flooded with water) have obviously paid off. Everyone’s watching us like we’re the 1971 Russian Olympic pairs champions. Then, just as gracefully, my feet land back on the floor.
That’s when he attacks me with smothering kisses.
“Give your dad some sugar!” He’s shouting. “How’s my little gyurl?”
Honestly? I could use a Dramamine. This is all way too much. I stand there, staring at a crack on the floor, with a stupefied smile on my face.
“Let me get a look at you, gyurl.” My dad steps back and gives me the once-over. He’s got a checklist of things we have to go over about my appearance before we can get started. Sort of like when you get a rental car and you have to initial any dings before you drive off the lot or pay dearly for them when you get back.
“Didn’t I tell you not to stand like that? C’mon now.” He tilts my hyperextended knees from their weird double-jointed position back to straight. This is always the very first thing he says to me, so it’s not quite as harsh as it sounds. Besides, I agree with him. It looks really dumb when I stand like that. (I’ve never thought to tell him this, but he’d be proud to know I never stand like that in my adulthood. Parents try, you know. And sometimes it works.)
There’s a first prize for my dress and an honorable mention for my anklets-and-patent-leather-shoes combination. Then we take ourseats, June on the visitor’s side and Daddy on the prisoner’s side. The visit has officially begun.
And we’re in time for the Kentucky Fried Chicken. Man alive! Things are gonna be okay after all.
The visit passes in a blur of playing cards, vending machines, cigarette smoke (other people’s, not ours), paint-with-water books, Barbies, and whatever else I brought in there to play with. There’s the occasional frown from the guard when I get too loud or too rambunctious. I can’t help it if it gets dull when June and Freddie are talking about grown-up things like attorneys, and sentences, and parole, and my dad’s case. They also talk about other McMillans, Linda, me, my schoolwork, my social workers, and the Hennepin County Welfare Department.
And before you know it, it’s over. Usually, not a moment too soon. Visiting is exciting, but in the most boring possible way. I get a wavy feeling in my stomach when it’s time to say good-bye. It’s a little harder and more forceful than the sick feeling I get on my way in. I guess because I know I’m not going to see my dad again for another six months.
At the end of visiting hours, the inmates are allowed to make physical contact with their visitors. Since most of the visitors are women in love with inmates, the closing minutes can be quite an eye popper. I think I even saw a boner or two. Or at the very least, felt a lot of boner-type energy.
I, for one, am okay with that.
Because all that intensity gives me something to pay attention to besides this terrible feeling, already traveling up my arms and through my ears and into the back of my eyes:
I miss my dad.
IT’S BEEN THREE MONTHS and I haven’t looked at that dating website again, but I haven’t forgotten about it, either. I’ve beentoo busy working my way through the tail end of this stupid breakup with Bryan, which is turning out to be a much bigger deal than I would have thought.
There’s a saying: “If I’m hysterical, it’s historical.” Any time my reaction to a thing is wayyyy bigger than the thing itself, chances are I am dealing with a core issue, something deeper perhaps than losing the best guitar player I’ve ever collaborated with.
Lately, it’s all I can do to go to my part-time TV news job, make my son’s peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches, drive him to kindergarten, and cry my eyes out until it’s time to pick him up again.
I’ve cried so hard and for so long I know it can’t possibly be about Bryan, since he was actually a little bit of a dweeb who may have been smart and handsome and talented
That’s when he attacks me with smothering kisses.
“Give your dad some sugar!” He’s shouting. “How’s my little gyurl?”
Honestly? I could use a Dramamine. This is all way too much. I stand there, staring at a crack on the floor, with a stupefied smile on my face.
“Let me get a look at you, gyurl.” My dad steps back and gives me the once-over. He’s got a checklist of things we have to go over about my appearance before we can get started. Sort of like when you get a rental car and you have to initial any dings before you drive off the lot or pay dearly for them when you get back.
“Didn’t I tell you not to stand like that? C’mon now.” He tilts my hyperextended knees from their weird double-jointed position back to straight. This is always the very first thing he says to me, so it’s not quite as harsh as it sounds. Besides, I agree with him. It looks really dumb when I stand like that. (I’ve never thought to tell him this, but he’d be proud to know I never stand like that in my adulthood. Parents try, you know. And sometimes it works.)
There’s a first prize for my dress and an honorable mention for my anklets-and-patent-leather-shoes combination. Then we take ourseats, June on the visitor’s side and Daddy on the prisoner’s side. The visit has officially begun.
And we’re in time for the Kentucky Fried Chicken. Man alive! Things are gonna be okay after all.
The visit passes in a blur of playing cards, vending machines, cigarette smoke (other people’s, not ours), paint-with-water books, Barbies, and whatever else I brought in there to play with. There’s the occasional frown from the guard when I get too loud or too rambunctious. I can’t help it if it gets dull when June and Freddie are talking about grown-up things like attorneys, and sentences, and parole, and my dad’s case. They also talk about other McMillans, Linda, me, my schoolwork, my social workers, and the Hennepin County Welfare Department.
And before you know it, it’s over. Usually, not a moment too soon. Visiting is exciting, but in the most boring possible way. I get a wavy feeling in my stomach when it’s time to say good-bye. It’s a little harder and more forceful than the sick feeling I get on my way in. I guess because I know I’m not going to see my dad again for another six months.
At the end of visiting hours, the inmates are allowed to make physical contact with their visitors. Since most of the visitors are women in love with inmates, the closing minutes can be quite an eye popper. I think I even saw a boner or two. Or at the very least, felt a lot of boner-type energy.
I, for one, am okay with that.
Because all that intensity gives me something to pay attention to besides this terrible feeling, already traveling up my arms and through my ears and into the back of my eyes:
I miss my dad.
IT’S BEEN THREE MONTHS and I haven’t looked at that dating website again, but I haven’t forgotten about it, either. I’ve beentoo busy working my way through the tail end of this stupid breakup with Bryan, which is turning out to be a much bigger deal than I would have thought.
There’s a saying: “If I’m hysterical, it’s historical.” Any time my reaction to a thing is wayyyy bigger than the thing itself, chances are I am dealing with a core issue, something deeper perhaps than losing the best guitar player I’ve ever collaborated with.
Lately, it’s all I can do to go to my part-time TV news job, make my son’s peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches, drive him to kindergarten, and cry my eyes out until it’s time to pick him up again.
I’ve cried so hard and for so long I know it can’t possibly be about Bryan, since he was actually a little bit of a dweeb who may have been smart and handsome and talented
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