Sunday, May 4th, 3:05pm
“And how do you feel about that?”
She’s always asking me questions I can’t answer. It’s been 8 weeks and I’m tired of not being able to answer.
“I’ve always wanted to know my father while at the same time being afraid of what that means.
I know what I saw. We both know it. I know it. He knows it. And I’m pretty sure my mother knows it.
Just because we never talked about it doesn’t make it any less true. But it’s been so long and he seems so normal, I almost wonder if I made it up. But why would I make up something like that?”
“Do you doubt yourself?”
“I should’ve written it down. Should’ve told someone… my mother, the police. Then there would be some sort of record and I could be sure.
But my mother would have hated him and the police would have condemned him to be hated by everyone else. And what would I even tell the police? I still don’t really know what I saw.”
“Hmm…”
“Well, he didn’t get arrested but a bullet couldn’t stop my mother. She’s a dog with a bone and she likes digging up dirt before raising her hind legs up and kicking shit all over people. She’s been kicking shit all over my father since before I saw what I saw, which always made me wonder if she saw it first, at a different time, with someone else.
But then, why would she be with a man like that? That’s how I know he can’t be “bad”. Even though she likes to make sure everyone can smell the stench my father carries around, she stands so close to him that she doesn’t exactly smell like a rose bed herself.”
“Do you think there’s something they’re both keeping from you?”
“I know these people. They raised me, helped me with my homework and hired private tutors when they couldn’t. They went to all those terrible school plays, most often sitting rows apart, but they were both there and we always rode home in the same car afterwards.
I don’t know what my mom’s problem is with him, but I know my father.
He kissed my scraped knees and used band aids with super heroes on them to make me feel invincible. He let me dye my hair when other kids made fun of how stringy it was. He was nice to my friends and always let me have sleepovers…”
She puts her notebook down and peers at me across three feet of carpet and a coffee table with a crooked leg.
“Well, asking him is one way to find out for sure.”
What a stupid thing to say as if I hadn’t thought about doing that every day since I was 12. If it was that easy, doesn’t she think I would have done that already?
“Maybe I will ask him. Maybe he’ll tell me everything and that will be that and I can finally feel normal around him again.”
I can tell she doesn’t believe me. That’s why I have to do it. I mean, that’s the whole point of having a therapist anyway, to prove that she doesn’t know me better than I know myself.
And she definitely doesn’t know my father better than I know him.
Sunday, May 11, 3:00pm
“Did you talk to your father?”
“I said I would.”
“And?”
“He cheated on my mother. Makes sense.”
“Is that what he said?”
“Basically.”
“Does it make you feel better to know he’s not who you thought he was?”
“I always knew who he was.”
“Did something else happen when you talked to him?”
“Nope.”
“Are you sure?”
“Why do you keep asking me the same questions over and over? I already told you what he said. I knew he didn’t do it and he just confirmed what I already knew.”
“Then why don’t you seem relieved?”
“Well, he cheated on my mother, so there’s that.”
“But that’s better than the alternative, isn’t it? Unless there’s something you’re not saying?”
“I know my father, OK? He’s not that guy.”
“Then what kind of “guy” is he?”
“He’s my dad. He kissed my scraped knees and used band aids with super heroes on them to make me feel invincible. He let me dye my hair when other kids made fun of how stringy it was. He was nice to my friends and always let me have sleepovers…”
Sunday, May 18, 3:45pm
“How do you feel now?”
“I had a boyfriend who cheated on me in high school; afterwards, I would roll my eyes whenever he talked to me and avoid letting his hands touch mine if he tried to apologize. So, I know what that feels like. I know what that looks like.”
“Okay?”
“The way my mother treats my father is different. It’s deeper. I need a giant sifting shovel whenever they’re together. But when it’s just me and my dad, things are easier, lighter.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“Because a daughter sees her father. But a wife knows her husband. They’re not always the same person.”
The leg on her coffee table is still broken. She hasn’t bothered to fix it after all this time.
“Hold on to that thought. We’ll continue unpacking it next week.”
“I don’t think so.”