living in a land of fantasy
I've only seen my dad two or three times since we came back from the coast. his first plan was to immediately move in here, a possibility that kept me up at nights, but after the truly draconian ordeals my mom and I had to go through with his family while he was sick, my mom clearly told him he first had to come clean with them before even considering such an arrangement. he had to tell them all about us and make his peace with them.
his daughters do know, they found out while he was in the hospital, but get this... to this day, they haven't talked about it. his eldest daughter picked him up in the airport, but she hid under the escalator so she wouldn't have to look at my mother. how do you manage to drive your father, who you have recently learned has a whole second family complete with kids, diapers, noodle salad, and a couple of cats, from the airport to the place where you live WITHOUT bringing it up? sad as it is, I can picture that perfectly. I can remember all those long rides we used to have, when I visited my parents' and he'd give me a ride back to my apartment. we made these rides in silence, mostly because there wasn't much to say, it seemed. neither of us wanted to argue, and the neutral subjects between us are very few. so I can very well see them, my father and this half-sister of mine I have never met, just driving silently home and saying only 'Good night', or perhaps only nodding heads on their way in.
I know I am a communication retard, too, but this seems too much. these people are supposed to be fucking grownups. this is important and it's bloody well worth talking about, right?
but it's the same with me, when my dad comes to visit my parents talk about same old, same old at dinner, and I just muse on how deliciously bizarre it would be if I just said, 'hey pa, tell us about your family. do you have grandchildren? what are your daughters like? are we anything alike?' and I just look down at my plate and smile ruefully, because never in a million years would I dare to ask those questions. I would never outlive my mother's distress.
I hate secrets. I hate things you can't talk about. I hate it that they're just there, like big rocks that obscure the view and that you can't get around, and you keep bumping into them, but you can't talk about them, either. or do something about them. I can't help but wanting to shake my dad, and tell him to buckle up and just do it, if he's going to do it at all, or just admit that he won't and then he could leave us alone.
he tells my mother he wants to wait, because his anniversary with his wife is coming up and he doesn't want to spoil it. what the fuck, seriously. hey papa bear, grab the news: it's not gonna come out nice, no matter how pretty you say it or how well you time it. there is no right way to tell your wife of 50 years that you've had a woman and family on the other side of town for 30 years. you're gonna come out as a bastard: deal with it, it's about fuckin time.
knowing that all this is not really my business or something I have any say in, doesn't make it any less bothersome. my mother wants me to be affectionate to my father, she writes emails for me, she'll sometimes dictate, tell him you miss him, she whispers when I'm on the phone with him. and she's a persistant lady. I try to go along, but I have my limits; being a hypocrit is not part of my nature, and I'm not happy at all with my dad right now. I'm having trouble trying to reconcile my memory of this towering giant, who made me freeze with fright with his voice of Thor and his quick slapping hand, who ruled my every action with an iron fist when I was little, with this new, fragile old man who is seemingly scared of his wife and family. he says they're mean to him, his daughters --who Know--, that no one talks to him in his house, that he's bored. he calls twenty times a day to talk to my mom and becomes increasingly annoyed with me if she's not home.
he talks a lot about moving to the coast with her. my mother and I exchange wary looks. I know she hates the idea, because she was so scared last time and she felt so helpless and far from home, and also she doesn't want to leave my grandma, not now with her broken hip and whatnot. but also, she doesn't want to disappoint him, so she talks like the idea excites her too.
secrets, pixie-fantasy, mean daughters, daydreams. I don't know who's fooling who, honestly. maybe my dad does believe it, but... just how naive can you be? you can't run away. there is no getting away.
or there is, because he's just letting it be. but that's so... not right. however, I keep telling myself, that's the only reason why things have been these twisted and bizarre all these years: only because he wanted it to be.
file this under: why I wish I could be far, far away from here, if only because I wouldn't have to think about this.
his daughters do know, they found out while he was in the hospital, but get this... to this day, they haven't talked about it. his eldest daughter picked him up in the airport, but she hid under the escalator so she wouldn't have to look at my mother. how do you manage to drive your father, who you have recently learned has a whole second family complete with kids, diapers, noodle salad, and a couple of cats, from the airport to the place where you live WITHOUT bringing it up? sad as it is, I can picture that perfectly. I can remember all those long rides we used to have, when I visited my parents' and he'd give me a ride back to my apartment. we made these rides in silence, mostly because there wasn't much to say, it seemed. neither of us wanted to argue, and the neutral subjects between us are very few. so I can very well see them, my father and this half-sister of mine I have never met, just driving silently home and saying only 'Good night', or perhaps only nodding heads on their way in.
I know I am a communication retard, too, but this seems too much. these people are supposed to be fucking grownups. this is important and it's bloody well worth talking about, right?
but it's the same with me, when my dad comes to visit my parents talk about same old, same old at dinner, and I just muse on how deliciously bizarre it would be if I just said, 'hey pa, tell us about your family. do you have grandchildren? what are your daughters like? are we anything alike?' and I just look down at my plate and smile ruefully, because never in a million years would I dare to ask those questions. I would never outlive my mother's distress.
I hate secrets. I hate things you can't talk about. I hate it that they're just there, like big rocks that obscure the view and that you can't get around, and you keep bumping into them, but you can't talk about them, either. or do something about them. I can't help but wanting to shake my dad, and tell him to buckle up and just do it, if he's going to do it at all, or just admit that he won't and then he could leave us alone.
he tells my mother he wants to wait, because his anniversary with his wife is coming up and he doesn't want to spoil it. what the fuck, seriously. hey papa bear, grab the news: it's not gonna come out nice, no matter how pretty you say it or how well you time it. there is no right way to tell your wife of 50 years that you've had a woman and family on the other side of town for 30 years. you're gonna come out as a bastard: deal with it, it's about fuckin time.
knowing that all this is not really my business or something I have any say in, doesn't make it any less bothersome. my mother wants me to be affectionate to my father, she writes emails for me, she'll sometimes dictate, tell him you miss him, she whispers when I'm on the phone with him. and she's a persistant lady. I try to go along, but I have my limits; being a hypocrit is not part of my nature, and I'm not happy at all with my dad right now. I'm having trouble trying to reconcile my memory of this towering giant, who made me freeze with fright with his voice of Thor and his quick slapping hand, who ruled my every action with an iron fist when I was little, with this new, fragile old man who is seemingly scared of his wife and family. he says they're mean to him, his daughters --who Know--, that no one talks to him in his house, that he's bored. he calls twenty times a day to talk to my mom and becomes increasingly annoyed with me if she's not home.
he talks a lot about moving to the coast with her. my mother and I exchange wary looks. I know she hates the idea, because she was so scared last time and she felt so helpless and far from home, and also she doesn't want to leave my grandma, not now with her broken hip and whatnot. but also, she doesn't want to disappoint him, so she talks like the idea excites her too.
secrets, pixie-fantasy, mean daughters, daydreams. I don't know who's fooling who, honestly. maybe my dad does believe it, but... just how naive can you be? you can't run away. there is no getting away.
or there is, because he's just letting it be. but that's so... not right. however, I keep telling myself, that's the only reason why things have been these twisted and bizarre all these years: only because he wanted it to be.
file this under: why I wish I could be far, far away from here, if only because I wouldn't have to think about this.
posted by gaby san at
8/03/2005 09:06:00 PM
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