But the knight in shining armor in a police uniform who I envisioned pulling us over never showed. My dad kept his foot heavy on the gas pedal, and I hummed quietly to track 4, “Need You Tonight.”
It seemed like hours had passed, but when I glanced at the clock it shined brightly and said that it was only 3:15. I knew that meant we were getting close to the lake house. As a little girl I would often ride to the same lake with my friend and her family. We played a game every single time we took the trip. When we were almost to the house and drove over the very last hill, a sliver of the lake would peek out between the trees and let us know that we were soon in for a fun-filled weekend on the water. The person who screamed “I see the lake” first was the winner. There wasn’t a prize except for bragging rights, but we would all tense up and sit on the edge of our seats anyway, trying to see over the dashboard farther than anyone else in the car.
As my dad and I flew over that last hill I wanted to turn toward him and yell, “I see the lake first!” but I figured it was a terrible idea and would have sent my dad over the edge even further than he already was. I chose to whisper it under my breath and call myself the winner.
After flying over the highway at top speed and not caring about a single other car on the road, my dad slowed down to a snail’s crawl when we reached the quaint neighborhood of the lake house. Porch lights only lit the front of the occasionally occupied lake houses. As we silently crept around curves and crawled up and down the small hills, I noticed my dad had turned off the headlights of the car. It felt like we had entered a game of cloak and daggers but had no opponent. My dad loved the idea of being hunted by the authorities and eluding them in the dead of night. It was a game he played in his head all the time. Years of drug abuse and mental illness messed with his mind and to him, he was truly living out this weird fantasy. I desperately wanted to hit the power button on his game and call it quits, but he was stuck in the on position, and there was nothing I could do but allow myself to be one of the players in the game.
We finally reached our destination and pulled into the garage of the three-story lake house that my dad had somehow gained entrance to for several months.
He was good like that. He came home with cars and diamonds in exchange for work he did on the side. We had the keys to lake houses, ranch houses, and more because of some deal he had made. Growing up I never thought anything of it; I truly believed my dad had worked for these things and that we had a right to them. By the time I was seventeen years old, we had lived in as many different houses. I assumed it was normal and that people who lived in the same house all of their lives were missing out on something.
He turned the car off and we removed ourselves from the pillow-like seats. I followed my dad inside the house like a good soldier and then watched him roam aimlessly around as if he was checking on things that needed checking on. He flipped a light switch on and off a few times, opened doors to the patio and then shut them, went upstairs, came back down, went downstairs, then came back up, and finally made his way to the master bedroom. He crawled into bed without removing a single item of clothing and passed out.
Each weekend that we had come before, I stayed on the third floor with my friends. It was a loft with multiple beds, decorated in beach and boat decor. I loved it up there, but this night was different. It was dark and big. The silence was frightening. I chose to kick off my shoes and crawl into bed next to my dad under the delusion that he could protect me if something happened. The rest of the night (and morning) was completely uneventful except for my dad snoring so loud that it kept me from getting any sleep.
At 7:00 a.m. my dad shot out of bed as if someone had hit the eject button underneath him. There was a shocked yet glazed look in his eyes that I was all too familiar with, and I knew that he was not the same dad that drove me here the night before.
“What are you doing here?”
“You drove us here last night!”
“Who?”
“You.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, Dad.”
“Get in the car. Your mother is going to kill me.”
My friends were miles away, eating breakfast with their families. Their lunches were packed, homework finished, and backpacks checked. Their parents were driving them to school, making sure they arrived safely and headed into school to start their day as seventh graders.
I was waking up next to my dad who had no recollection whatsoever of the night before. It was a complete blackout for him. Fueled by drugs and alcohol, he had driven me miles away from the safety of my home and didn’t remember a minute of it. He had reached speeds of 120 miles an hour the night before, yet he had no memory of even driving.
For the first time in my life I realized I wasn’t like other kids my age. It was the first time I knew that my dad, although tons of fun, was an extremely irresponsible adult and had complete disregard for me not only as his daughter but also as a human being in general. Nothing was the same for me after that day. I never again viewed my dad as a protector, and I never again felt special in his eyes. He threw away my worth that day, and it has taken more than half my life and what has felt like an eternity of excruciating pain to get it back.
My dad’s actions that night hardened a small corner of my heart that, over time, would spread across the rest of my heart like the plague. The pain created a hole in me that I would spend the next twenty years filling with things that would hurt me in ways that only stole more of my worth. I didn’t know that God knew my name. I didn’t think he could possibly love a girl like me, and he definitely couldn’t treasure me as his child.
It took what felt like a lifetime to understand that God’s hand was in all the moments of my life and that he would use everything to redeem my story and bless me with things I didn’t think were possible. God would take that night I spent with my dad, hours away from home in a stolen house, and turn it into something precious.
Sadly, that night didn’t stop me from craving my dad’s attention, approval, and affection. I spent years searching for self-worth through him, ultimately finding freedom in the only Father capable of giving it.
two
Daddy’s Little Girl
As a little girl I thought my dad was some sort of financial wizard. I watched as people sought him out to help with legal and money woes and believed he was a legal genius. In one of my third-grade classrooms, each student had to stand up and say what our dad did for a living. This was my shining moment to brag about him. I wondered if the teacher had created the assignment just to see how it was that my family had a garage of rotating, obscenely expensive cars or how we managed to live in a new home every year.
I sat patiently as each child stood up and told about their dad’s job, eager to tell them all about how special my dad was. I listened with a grin as each one proudly announced that their dad was a lawyer, a doctor, a manager at our local grocery store, or a school bus driver. I saw how excited each classmate was and how proud they were of their dad. I was ready to brag about mine. When it was my turn, I straightened out the crease in my shirt, cleared my throat to make sure everyone in the room could hear me, stood up, and proudly announced that my dad was a bookie. My teacher smiled at me with a slightly furrowed brow while I stood tall with my chin held high. This was my shining moment. This was the moment that I got to brag about my dad to the whole class and they had to listen. I was the only kid in the room whose dad was a bookie, and it made me happy that he was unique. I found myself filled with complete pride.
I had no idea what I had just said, and thankfully, none of the kids did either. I thought a bookie was someone who kept financial records for lawyers and judges. I don’t know why that word stuck in my head as my dad’s profession. I’m sure there had been talk of bookies needing to collect from him or something on that level, but I thought it was all on the up-and-up. Lunch in the teacher’s lounge that day must have been full of giggles and concerns. My mom got a phone call from my teacher after sch
ool. I can only imagine her shock as she listened to how her daughter proudly boasted to her class that her dad was basically taking illegal bets.
Badge of Honor
When I was nine years old my dad bought me a new T-shirt. It was blue and read Daddy’s Little Girl in bright white letters. If my parents would have let me, I would have worn it every day for the rest of my life. It was my favorite shirt. Made of 100 percent cotton, it was the softest and most comfortable piece of clothing I had ever worn. But that’s not why I loved it so much. I idolized my dad. He was handsome, smart, and the funniest person I knew. At nine years old, I thought he could do no wrong, and in my eyes he was the best dad a girl could ask for. I wanted everyone to know that I was his little girl, and somehow that shirt had become a badge of honor. I assumed all the other girls in my class were jealous that their dad hadn’t gifted them with a shirt like mine. I wondered if they secretly wished my dad was theirs. I thought he was a giant, the strongest man alive. And not only was he strong, he was also a kind of smart that reached far beyond my understanding. I knew he hadn’t attended college, but I also knew he had a way about him. Everyone knew he was smart; only a few knew how he used his knowledge.
Growing up I knew other dads weren’t like mine. I knew he was different. If there was a prize for funniest dad, he would have been the recipient. He could make us belly laugh on a daily basis, and all my friends wanted to be around him because of the smiles he brought to their faces. He was that dad. He had a magnetic personality that drew everyone in. He was the dad that would honk and yell at us out the window as he pulled up to school to pick us up. When we would get to the door and reach for the handle, he would inch the car forward and we would ultimately end up chasing the car down the pick-up line. Even though my brother and I tired of it quickly, our friends loved every second of it, and that fueled Dad to keep it up. He was quick-witted and had a comeback or a joke that could be inserted into any and every conversation. You couldn’t help but like him and want to be around him. There was something about him that was undeniably irresistible.
If my dad was the funny bone, my mom was the backbone. She worked her fingers to the bone to support us. After staying home with my brother and me until we enrolled in elementary school, she enrolled herself in college. She put us on the bus each morning and then would go to school and submerge herself in studies until it was time to come home, cook dinner, and tuck us into bed. She was the behind-the-scenes hero, and we never realized it. We thought our dad was the champion. The dean’s list boasted my mom’s name when she graduated from nursing school. She took a job working nights in order to bring home more money. She was, after all, the only working parent and the sole breadwinner for our family. She quietly did whatever she had to do to make sure we were taken care of and always let us think our dad was the hero.
Whatever it was that my dad really did to bring in some form of income or provide things, he was good at it. We randomly had big-ticket items that I knew the average home couldn’t afford. There was a new car in the driveway every few months or so, and more than once the emblem on the car was one that only the very rich could acquire. The day he rolled up to my school in a Rolls Royce I thought nothing of it, until the teachers questioned me about it the next day. They were curious as to what my dad did for a living and when we got that fancy new car. I wasn’t allowed to use the word bookie anymore, so I told everyone he was a lawyer. To me it was just a car, and even though we had a rotating inventory of cars, this one was no different from all the others. I vaguely recall my mom’s nervous demeanor with each new car, but I didn’t understand credit and finances and thought she was tired of constantly having to get used to a different car. My brother and I wouldn’t take full advantage of his car-acquiring skills until we got older and were the ones behind the wheel. We took advantage of it but also learned some hard lessons at the same time.
We moved often and randomly had the most amazing vacation homes. One season of life was spent on a thousand-acre ranch stocked with exotic game for us to hunt at will. We had the choice to either stay at the guest house, which was fancier than most homes I had ever lived in, or at the main house. The main house was like something out of a magazine, and each time someone joined us as a guest they would ooh and ahh over all its amazing features. My favorite part of the main house was the maid’s quarters. Since no one else wanted to stay there, my girlfriends and I always made it our own little house for the weekend. It was like a secret hideaway that was conveniently attached to the kitchen and close to my parents’ room—but just far enough away to keep our secrets. Behind the big fence was a huge area filled with untamed horses, each a different color. I dreamed of living like them, free to run in the sun all day long. They were so majestic and strong. No one maintained them, yet their coats glistened as the sun kissed down on them. Their beauty burned a hole in me. I wanted them to be mine. I wanted them to want me. I pictured myself walking up to the strong wooden fence and having each of them run up to me in excitement. It was as if my childhood fantasy of owning a horse ranch was within my grasp.
On one of our adventures, my cousin and I rode saddled horses and, acting like ranchers, gathered the wild horses and cornered them in a small area of the huge corral. It felt amazing to have control over these wild animals, as if they were ours and their obedience was a learned behavior. In reality, they were terrified of us. After we cornered them with no escape, they broke the fence and ran freely into the wooded acres where my brother and dad were hunting. We knew that there was no chance of getting them back on our own, so we raced our horses back to the barn, unsaddled them, and put them in their stalls. With heavy breathing and pounding hearts, we made our way to the maid’s quarters and vowed to keep the entire event to ourselves. Though we heard my dad outside the house cursing up a storm, there was no way we were going to confess what we had done. The entire event was chalked up to a faulty fence, and as many horses as possible were recovered from the hunting acres and put back in the corral. We learned a hard lesson about trying to tame a wild animal. You can’t force something or someone to be what they aren’t and never will be.
From the Outside Looking In
Growing up it looked and felt like we were a typical family. From the outside looking in, it seemed like we had it all. Even from the inside it looked pretty good. We had times of extreme extravagance that as kids we delighted in.
Summers were spent at the lake. Our vacation home for that season was a three-story lake house with all the bells and whistles. In the boat slot hung a vessel that only a few other people on the lake could afford. The deck of the boat was huge and could hold lots of people, but underneath the deck was the real gem. Once you got past the door that required you to duck your head and squat down, there was a bed and toilet. No one on the lake needed a toilet on their boat. There was a marina within miles no matter where you were, and your home was never that far away. The toilet on the boat was for status. The bed was also completely unnecessary, but that didn’t stop my friends and me from hiding under there and creating our own little world. It was a secret clubhouse, and we didn’t feel like we were missing out on anything. In addition to the overpriced boat, there were a few jet skis. It didn’t matter how old you were, you got to drive them as far as you wanted and for as long as you wanted. We had zero boundaries on the lake. We spent so many hours on the water that several layers of our skin were burned to the point of deep pain.
The lake was my favorite place to be. My cousin was only four houses down from us, and we would travel back and forth between the two all summer long. I grew up at her lake house and knew every nook and cranny of it. Both houses and the yards in between gave us the right to just be kids, yet we wandered with a freedom we shouldn’t have yet been granted.
Becoming Tiny Adults Too Soon
I spent many weekends at my best friend’s house and watched her dad closely. He was quiet and calm. His kids called him sir and he garnered respect without demanding it. He went to work befor
e the sun came up and was home in time for dinner. One weekend a month he would leave town to work as a reserve for the Coast Guard. I always thought that was a secret mission he wasn’t allowed to talk about. He was a decorated and respected man who had retired from the FBI and continued to put in hours at the family’s cab company. Every time I walked through the door he would give me a kind smile and greet me with “Well hello, Miss Snell,” and that was the extent of most of our conversations. The home he generously provided for his family was my safe place. I spent as much time in my best friend’s home as I could and made countless comforting memories inside its safety.
My best friend’s dad wasn’t loud like my dad, and he wasn’t constantly in our business the way my dad was. I knew he was what a normal dad looked like. He showed me that normal dads had a routine and consistency in order to provide for their families. My dad was all about having fun and making us laugh, but I secretly wanted a dad like my best friend’s. I wanted to call my dad sir and watch him leave each morning for work and come home every night for dinner. While most of my friends wanted a fun dad like mine, I was hiding my jealousy over what they had. I wasn’t even old enough to date yet, but I promised myself that I would marry a man like the one at my friend’s house and not like the one at mine.
The Con Man's Daughter Page 2