Learning to Cry

by Christopher C. Payne

  Some parents might think it best to ease a child back into society after he or she spent a few days in a hospital’s mental ward, but not her mother. There was retribution to be had for past transgressions, and nothing topped taking things on in full stride at the first opportunity. Melissa wished she could just breathe. She lay in her bed, feeling like a stranger in her own house. It wasn’t even her house. It was a rental. She couldn’t remember what it felt like to be in a home.

  She laid there and heard Scott grumble and stir. He agreed with her. Both of her parents were lost in their own little world. They didn’t understand what it was like to be her. They only cared about themselves. Her dad sat with his new girlfriend, her mother dated God only knew how many guys -- at least two -- and neither one of them cared about who she was or the trouble she felt. Scott was the only person who really understood Melissa and her problems.

  The anger built inside her again, and she felt the power of emotional animosity. Sometimes hatred brings strength. Adrenaline pumped through your veins was the energy you needed to feel good about who you were. She felt like her old self again, but this time, she had her only true friend. Scott would guide her through the day.

  She sat on the couch and listened to the policeman’s lecture. He was a bald man, slightly overweight, and extremely unimpressive. Was she supposed to be afraid of this man? The neighbors said they were mortified and felt violated. Her mother apologized. Melissa did, as well, but she wondered what else she was expected to do. It was over. It was done. Even Scott said, “What the hell?!” There was nothing left she could do.

  Her mother yelled at her when everyone left. She said Melissa acted smug. It was as if she didn’t care. They screamed at each other. Melissa told her to fuck off and leave her alone. She was sick of all this shit. It was too much to handle. Her mother and her little sister who yelled at her, too, were all equally stupid. Why was Amelia even in this conversation? Couldn’t she mind her own fucking business?

  Melissa went to her room and slammed her door. She turned on the TV and didn’t talk to anyone for the rest of the evening. As unusual as it was, she fell asleep before 9 p.m. She curled up in a ball and dozed off. She just wanted to be left alone. There were times when being by yourself felt so much more normal. The world seemed more overwhelming than she could handle. She missed her dad. She still hated him, but she missed him. At least she could talk with him. He would give her a break. It wasn’t fair that he kicked her out. She just wanted him in her life again.

  The next morning Melissa woke up early. It was still dark outside. She never woke up before 9 a.m. or 10 a.m. if she didn’t have to. Damn, on most occasions she could sleep until noon or later if they let her. But it was 4:30 a.m., and she couldn’t go back to sleep. She got dressed, crawled out of her window and decided to take a walk. It was raining outside, but she didn’t even care. She just needed to be on her own for a few while.

  She walked a few blocks and found a bench. It must be a bus stop she thought, since it was on a main road. She curled up, lay down and cried. It drizzled, and she knew she would get soaked, but she didn’t care. It felt so good to just be away. Away from her sisters, away from her mother, away from the voices in her head, she just wanted everyone to leave her alone. How could she possibly find a place to be by herself for a few months with nobody around her? She just wanted to leave.

  She woke up as a policeman poked her. She wasn’t completely asleep, but she hadn’t been aware of the outside world either. She hadn’t even seen the policeman approach her. He asked her for her name and how old she was. She told him the truth. He asked her to please get in the back of his car. She did. They drove in silence to the station a few miles away. Melissa didn’t know what was happening, but she did know she was tired. She was so tired of everything.

  When they arrived, he asked her for her phone number so he could call her parents, and Melissa gave him her dad’s number. She couldn’t deal with her mother anymore, and maybe it was time to see what her dad had to say. Maybe he could help her find her way back. She missed him. She hated him and missed him at the same time. She thought how odd it was to hate and love somebody simultaneously. She would be angry at him, but she really did want to see him.

  She wondered what he would say to her. If he would hug her and tell her he was sorry. She just needed somebody to love her. Was there anyone left in the world who loved her.

  Father

  How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll Pop? I am not sure I will ever forget that commercial. The tagline is so relevant to an abundance of lifetime activities. I realize this is odd, but I can’t help but think it is true. How many calls from the police informing you they’ve picked up your daughter does it take before the shock value wears off? Is it three? On your third call, do you chomp down on the hard candy coating and face the reality that this might be your life.

  The phone call came, and I felt my heart sink. I knew Melissa had just gotten out of the hospital the day before. I wanted to be there, but I realized it would only incite her. That was the last thing she needed. I had to do whatever kept her calm and relaxed for as long as possible. She really was a joy to have around the house when things were going well, but she was also such a drain when she was prone to anger and feeling antagonistic.

  I told the officer I would be there in 45 minutes. I lived in Burlingame, so the drive took a while, and I had to get dressed. He said there was no rush. Melissa would sit at the desk, and he knew her situation.

  “I know her situation.”

  If the police know about your daughter, and they know her name, does that mean you’ve failed as a parent? I tried to remember ever being in a police vehicle, and I’m pretty sure it never happened. I think the simple threat of being arrested was still enough to heighten my anxiety. The police now knew my daughter, and it was commonplace for them to pick her up.

  There is very little a father can say or think about when he drives to the police station to pick up his daughter. I hadn’t even asked why she was there. I had just simply responded that I was on my way. I wondered to myself what she had done. It didn’t sound very serious. It must have been something out of the ordinary to be arrested. I shouldn’t say arrested. Since she was still a minor, and this was a small community, the police really just picked her up. It wasn’t like she was incarcerated.

  I arrived, looked around, and there she was. She sat in the corner at one end of an aluminum conference room table that had six metal chairs spread haphazardly around it. I guess it makes sense, but I didn’t even know aluminum conference room tables existed. It had millions of scratches across its surface and looked like it had well served its purpose. With budgets cuts permeating all professions, who can fault a frugal system that prides utility over aesthetics for holding on to such a piece of “furniture.”

  Melissa rose but quickly reversed her motion when the policeman asked to speak with me in private. He told me she wasn’t in any trouble. She had, however, been out after curfew. He found her on a bench, curled up sleeping. My daughter, the homeless girl. He said he wanted to give her the “where is your life heading” speech before we left, but that was about it. The words seemed a little dry and uninspiring even to me.

  I told her to get her bag and follow me. I let her know I called her mother on the way over, and we were headed to her house. She seemed a little shocked. I think she assumed that I would swoop in and rescue her as I had done before. She thought we would head back to my house, have some pizza, watch a movie, and pretend life was ok. Sadly, she was getting too old for this. The police told me about her escapades, and now I felt her mother and I needed to talk with her together as much as possible.

  I wouldn’t allow Melissa to play us against each other. I would do my best from this point forward to present a united front. Melissa got out of the car without her bag, and I unceremoniously told her to open the door and get it. She wouldn’t go to my house under these circumstances. She had to face her mother and
deal with the ramifications of her actions. Even after all that she had been through, she was ever still the rebellious child.

  Cheryl invited me in – it was the first time since these four women in my life had moved to their new home. I ventured upstairs in virgin territory and felt a little uncomfortable. It is odd seeing all of your past belongings in a new home you’ve never before entered. It is almost like saying hello to old friends who long ago passed you by. The memories are there, but so are new ones, fresher, more vital in the realm of today versus yesterday. They were no longer mine, and the only things keeping us together were the cobwebs of our shared past.

  Intermixed with all of these old trinkets were new additions that I’d had no hand in purchasing. The most predominant was a very large flat panel TV, mounted on the wall, within the space of a very tight alcove. It seemed more for show than viewing. Maybe that epitomizes the differences between men and women, or at least my ex-wife versus me. I would have placed the TV in an entirely different spot, but in this house, my opinion no longer counted. I was a guest here, not really even a guest, if I were honest. I was nothing more than a necessity of life that was joined to this woman through our children and nothing more.

  The three of us talked at length for the first time that I could remember. I spent many hours listening to Melissa, and her to me, but the three of us together had never meshed. Melissa was angry during parts, cried during parts, and was confrontational at times. I thought her mother discussed too many trivial things. In Melissa’s context, leaving soda on the table, eating in her bedroom, and picking up her clothes weren’t important points. She wasn’t living the life of a normal teenager, and we had bigger issues to address.

  Melissa would have to compensate Cheryl’s neighbors who, luckily, weren’t pressing charges. I still am not sure Melissa fully understood how much trouble she avoided by this good piece of news. The money owed would be worked out. We all agreed to talk more, and Melissa would make a valiant effort to maintain decorum appropriate for her age. Melissa agreed she would attempt to curb her violent outbursts and do her best to follow rules.

  She said she wanted to come over to my house again, and we all agreed she would start to follow the same schedule as the other girls. Our custody was every other week, and that seemed to work out well for all involved. I say “well for all involved” when in reality that meant well for Cheryl and me. Split custody is never an ideal solution for children. The transition time alone is always the most difficult.

  Just as my ex-wife and I are drastically different, so are the rules that govern our respective homes. I spend far less time and effort in policing the small things and much more effort on the big picture. I also am anally neat and expect the kids to keep their bedrooms out of chaos. This is a far cry from Cheryl’s beliefs.

  Karen reprimanded me for being rude one time when Cheryl stated in an e-mail that Cassandra’s room was such a mess she couldn’t find the floor. There were clothes under the bed, food stashed in drawers. She lost her phone days before in the mounds of stuff piled everywhere. Cheryl asked me how Cassandra was at my house, and I said she was just fine. We had labels on her drawers, and she put her dirty clothes in the laundry and her clean clothes in the appropriately designated drawers. We didn’t talk much after that about living standards.

  Still, I think it would be hard for a child to navigate living conditions as disparate as a small pond in Southern Illinois and the choppy waters of the Atlantic Ocean in hurricane season. They live in extremes. How do they adapt from one week to the next? Yet, as divorced parents, we require them and expect them to tolerate everything to assure our happiness.

  My approach with Melissa remained steadfast. As her parents, we couldn’t stop her from drinking. We couldn’t prevent her experimentation with drugs. If she wanted to have sex, she would find a way. I could only tell her the difference between right and wrong. I explained the ramifications of her actions, and I hoped at some point she would understand that parents can’t protect their children from everything.

  If she broke a law and was thrown in jail, I could be there for her, but I could only do so much. Her fate would be out of my hands. If somebody had been hurt during her week-long party at the neighbor’s house, she might have found herself in serious trouble. Other parents could potentially sue Cheryl and me. There were financial risks and social risks. These decisions would affect the rest of her life if she continued down this self-destructive path. There was only so much we could do to help her. At her age some of these things would be out of our control.

  Cheryl still told Melissa what she could and couldn’t do and expected her to obey. I admired the wishful thinking, but realistically, I knew it was futile. Melissa was on the road of adulthood. She wasn’t ready, but her journey had begun. It is like being a virgin, really. You might lose your virginity years before you are ready, but once it is gone there is no getting it back. It doesn’t mean you can’t have a long, fruitful life. You’re just exposed to things before you’re prepared to handle them.

  You learn to crawl, to walk, to run

  Spending your youth, focusing on fun

  One day you awaken, you’re no longer a child

  Alcohol and drugs, you love anything wild

  You make a mistake, you fall way too fast

  Your luck expires, it never could last

  You find your life, suddenly cut short

  The gavel falls, on your last day in court

  Still drinking, now at Dad’s house

  Melissa

  If you look over the edge of the cliff what do you see? You might never know unless you actually stand with your toes so close you can barely keep your balance. The same could be said for jumping off the very edge over which you peer. Unless you take the plunge, you won’t know what it’s like to free fall to the surface below. Some people tell you how to live your life. But how can they know what your life is if they haven’t lived it themselves? How many people go through life without passion?

  Melissa stayed the next few days with her mother. She committed herself to following the rules, but the rules eluded her. She wanted to be good, but being good was relative to the opinion of the person in charge. It was like grasping the air and never catching anything as your fingers clasped incessantly. The futility of life can sometimes be the very definition of what life is supposed to be. She sat in her room, cross-legged, and looked at the ceiling until her head hurt. Her head always ached. She now accepted this as a natural occurrence.

  If you open your curtains in the middle of the day an invasion of sunlight will infiltrate your room, pushing out the black darkness within. If you flip the light switch, your room will illuminate with a luminescent manmade glow. Up is up, down is down, the natural laws of life are what govern our very existence. That is just the way things are meant to be. It cannot be any other way. Why did Scott continually talk to her when she knew that Scott did not actually exist? It seemed to contradict the very laws which governed our frail existence.

  As Melissa reflected back on her childhood she remembered sitting on one end of a teeter-totter. The fact that such a thing exists confirms the simplicity of youth and how the young can be entertained by the smallest of things. Up and down, up and down, over and over again. She remembered playing on the playground, sitting with another child, so small and so content to do nothing more than bounce continually. No wonder today’s youths fall behind the rest of the world academically. We challenge our children with three hours of playtime and, at most, three to four hours of studies. We will be eclipsed before the century is out as a world power.

  Melissa endured her time with her mother. She went through the motions until she could head back to her father’s house. She pinned her hopes on the potential that he might save her. Scott was stronger and more forceful. She attempted to hold off his suggestions, but she felt weak. She was only a girl in the end. She was now 15 years old, but she was still not an adult. If she admitted this she actually felt better. The alter
natives were more than she could handle.

  Everyone told her to be thankful she was not getting into trouble as an adult. Maybe she should push the envelope as much as possible why she was still a child. Maybe Scott was right. Maybe his suggestions were the correct route to go after all. What did she know? She was only 15. She wondered how old Scott was and started to ask him. She, then, realized how stupid this was and cried. Are you insane if you define your own insanity? If you make the diagnosis, how can the diagnosis be true?

  Finally, it was time to head back over to her dad’s house, and it couldn’t have come too soon. Melissa’s head spun, and she didn’t know how much longer she could hold on to reality. Her father accepted her, but he was condescending at the same time. Melissa was tired of being judged, and her father always lectured her. He could turn a simple question into a lifelong lesson. Did there have to be a lesson learned in asking if she could tune the radio to a different station? Can’t some things in life just be simple?

  Karen lived with her father now. As with all things, there is a double edge. Melissa loved seeing her father happy, but she had grown so accustomed to his unhappiness that it was difficult to make the transition. Their continuous laughter was more annoying than anything. Still, Karen calmed the house, and her presence was welcomed. Jesus, life changed faster than her mind could keep up. Her head felt like it was perpetually spinning in a violent vortex of obscurity.

  Melissa asked her dad and Karen if her friend Doreen could sleep over. Her dad and Karen both liked Doreen. Sometimes Melissa felt they liked Doreen more than they liked her. It wasn’t that Doreen was perfect, but she was very good at playing the parental card. She schmoozed with the best of them, and her dad ate it up like a little bluegill biting the worm on the end of a hook. Maybe parents really were too gullible for words, or maybe they just wanted so badly to believe in their children they would fall for anything.