Nothing prepares you for the day your dad moves out. I trudge up the sidewalk from my best friend Mallory’s house back home to say “goodbye”. Technically it’s not really goodbye since I’ll see him in a few days. Rather, goodbye to the family we once were. Goodbye to pretending everything’s fine at home. The weather is cool with a breeze, stimulating the hair follicles on my arms even though inside I feel numb. The tension in my shoulders from the chill feels involuntary. Sadness has paralyzed my mind, and I try to imagine my parents no longer together, separated, soon divorced.
I thought I wanted nothing more than my parents together but it turns out that scenario doesn’t involve happiness. My dad is only happy after he’s had a meltdown, caused tearful chaos and hurt someone else which means his presence puts us on edge. One moment, he’s flipping out and the next he’s laughing, racing me to the car from dinner with childlike excitement. His joy is confusing, almost maddening because it follows one of his explosions. I want to enjoy him when he’s at his best but it is the result of him at his worst. How could someone hurt everyone that depends on them, cares for them, then be insultingly blithe to follow? How could I want someone like that in our home? If he were someone who deserved the love beneath our heart wrenching sobs, it’s possible he would strengthen our family. Instead, his disregard is like a slippery grease leaking our loyalty to him at the seams. My mom’s unwavering love cementing all of us four females forever, infrangible.
It’s uncomfortable for me to examine why I’m so upset at my life taking this turn. For years, I’ve burned journal entries scribing my hatred of his dark force cloaking our home’s viable harmony. Knowing I will only have a fraction of the time to be exposed to him in the near future, it’s hard to feel completely safe in my freedom from him. No one would assume anything but contentment in my mind based on my attitude. I am smiling, joking, complimenting, bringing joy to everyone I can partially to know I’m not spreading spite like him. There’s no expectation in my positivity, only that it’s addictive like chocolate. Seeing others smile back, feeling them hug back fills me with the drive to continue spreading jubilation.
Usually if I’m sad, it’s because I haven’t gotten a perfect score on a test or someone is upset with me. My biggest fear is disappointing anyone but especially my family or close friends. Disappointing myself is also easy, but no one knows how high the bar I’ve set in my mind is. I try so hard to be what everyone needs but it can be exhausting, near impossible, to always be successful. I probably shouldn’t try to take responsibility for anyone else’s feelings but how is that fair to expect of me when I’m blamed for my dad’s angry outbursts part of the time? He teaches me that he’s not in charge of his emotions so I take on my own and everyone else's, I suppose.
The sun is high in the sky as it appears I’ve been gone the good part of the morning while things were packed up. Luckily this morning, Mallory and I had a feast of Oreo O’s and precooked bacon while we played Iggy’s Reckin Balls, which is a bit of an homage to classic Mario Kart 64, but with weird looking lizardish creatures to choose from and more of a rollercoaster than a race track. It properly distracted me from what I’m about to go home to and I’m grateful to have Mallory just down the street. She’s been my best friend since I was four, which makes us basically sisters. I already have two, but what’s one more? She’s a bit shyer than I am but not when we’re together. When it’s the two of us, she’s so hilarious and makes me cry laughing.
She’s a bit taller than me and lanky whereas I’m average build and height compared to her. Her long hair is twice as thick as mine and the warm color of honey, not light but not dark. I am in the process of trying to grow mine but it feels like it’s taking forever. My hair is bright blonde and fine, silky straight even if I don’t blow dry it which ticks Mallory off. She has a giant lion’s mane if it’s naturally dried. I would opt for the volume she naturally has, which makes sense since it’s so far removed from my hair glued to my head. She doesn’t really have layers so it poofs out enormously at the bottom where it hits her chest. My skin is a bit more olive and hers has more pink undertones. I always told her she could be a model because she’s so tall and has pounds of hair but she doesn’t see herself like I do.
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I think being taller than everyone else, especially the boys our age right now since most of them haven’t started puberty, makes her a bit insecure. I’m just jealous that she can see over everyone during passing period because I feel like I’m stuck in a school of fish and at the mercy of the crowd. I’m a fast walker so it drives me crazy having to weave in and out of people without seeing who is coming the other direction. Sometimes we borrow each other’s lockers since we are in different areas of the school which is nice when I don’t have time to trek all the way to that hall. I love getting to see her in the middle of the day and pass notes about our day since we don’t have many of the same classes. She’s on a different team than me, which means we have different core teachers. It causes us to be creative with our electives in an attempt at more time together. We have to be diligent to pay attention in choir, because it's easy for us to get lost in our own world and forget we’re at school. So we’ve learned to sing different parts: she’s a soprano and I’m an alto. That way it’s harder for us to snicker between verses and we have more to talk about later. Not that we ever run out of things to talk about.
As I walk a bit closer, the house comes into view. It’s a basic brown two story and the houses surrounding look similarly adequate in size and shape, not pretentious. There’s enough room for all five, now four, of us but not too much room. My sisters, mom and I will fill that house with more joy than it has ever felt but who knows how long it will take to sage the dark energy of my dad away. For now, all I can think about is the void that gapes inside me, spreading like a spill that fills a towel, as I picture not having everyone in my family in our house.
Speaking of Dad, there he is lugging what has become of his sad little life into a truck: a dresser, two boxes, one labeled bathroom and another unmarked, and stacks of garment bags with clothes in them. My dad has an impressive array of business suits from his career as a lawyer. There was some self preservation in my delay coming home, unsure how I would grapple with seeing my dad sadly erasing his habitation from the house. He seems defeated and I can’t help but wonder if he’s sad because he failed in his marriage or if he’s sad because people might think his life isn’t picture perfect anymore. Probably both.
The door comes down hard on the U-Haul and his gaze draws up to meet mine as I walk up the driveway. Grief pools in his eyes.
“Wow I can’t believe you’re leaving,” I say feeling gutted that he’s going, hot tears stinging as I try not to blink them free. I truly can’t believe this is finally happening but I am hoping relief comes soon after so I don’t have to wallow in this.
“I love you so much Honey,” is his response.
I want to believe him and I think if he knew how to love he would or should love me. He probably believes he loves me and I’d like to believe it too. He’s my dad. I’ve only ever wanted him to love me.
“I love you too,” I say. “Do you have everything?” I ask partially wanting him to be ready to go so this doesn’t have to draw out any longer but also trying to hang on to the idea of our family for a moment longer.
“I think so…” He trails off, his mouth turning down as I hug him wishing he were the dad I need him to be. My heart feels so heavy, suffocating. I feel his sadness merging with my own, wrapping us in heavy heartbreak.
“Drive safe, Dad. I’ll see you soon. I’ll miss you.”
It isn’t a lie. It’s hard not to feel safer with someone aggressive like him in the house. If I take a second to analyze, it’s odd I feel safer from intruders but unsafe from him. Maybe the safety I pretend to feel with him is something I’ve fabricated entirely. Fear dressed up as security. I’ve never had the option to have him not in the house. I’ll find out if the safety I feel from his absence outweighs the possibly misplaced fear that someone could kidnap me now that his rage wouldn’t deter them. I snap back to reality, shelving that irrational topic for later. My heart can’t handle more negativity.
My mom comes outside and holds me tight while we watch him drive away. I can’t stop the tears from spilling out of my eyes, the sobs from racking my chest. It’s over. He’s leaving.
“Bye, Jill.” He chokes out the truck window to my mom.
It feels like a punch to the gut in spite of how many times he hurt us. It’s like the dream that I’ll someday wake up and be good enough for my father evaporates as he drives away. If he’s not here, I don’t have to hopelessly overwork myself and smother fires before they ignite. The fuse is gone.
It’s relief and a heartache wrapped into one, but for now the heartache takes center stage. As I stare through the cloud of tears, the sun is a burden, burning my wet eyes. The blurred image of him driving away with all of his possessions represents the broken family we’ve slowly dissolved into. The destruction is invisible to the naked eye (other than the absence of his body in our home), but the transformation happening is palpable in all of us. Now that the tie between mom and dad has been properly severed, our trauma can begin to shed its old skin and heal into tender fresh flesh, vulnerable and ready to grow.