.”
He let out a sigh and went back to rubbing at his head. “For how long?”
Dr. Lorraine took note that her patient was so beaten down by the world that he didn't even bother protesting her recommendation. She did wonder if it was because he recognized how precarious his condition was, or if he thought any break from his life would be welcome. “It’s hard to say. Thirty days, sixty, ninety... Depends on how fast through treatment you move.”
“Who’s going to take care of my five kids for that long?”
He didn’t see the therapist’s eyes dodge to the side. “I thought grandma and the nanny were taking care of everything?”
We're All Broken Page 2