“The paper,” he replied simply. Then he turned around and leafed through another pile of papers and pulled out a newspaper. He began to read.
“David Johnson, 18, a student of Whitefish High, was instrumental in all students surviving the blaze, reported several students. Shannon Marcus, 17, a student at Kalispell High explained, ‘He found the other exit behind all these boxes and bales of hay and he and a few other people moved them so everyone could get out.’ Johnson, a former student at Kalispell, was attending the event as the guest of a Kalispell student.”
My throat tightened a little at the reminder of Lucy and how crappy that night had ended up, even though we all survived.
My father looked up at me with pride in his eyes, but didn’t hold my gaze long.
“I hadn’t read that,” I said, trying to fill the awkward silence. I also wanted to see the article but didn’t want to take it from him. So I concentrated on keeping my hands tightly around my chest. He put the paper down and looked up at me seriously.
“Do you need something”? His checkbook suddenly appeared in his hands.
“No,” I said, trying to ignore his pleading eyes.
“Do you want anything?” His pen was poised above a check that already had my name written on it. My father may have been an unpredictable, abusive, lonely man, but I couldn’t say that he never provided for me. I couldn’t ever think of a time when I didn’t have something that I needed, something physical anyways.
When it came to a father figure who taught things like manners, how to be social, or how to get along with other human beings, my father had failed so completely it was almost funny. But financially he did very well. He didn’t make a lot of money, but he always made sure I had what I needed, and usually got what I wanted as well. When I got too old for him to know what I wanted he would give me an envelope at the beginning of each pay period. I always knew it was his poor way of showing me that he at least acknowledged my presence.
“I’m okay.” I was trying to feel guilty for secretly enjoying his discomfort. “I was in the area and just wanted to come by, to, you know…” I shrugged my shoulders, unable to finish my sentence. I knew that he knew I was lying; it was complete bull. Why would I ever come by just to chat, as I had been about to say?
“Oh. How is your grandma?” A hundred dollar check appeared in front of me on the table. I didn’t even acknowledge it. Falling back into that pattern wasn’t why I was here.
“She’s good; I wish I had moved there a long time ago.” I felt brave as I said it. My father’s face fell and his hands clenched into tight fists. My blood boiled excitedly. Is this really what I had come for, to fight with him?
“I do too, actually.” The words exploded out of his mouth.
“Then why didn’t I?” I was suddenly incredibly angry. He laughed and loosened his hands and relaxed his shoulders.
“Believe it or not, David, I wanted you around.” I laughed then, cynically.
“Wow, really? Could have fooled me.” My face hardened as I realized I had never spoken so freely to my father before. Something was different in me; something had changed. I was confident, sure of what I was saying. The man across the table looked intently at me like he was trying to figure out who this new person was sitting in front of him.
“You think you’re the only person in the world who’s had it rough?” A mocking tone gave me back as much attitude as I was dishing out. My face hardened into solid granite at his words. Soft eyes were in the place of the cold black ones I was used to seeing. “You look a little too much like me right now, David.”
When others compared me to my father it made me feel violent inside. But when he did it I became numb and paralyzed with fear. My bones hurt; the very fiber of my being ached. I loosened my rigid stance, forcing myself to try and figure out another way to behave.
“How do I look like you?” I asked. Lamely.
“People told me when I was younger that if I didn’t make peace with my father that I would regret it when he died.” My father looked at me with meaningful eyes. “Well, he’s been dead for over a decade and I still hate his guts.” He smiled. I hadn’t ever heard him talk about his father. We didn’t talk about much though, so I had never realized that he had hated my grandfather.
“Probably very much close to how you feel about me, actually.” He sighed deeply and studied a spot on the back of his hand. A liver spot, no doubt, the mark of an old man. “David, don’t be like me. I hated my father, still do, and I turned out like him. Maybe not completely like him, but enough that I hate myself more than I ever hated him.” He lifted his face and his eyes pierced me. “I assure you I hate myself more than you ever will.” The bold statement took me back. Just the fact that I was sitting here having a normal conversation with my father, especially about things that, until now, had been completely unspoken between us, was blowing my mind.
“Why did you hate him?” I was curious. I didn’t want to taunt him; I was truly interested in how his father had treated him to make him hate him so much. To say that I would be glad when my father was gone would be going too far. The pure fact that we never had a relationship would make me mourn him. But my father looked nothing but happy that he didn’t have to deal with his anymore. I expected an easy answer but nothing came. He shook his great shaggy head and lowered his eyes from mine.
“I never wanted kids, you know. But your mother, she wanted them so badly.” That was his answer. I couldn’t believe it.
“So you’ve said.” He ignored my irritation and continued.
“When I was younger I vowed never to have kids. Then I met your mother, this ornery little thing who told me she couldn’t have children. I confess that is one of the things that first attracted me to her.” He smiled like he was remembering something wonderful. “I loved her, but the fact that kids weren’t in the picture made me feel safe.”
“Your point?” My voice was harsh. I wondered if he was dodging my question.
“After a few years of marriage your mom wanted kids. Adoption was our only way and, David, I didn’t have the heart to tell her no. I loved her so much.” He started drumming his fingers on the table that stood between us. “I loved her so much I would have done anything for her, even put my own comfort on the back burner.”
“Wow, I guess I should thank you for being so selfless.” The words jumped out of my mouth. I was definitely channeling Isaiah. He laughed bitterly, getting my sarcastic joke, his chuckles agreeing with me.
“When you love someone, you’ll do anything for them. At least that’s how it was for me and my wife.” A tender memory popped into my head, a girl with long brown hair, big lips and ridiculously long eye lashes. Freckles on top of a wrinkled nose. A face I had a very hard time saying “no” to. I fought the memory into submission, not ready to feel anything but contempt at the moment. “It took a year and one night she comes home with you, in a little pile of blankets, this halo of black fuzz on your head..” He actually wiggled with pleasure. He was enjoying this memory.
After the initial shock, I felt a swelling in my chest, realizing I was hearing an actual baby story about myself. I fought the strange spasm of joy I felt and spoke out of hurt, again.
“Then she died and you got stuck with me.” It didn’t come out right, though. I was, for the first time in our lives, talking to this man as a scared widower, instead of an abusive father. I couldn’t feel that bad, though. He had just confessed, for the hundredth time, that he never wanted me.
“I have no excuses, David, only explanations.” He looked into my eyes for a fleeting moment before looking away again. “I didn’t have time to get used to you before she was gone. Then it wasn’t even about you, it was the memory that you caused.” He leaned in, willing me to understand him. “You made her happy in a way I never could. But more than that, you made her happy in a way I never felt from or towards a parent. You made me jealous. And you made me so scared.”
He got up and walked to the fridge, his k
nees popping like they were out of practice. He opened it the old, heavy door, and stared inside. I could see the twenty-four pack of beer that was waiting to be cracked open. If his finger so much as twitched toward that thing I was out of there. His back stiffened like he could read my mind. He closed the door slowly and walked to the other side of the small kitchen. He was acting like he wanted to keep talking to me, but had no idea how.
“I understand that.” I was grateful that he had shut the refrigerator, I figured I could reward his decision by being a little nicer.
“I never sent you to go live with your grandma because it felt like giving up. I wanted to take care of you. You were the only thing I had left of her. I wanted to make it work for Jane, even though she was gone and I had no idea how to.” He looked like a man who had been haunted by evil memories, from his past and present. What he was saying was true. I had been like a picture he put in his wallet to take around with him and look at every once in a while. I was neglected and wrinkled around the edges, kept close enough to remember but far enough away to not have to think about all the time.
“Why did you hate your father?” I asked again, trying to sound more caring than I had before. He lifted his eyes to mine, his despondent face at war with his mind. I could see it in the way he held his body. He was guarded and straight-backed, but looked like he was aching for his lips to submit to what he wanted to say. He opened and closed his mouth a few times before he answered me.
“My father was an alcoholic.” A laugh burst from him as punctuation of the irony in that statement. “When he was drunk, he would come into my room when everyone else was asleep.” He let those words hang in the air. I felt the coldness creep out of his my father’s body as he spoke. “I was very young. It wasn’t until I was around twelve that he finally left me alone.” There was a moment of silence in the kitchen; the story was over. I knew he wanted me to fill in the blanks for him so he wouldn’t have to speak the words.
“David, I never wanted a child because that is the only memory I hold of a father.” The very word “father” looked like it left a bad taste in his mouth. “Every single morning of your entire life here I would wake up on the couch or on the floor and I would be so afraid that I had somehow done something to you.” Words turned into silent sobs that wracked his shoulders. His hands were shaking and he looked up at me again, begging me to tell him that he never sexually abused me.
I felt sick, and, I know this is going to sound crazy, but I felt defensive for my father. Despite my best intentions, I felt compassion rising in my chest. I didn’t want to fight it in this moment, I wanted to feel something for him. And then a thought rocked me.
“You don’t remember anything do you?” As he shook his head, ashamed, I realized my father had no recollection of ever hurting me. I didn’t know whether to feel relieved or angry about it. The thing that filled my thoughts and haunted me, the reason I could barely communicate with people, the fear that held me back, were all caused by a person who didn’t even remember anything he had done.
“No, I don’t remember anything, David. That may sound like a lame out, but it’s true.” I nodded. It was indeed an easy out to say you didn’t remember ever doing anything to someone. Even if it was true, he remembered popping the first can open. Although his lack of memory changed the game, he was still responsible for his actions.
His eyes pleaded with me to answer him, while looking afraid of my answer at the same time. I was actually impressed with the courage it must have taken him to ask, even as an unspoken question.
“You never did anything like that to me.” I tried to sound indifferent, holding back the pain I felt for him. This feeling was quiet apart from the pain that I felt for myself. There was a lot more pity mixed in. His entire body seemed to collapse in a heap. I kept going, though. I wasn’t done, and I sure wasn’t going to waste this moment.
“You know, you say you were so afraid you had done something to me, yet you chose every night to drink.” I paused, to make sure my words sunk in. “You must not have been that worried about what you did to me.” His eyes grew blank at the flat tone in my voice. It wasn’t the coldness I had seen so many times, just a blank look, like a wall was going up.
“I should have given you to your grandma. I am a selfish man, David. You are so much better than I am.” He looked like he was done with the conversation after that admission, but it wasn’t over yet. I wasn’t done yet.
I relaxed my arms from across my chest. They ached in protest as I straightened them. I lifted my hand and swept my blanket of bangs behind my ears. My face’s right side was completely exposed to him so he could see it clearly. The scar was fully exposed. The man who put it there had the decency to look at my face, to look at what he had done to me. In fact, he looked like he was going to vomit.
He stood up and walked over to me. I stood up quickly, ready to fight him off, but he dropped to his knees in front of me instead of raising his hand in anger.
“Don’t be like me, David.” He actually started weeping at my feet. I stood, unable to move or speak. Nothing came to mind but to stand completely still. “I am a broken fool who is haunted by demons I can never get rid of.” He trembled at my feet. Never in my life would I have expected this. While he kneeled there, completely humbled, I felt something click into place inside of me. This man, whoever he was, was not the great monster I always imagined. He was simply broken. His life and the way he operated had nothing to do with me and everything to do with him. I felt, for the first time, real tenderness for him. I put my hand on the top of his head and waited for him to stop crying.
It took a while.
“I forgive you.” I finally said it. There was no contempt or sarcasm in my words, just true, honest longing to be his son. No matter the past, I wanted to be someone’s son, and he was the closest thing I had ever had. And he was trying. To some extent, he had always been trying. He had just been really, incredibly bad at it for pretty much my entire life.
His head jerked in my direction at my words. His grateful eyes met mine. When he stood up, we were eye level. I would guess that mine were actually a little higher. My father reached his arms out and embraced me in a crushing hug that squeezed the breath out of me. I enjoyed it. I had never been hugged like that before, certainly not by my father. I put my arms around his head and felt a tear escape from my left eye. The tiny trail of water worked its way down my face and ran into the corner of my mouth. It tasted like makeup and salt.
“Thank you.” With his face buried in my shoulder his voice was muffled. He said it a few more times before I patted his back in a “please release me” motion, hoping he would let me go. My back was beginning to ache under the pressure of his enormous body. The patting worked; he went and sat back down across from me again. A smile I had never seen on him before was splayed across his face and I could feel my own joy deep in my chest, rising and falling with my breath. He took a big red handkerchief out of his back pocket and wiped his hairy face with it, ridding himself of any tears. A few deep breaths flowed through him before he spoke again.
“I have something for you.” He reached for his little filing cabinet. “I was planning on giving it to you when you turned eighteen. Sorry I’m a few months late.” He opened the cabinet and went straight to a file, taking the entire thing out and handing it to me.
The little tab on the top said, “David”.
“What is this?” I opened it, seeing a mound of papers, documents, and bank account statements. My birth certificate caught my eye. I pulled it out to look at it closely.
“David Anthony Pfalmer?” I asked. I remembered that my grandmother had told me my birth father’s name was Anthony. But this last name was strange. “Puh-Falmer? That’s a weird last name.” My father was looking sheepish and scared, but he spoke clearly.
“I believe its Falmer; the P is silent.”
“So, my birth name is Pfalmer?” It wasn’t really a question. I knew I was right. What felt strange wasn’t the
sudden exposure to a whole new avenue of my life, but the name. I was going from having a normal, almost to common last name like Johnson, to finding out that my last name might have been Pfalmer, with a silent P. I looked at my birth mother’s name. Her signature on the paper, one of a Lindsey Hurst, was slanted and beautiful, like she was an artist. The thought made me smile. “Lindsey is a beautiful name.” I marveled at the little piece of paper that my birth parents had both touched. Then I put it back, careful not to bend any corners, and took out a checkbook that had never been used. It looked old, like it was from the 1980s.
“What is this?” I asked my father, confused at the names on the checks.
“It’s a savings account that your mother and I started for you after we adopted you.” He gave me an exhausted smile.
“Wow, really?” Excitement rose in me; this part of the file was a complete surprise. He had never mentioned it before, ever. The fact that it probably had more than thirty-seven dollars, which was the amount of my current bank account, was also pretty exciting.
“Thanks. Thank you.” I put everything back in the yellow folder as I tried to think of something else to say. Nothing came to mind so I stopped trying and sighed deeply.
“You have to go, don’t you?” My father sounded disappointed. That was encouraging.
“I should. Grandma will be wanting me to come back soon.” My father’s smile told me that he understood, that he knew what she was like.
“You can come by anytime you want.” Hope filled his voice.
“I will, Dad.” I called him Dad for the first time and it made me feel happier than I ever thought that simple word could.
I had spent my life not calling him anything, really. Maybe jerk or that man, but never just Dad. I never realized how powerful that word was before.
This day had turned out to be one of the best days I had ever had. Not only did I get to see Isaiah slap Evelyn away like an over-excited puppy, but I got to experience a weight being lifted off of me. I could honestly say that I felt no malice towards the big man sitting in front of me. I was actually looking forward to coming to see him again. Dad looked embarrassed as he shook my hand goodbye. I figured it would take a while for him to forgive himself. I predicted that this wasn’t the end of our troubles; I could only assume that he would be drinking tonight. How does someone end a cycle started many years ago? Maybe I could help him with that. Maybe it was something we could do together.
My Stupid Girl Page 30