I remember countless small accidents as a child.
Mailboxes knocked over. Lawns ruined. Animals hit.
I remember countless screaming rages from my father as he tried to get the car into gear and drive away, loudly cursing the idiots who had so carelessly placed their mailboxes, their lawns, their animals. I remember ducking low and silent in the back of the car, trying to be invisible. Trying not to become a target.
I remember my mother speaking soothingly from the front passenger seat, trying to coach him through the remainder of the trip without sounding as though she doubted his ability to accomplish this task without assistance.
I remember getting stuck in sand. And in ditches. And in mud.
I remember once, driving alone with my father. He had been drinking, and he was all cheerful. We bounced along in our van, me in the front seat. A big girl.
As much as I remember bad things about my father? I also remember how amazing a feeling it was to suddenly, and unexpectedly, gain his approval. To have his full attention, to hear him talk about how anything was possible. For me. Because I was special.
The two of us . . . we understood one another. We were different. Unique.
It was a hard road, he told me . . . being so much better, so much smarter, than everyone else. People would hate me for being better. I had to be careful. I had to keep my guard up.
I was to succeed where he had failed. He had let the motherfuckers get to him, but he would make sure that didn’t happen to me. He would show me the way.
Those moments? In which my dad believed in me? Oh my god, sometimes those moments made all the rest of it seem worthwhile.
I always fucking forgot how fleeting that love was. Always.
We are driving home, the two of us, in the early evening hours. I am basking in the glow of his approval, imagining a future bright with my accomplishments. Our accomplishments.
I see the problem ahead before my father does, but I am unable to articulate my thoughts. I glance at my father, and he is smiling as we plow through the middle of a roadway work area blocked off with orange cones. We drive right between the workers, their incredulous faces looming large in our windows as we drive. We hit and then run over one of the large orange cones and drag it away with us. I try to keep my voice calm as I mention this fact to my father.
“Dad, I think we drove over one of their cones. It’s under the van. They want us to stop. Don’t you hear that weird noise?”
That last sentence is not quite out of my mouth when he swings wide to hit me with his right hand, telling me to shut the fuck up.
Screaming into my face that he has not hit a goddamn thing as I beg him to turn and watch the road instead.
And we drive on, swerving through the next intersection, the angry protesting workmen’s faces fading in our rear-view mirrors. The rubber cone drags beneath us and begins to melt against some hot portion of the van’s underside. The stench of melted rubber fills the air, but I say nothing. My face and neck hurt.
My feelings hurt.
The road before us swims in liquid.
We drive.
And then, eventually, we pull to the side of the road. It is dark.
The emergency flashers on our van don’t work, so my dad stands guard as I crawl beneath the van and try to extricate the cone. It has partially melted against the muffler. The van is still running because sometimes it is tricky to get started again.
It is hot and loud beneath the van, and the combined smell of burned rubber and exhaust is overwhelming. I can see my dad’s shoes as he waits impatiently. I see a cigarette butt thrown and ground beneath his heel.
I do the best I can. The rubber cone has ripped and shredded, and only one large piece remains, lodged against the muffler. I pull it free and crawl out.
I stand, and my father puts an arm around my shoulders, “What the fuck was that about, right?”
And then we laugh. My face and neck still hurting, my mouth filled with the taste of burning traffic cone, we laugh.
Laugh until the road swims before us.
And then we drive.
We are quite a team, my father and I.
I remember countless small accidents.
And I remember other things, done on purpose.
And I remember the smell.
Of burning rubber.
On another note? But not really?
John Callahan has died.
I didn’t know him, but I felt connected to him.
Art is like that. Good writing is like that.
I hope he is laughing.
Until the road he walks? Swims in liquid.
That was truly a sad story. Did he ever apologize?
I do not even know how to answer that.
There was so much for which he never apologized.
And also . . . are you kidding me?
…Kris. There are no words. Other than you are amazingly strong.
John Callahan was an alcoholic. He was also a quadriplegic. He suffered spinal cord injuries in a drunk driving accident when he was 21 years old.
He was caustic and brilliant and stunning.
And broken.
So many connections.
How much of who you are do you think you got from your dad…your childhood?
I read this and I feel sorry for what you went through, but I can also see how it could either (a). Fuck someone completely up, or (b). Make them an incredibly strong person. From what I can tell, you are (b).
And then when someone ends up with result (b), is it possible to regret the childhood, or is one more thankful because it made them who they are?
My childhood made me what I am today.
And I am very pleased with who I am.
But the road to get here?
Was often blurred with tears.
You are such an amazing writer! I am in awe of your ability to make your readers taste the burning rubber of a traffic cone. Feel the thick heat of the running van. Sting of a slap. Feel such heartache of hurt feelings with you and the gleeful happiness of father’s approval.
Constant awe!
You are amazing!
Awwww . . .
Thanks, you.
Some of us don’t find out our families are all fucked up until we are adults.
It is my guess that it is way worse to know it all along. Even though it hurts like hell to find out it was all just a mirage.
You are a hero for not letting it wreck your kids lives, too many use the excuse that “they didn’t know better”.
love you lots from afar
I knew from a very early age that my family? Was all fucked up.
But the desire to see a different reality? Is very strong.
Especially in the heart of a little girl who wants to believe more than anything in the world? That she is special.
Sigh.
my childhood memories are *just* like that. only with my mom.
*hugs*
It is lovely to be really seen.
Thank you.
Heavy sighs.
Kris, you are an amazing woman.
I would think that those small moments of happiness with him couldn’t possibly make the horror any more tolerable, but at least they were there. Although, the moments being stomped on might make it hard to appreciate them for “happy.” I can’t be sure that-even though you had those points of light shining through the darkness- the points of light didn’t turn into daggers ripping new holes.
I love you. So much.
It would have been easier to hate all of the time.
Hate punctuated by love and pain and fear and desire?
Many daggered holes.
If our parents only knew how much we adored them as tiny kids…if they could have only felt the intensity of our desire to connect…they wouldn’t have been able to treat us that way.
I want to believe that.
I do not believe that.
As lovely as it would be to be able to believe that.
My father was cruel.
But only sometimes carelessly.
Your portrayal of these incidents and memories is incredible. You are a great writer (and mother!).
Thank you.
I am glad to have connected for a fleeting moment.
Just finished the “Dragon Tattoo” books and can’t help thinking of Salander. My heart continues to bleed for you and your childhood. I am so glad that you have your family now and can be away from your Dad. Whew. Hugs and more hugs. molly
I finished the last of the Stieg Larsson books with a heavy heart.
I don’t know if there are sadder words than these . . . Published posthumously.
Sigh.
Ugh. I don’t like the combination of love and hate like that. It makes things so hard…but, it does make you strong. And strong is good, ultimately. But wow.
Reading this, I just keep hearing my son’s voice in my head “Mommy, some people are good and some people are bad.” Some people are nice, and some people are mean. *sigh*
It is a paradox. Without the love? The pain would not have been as great.
And without the pain?
I would not be who I am today.
There are times when you speak of your father and it sends shivers of memory up my spine. My step-father was incredibly abusive–not physically, but mentally, though I’m not sure which is worse.
The hardest part for me wasn’t when he would call me fat, or stupid, or any of the other horrible things that he called me, but rather when he didn’t. There were times when he was calm and tender. He would brush my hair and tell me that he was proud of me. Those were the times when I held my breath…when the pain of anticipation, of knowing that it would all fall apart, was all-consuming. When he said kind things to me? I told myself that he couldn’t possibly mean them, as I had far too many memories of being told just the opposite.
Constant cruelty would have been easier to bear, I think.
There are times when reading your words is a kind of therapy for me and I am so grateful for you. You captured my 8-year-old self when you wrote, “My feelings hurt.” Not, my feelings WERE hurt. There’s a huge difference.
Yes, the vigilance is exhausting.
Because as much as you want those tender moments? You know they come at a price.
And that they are fleeting.
And you think if you could only read the signs better, you would be able to withdraw first.
But you are instead always willing to suspend disbelief, always willing to throw yourself into the moment even though you know better. You don’t forget to read the signs of danger, but every time? You somehow manage to ignore them.
And then the moment is gone, and you are left with arms outstretched to embrace only shame and rejection.
Sigh.
Much love to you.
Also? At the time of this story?
I was seven.
I remember wanting to understand so badly what could make him be tender one moment and vile the next.
Things were black and white for me then and I believed that all was centered around me–what did I do, what did I say, etc.
It honestly never occured to me that I wasn’t the problem…that the demons were within him.
There? We differ.
Because as far back as I can remember? As much as I wanted to do and say the right thing and make him happy?
As much as I wanted to take control of the situation?
I always knew that something was wrong. And that the demons were in him.
As far back as I can remember, I knew that.
And you know what? That is so much healthier. To this day, my default is to try to make peace and to take responsibility for things that are not mine to own. Sigh.
It’s a good thing that I’m still a work in progress. ;)
As are we all.
And yes . . . sighs, indeed.
thank you for sharing, i remember very few good times with dad. maybe they are just over shadowed
ALL of my good memories of Dad are tinged with sadness and grief.
All of them.
He didn’t seem to be able to let a good thing just be. Ever.
I cannot fathom a parent behaving in such a way. My eyes didn’t want to read it. My heart refused to accept it.
That I felt compelled to, nonetheless, finish it is a testament to your storytelling.
Brava. On so many levels.
Thank you for finishing the story.
I’m glad you stayed until the end.
I can’t say anything because other people have already said it much better. Love you.
Thanks.
And love right back at you.