spent the afternoons with her, between the time I got home from preschool or kindergarten and when my dad got home, and I’d be on pins and needles. Once I was lying on the floor, pretending I was in a spaceship, and she watched me for a few seconds and then said, “We have toys we bought you in the other room—get them out and play with them right now or I’m going to give them to some kid who wants them.”
I couldn’t tell my dad about how she treated me because I knew he’d take her side and not mine. He’d tell me I was making things up, or exaggerating, or that I’d misunderstood, or that what I was saying wasn’t true, because Robin knew how to hide her behaviors when he was home. The behaviors he did see didn’t seem to concern him. I felt, again, that I was alone, and that no one would believe me. How is it possible, I thought, that I could be so scared and miserable, and not one adult could see it?
And suppose I was exaggerating—even if I was over-stating the case—wouldn’t a normal parent want to know the reason why I was exaggerating? Even a little kid who thinks there’s a monster under his bed and is terrified doesn’t want to be scolded and told there’s no such thing as monsters under the bed. He’s a little kid. He wants to be comforted and sympathized with, and he wants his dad, or his mom, to do something about it.
The kid across the room with his father at McDonald’s in Page, Arizona, looked to be about eight, which was about the age I’d reached when the living arrangement changed and I only saw Mark and Robin at Christmas or during holidays. I couldn’t say if it was because my mother finally listened to me when I complained and told my father, or if it was because Robin finally convinced him she didn’t want me there. Probably some combination of the two.
Then the kid at McDonald’s says something, and the father laughs.
I’m fifteen, and my father is driving me back to my mother’s house, shortly before Christmas. Things have gotten better between us. As I’ve gotten older, he has taken more and more of an interest in me. Despite having next to nothing to do with each other, it feels like we’ve discovered we actually have something in common. He has an ordered curious mind, and his interests are, like mine, more scientific or mechanical than aesthetic or cultural. We talk about how a nuclear cloud would work if the Russians ever attacked America with their missiles. He explains to me how deep sea divers get the bends and why they have to breathe helium under pressure. It’s not exactly a heart-to-heart, but I’m impressed by how much he knows. It makes for some novel conversation as we sit in his car for over two hours.
When it’s time for me to go inside, he says, “Gimme a hug.” I’m shocked to hear this, but I give him a hug, and afterward, it’s almost like he’s going to cry. He says, “I’ve been waiting fifteen years for that.”
Then I’m twenty-one, and a Marine. My becoming a Marine has clearly impressed him. On our way back from six months of deployment overseas, we’re told the ship is going to offer a “Tiger Cruise,” from Hawaii to San Diego, where Marines are allowed to invite family members to join them. I invite my father. When we reach Hawaii, he says, “I’m glad you invited me on this trip. This is one of the highlights of my life so far.” Being on a large troop ship appeals to his mechanical way of thinking, and he is constantly asking questions about how the ship works. Our relationship seems stronger, sturdier.
But then I’m twenty-nine, about the same age he was when he walked out on my mother and me. I try to put myself in his shoes and understand how someone could abandon a kid, but I can’t do it. I ask myself, what would I do if I had a kid? I can’t imagine walking away from my own child. The hurt is too deep to let go of, and when I think of what I went through without a father to step in and protect me, or at
I couldn’t tell my dad about how she treated me because I knew he’d take her side and not mine. He’d tell me I was making things up, or exaggerating, or that I’d misunderstood, or that what I was saying wasn’t true, because Robin knew how to hide her behaviors when he was home. The behaviors he did see didn’t seem to concern him. I felt, again, that I was alone, and that no one would believe me. How is it possible, I thought, that I could be so scared and miserable, and not one adult could see it?
And suppose I was exaggerating—even if I was over-stating the case—wouldn’t a normal parent want to know the reason why I was exaggerating? Even a little kid who thinks there’s a monster under his bed and is terrified doesn’t want to be scolded and told there’s no such thing as monsters under the bed. He’s a little kid. He wants to be comforted and sympathized with, and he wants his dad, or his mom, to do something about it.
The kid across the room with his father at McDonald’s in Page, Arizona, looked to be about eight, which was about the age I’d reached when the living arrangement changed and I only saw Mark and Robin at Christmas or during holidays. I couldn’t say if it was because my mother finally listened to me when I complained and told my father, or if it was because Robin finally convinced him she didn’t want me there. Probably some combination of the two.
Then the kid at McDonald’s says something, and the father laughs.
I’m fifteen, and my father is driving me back to my mother’s house, shortly before Christmas. Things have gotten better between us. As I’ve gotten older, he has taken more and more of an interest in me. Despite having next to nothing to do with each other, it feels like we’ve discovered we actually have something in common. He has an ordered curious mind, and his interests are, like mine, more scientific or mechanical than aesthetic or cultural. We talk about how a nuclear cloud would work if the Russians ever attacked America with their missiles. He explains to me how deep sea divers get the bends and why they have to breathe helium under pressure. It’s not exactly a heart-to-heart, but I’m impressed by how much he knows. It makes for some novel conversation as we sit in his car for over two hours.
When it’s time for me to go inside, he says, “Gimme a hug.” I’m shocked to hear this, but I give him a hug, and afterward, it’s almost like he’s going to cry. He says, “I’ve been waiting fifteen years for that.”
Then I’m twenty-one, and a Marine. My becoming a Marine has clearly impressed him. On our way back from six months of deployment overseas, we’re told the ship is going to offer a “Tiger Cruise,” from Hawaii to San Diego, where Marines are allowed to invite family members to join them. I invite my father. When we reach Hawaii, he says, “I’m glad you invited me on this trip. This is one of the highlights of my life so far.” Being on a large troop ship appeals to his mechanical way of thinking, and he is constantly asking questions about how the ship works. Our relationship seems stronger, sturdier.
But then I’m twenty-nine, about the same age he was when he walked out on my mother and me. I try to put myself in his shoes and understand how someone could abandon a kid, but I can’t do it. I ask myself, what would I do if I had a kid? I can’t imagine walking away from my own child. The hurt is too deep to let go of, and when I think of what I went through without a father to step in and protect me, or at
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