Reminders

I loved my Dad. Even in spite of what went on back then. We were close after my mother left him, but he was a mess and it was hard seeing him like that. He held a job, and he kept some semblance of a household, I think mainly for us kids, but he was just sort of wandering. My Granddad told me years later that my Dad was a man who believed everything in life depended on family, so that he was completely devastated when Mom left and took us with her. We came on weekends, me and my brother, and Dad would always try to do fun things with us, cook us macaroni and hot dogs, take us bowling and ice skating, and do kind of family type stuff with us. But even though I was just a kid, I'd see him sitting there in the arena while I was skating by, and you could see that faraway look in his eyes; the one that said he was just a little this side of empty. It was hard. But he did his best.

I've always accepted that. Even after it happened, and even after all these years, I still love him and think fondly of him. I wish I could have known him better, and I wish I wouldn't have been just a kid back then, because, who knows, I might have been able to help more, and that might have made the difference. I believe he was a good man. That he just lost his way.

I remember one time when I was in about Grade 3. Some years have passed since then, and it's only a child's memory clouded by time, but I think it was the Christmas right after Mom and Dad split up for the final time. I hadn't seen him for a couple of weeks. Mom said he was sick. It was the last couple of weeks before the holidays, and my school Christmas concert was approaching. I had a big solo part in our class skit, and I was nervous, at least as nervous as you can be in Grade 3 when you're not really aware of what's at stake, and excited at the same time. I wanted him to come. But I hadn't seen him for what seemed a very long time.

"You should come. She really wants you there," I heard my mother saying into the telephone one night when I came in from playing. "It shouldn't matter that Tim will be there. You better get used to it. Tim and I will be together for a very long time." A pause. "Well, she's your daughter and you should forget how you feel for once, and consider how she feels."

It was at that moment that my mother noticed me for the first time since I'd come in. She quickly closed the door to the kitchen, and continued in a hushed voice, so that I couldn't hear any more of the conversation.

I knew that Daddy didn't like Tim, who was always around our house these days, and was really kissy and huggy with mom, which was something I didn't understand back then. She told me she still loved Daddy, but in a different way now, and she also loved Tim. I didn't really understand, but I didn't mind Tim because he took me to the store and bought me candy sometimes. He seemed like a nice guy, I guess, even back then. But Daddy surely didn't like him. It was obvious; even to a kid.

When mother got off the phone, she came to help me out of my winter things, my snowsuit and stuff.

"Was that Daddy?" I asked.

"Yes," she answered, before pausing. "And it doesn't look like he's going to be able to come to your concert. He's still not feeling well."

"Did he go to see Doctor Ralph?" I asked.

"It's not that kind of sick," she answered.

I was disappointed, but I was quiet.

The day of the concert came. It was in the evening, and I was dressed in my Sunday best, standing in line with my classmates, waiting in the hallway outside the gym. We were next. I had butterflies in my stomach. I was repeating my lines, just to make sure I hadn't lost them in the bedlam of the classroom earlier, when we'd been waiting our turn and generally misbehaving, much to the chagrin of our teacher.

Then, as I stood there ready to go on to play my big part, I felt a hand on my shoulder.

"Hi, princess," he said, as I turned to face him. He crouched down so he was more at my level, and we could see eye to eye. "I'm sorry I haven't seen you for a while."

"Daddy!" I exclaimed. But then my excitement subsided. "Do you feel better?" I asked.

"I'm alright," he answered. "But the important thing is how are you feeling?" He brushed my hair back away from my face with the back of his hand in a gentle, sweeping motion.

"I guess I'm alright," I answered.

"Well, listen, it's normal if you're a bit nervous," he said. "It's not easy to get up in front of a lot of people. It takes a special kind of person. I'm very proud of you. You know your lines?"

"I think so. I've been practicing at home," I answered.

"I'm sure you have," he said.

There was a brief pause in the exchange.

"Well, I should get in there," he said. "There are no chairs left, but somebody said I could stand at the back." He leaned forward and kissed me on the forehead. "Remember, I'm proud of you. Just do your best. And......I love you, princess." And when he said the last bit, I remember thinking that his voice sounded different,  I thought maybe like he was sad. He stood up quickly, and walked away. He didn't look back.

I didn't really have time to look for him while I was on stage, but I knew he was there, and I was so proud. I always remember being so proud of my Dad. We shared some special time, from when we sat in his big, comfortable maroon easy chair to watch the Leafs on TV (I'm still a Leaf fan today, which is a bit odd for a girl, I guess), to when he sat on the edge of my bed gently stroking my hair and telling me stories, mainly about when he was a kid growing up at Granddad's. I didn't really know back in those days the turmoil he was going through and the pain he was feeling. He hid it well, except for the occasional moment when he got that faraway look in his eyes, or when he got the sadness in his voice. Then, I think I knew there was something wrong, but I was just a kid and I thought a trip to the doctor could make anything better.

He used to take me and my brother bowling quite a bit, even though my brother really couldn't bowl, because he was too small to hold the ball right. That year, for my birthday, he got me to invite a bunch of my friends, and he took us all to the bowling alley for a party. There was Samantha, Anna, Debbie, Alex and a couple of others, and we went for lunch and had pizza, and laughed and giggled until it must have nearly driven him crazy. But he kept quiet, and watched over us, and even laughed at our shenanigans, which was nice because he didn't really laugh, or smile, very often, if I remember right. Even when we'd sit and watch shows like Funniest Videos and Funniest People, he wouldn't laugh. He'd have more of a puzzled look on his face. If I remember right.

Anyway, after we'd had our pizza, and our laughing and giggling, and our bowling, we were getting ready to set off, when Dad excused himself to go to the bathroom.

"I like bowling," Samantha said, as she zipped up her coat. "I'm glad your Dad brought us."

I smiled because I knew I'd scored points with my friends on this afternoon.

"My mom wasn't going to let me come," Debbie said.

"Why not?" I asked.

"She thinks your Dad's a bum," she said straight back, very direct and frank, the way only a kid can.

"He's not!" I said defiantly. "You're just saying that!"

"He's poor, you know," Debbie said in her snottiest tone of voice.

"He's not!" I answered defiantly.

"He drives that old, beat-up car. He lives in a bad part of town. That's what my Dad says," Debbie said, her words attacking me, striking me, ripping into my child's innocence.

But just then, he came back, so the conversation ended. Debbie gave me one of her haughty, I'm-smarter-than-you-are looks, and disappeared out the door of the place. I grabbed him, hugged him tightly.

"I love you, Daddy," I said in my little voice.

"And I love you, princess," he answered, hugging me back, before quickly pulling away with a man's embarrassment at possibly being caught displaying emotion in public.

And I did love him.

I'd never really thought much about where my Dad lived, after he moved out from Mom's, where me and my brother and Tim still lived. I went on weekends and it seemed okay to me. It was up a long flight of stairs, and there didn't seem to be much furniture. I remember he had one plant, because he put a couple of ornaments on it at Christmas and called it his Christmas tree. Me and my brother slept in his room when we were there, and he slept out in the living room on the couch, because he said he liked to watch TV late. The TV was always fuzzy. The picture wasn't too clear.

But to think back on it, he probably was pretty poor. I remember the old car, where everybody had to crawl in through the driver's side door because it was the only one that worked. One time, for a couple of weeks, he didn't even have a car, and he got us to pretend we were pioneers, before there were cars, so we hiked everywhere. It was kind of fun, now that I think back on it. But he was probably pretty poor, despite the fact he worked in the big factory in town.

I was really upset when my Mom and Dad split up. I cried a lot. That's what I remember most about Grade 3. Crying. Usually in bed at the end of the weekend, realizing that I would leave tomorrow and not see him all week. It seemed to bother me more to leave his place, than to leave Mom's. We were close, my Dad and me. That's because he always treated me like his little princess, like I was somehow special. When I'd cry, he'd come to the bedroom, and hold me in his arms and whisper softly that everything would be fine. He'd tell me it would all work out as long as we stuck together and helped each other. It was his job to help me, and it was my job to help my little brother. But there was one thing that he forgot now that I think back on it. That there was no one to help him.

One night, late, soon after my birthday, when I was supposed to be sleeping but wasn't, I got out of bed and crept out to the living room, perhaps thinking I might catch a glimpse of the TV. But it was black and dark in the living room, except for the flickering of a single candle. I could see him sitting in his big, comfortable maroon easy chair, and even in the near-darkness, I could see that he was crying, with a tear glistening in his eye. I stood quietly. Daddies didn't cry. They were big and strong and never got hurt. He sat still, not moving, but still the tears came.

Finally, I could no longer stand on the edge of the room and watch.

"Daddy," I called out softly, "are you alright?"

He turned and saw me standing there, and you could see him gather himself up in the chair, collecting himself, again becoming the one who was big and strong and never got hurt.

"What are you doing out of bed you little munchkin?" he asked, sitting forward in the chair.

"Daddy, why are you crying? I'm scared," I told him in my tiny, unsteady voice.

"Come here, princess," he said, holding out his hand and gesturing for me to come.

I went to him and fell into his arms and let him hug me close.

"Oh, princess," he whispered as he held me.

"Why were you crying, Daddy?" I asked, repeating my question.

"I guess I've got a broken heart, and sometimes it hurts," he said, and his voice had the sadness in it.

"It's hard being in a split family," I said, remembering something he'd once told me.

"Yes it is," he said.

And we sat quietly for a few moments in the candlelight, and it's one of the most vivid memories I have from when I was a child. I could feel his heart beating against me, and his slow steady breathing beside my ear. I didn't want him to ever let go of me. I wanted to stay his little princess always, and I wanted to sit with him always in the big, comfortable maroon easy chair. Finally, though, I fell asleep. And left him alone.

He took us bowling the next day, and we had fun. What I remember most from that day was the laughter, and most of it was his. I didn't think of it at the time, I guess because I was just a kid, but he was probably trying to show me that he was alright; that what had happened the night before was now in the past.

We watched Funniest Videos and Funniest People that night on his fuzzy TV. We both laughed at the part where the little kid turned a garden hose on his parents, completely soaking them.

Then, it was my bedtime.

He kissed me goodnight and tucked me in. I fell asleep, beside my little brother, in my Dad's big bed. I remember feeling all snug and secure and comfortable.

"You have a good day," he said to me the next morning, as he dropped me off at school.

"I will," I answered.

He leaned over to me, kissed me lightly on the cheek. "Love you, princess," he said softly.

"Love you, Daddy," I answered.

But just as he went to get back in the car, I felt I needed to show him one more time, so I turned back to him. He was in the car, but saw that I wanted to say something to him, so rolled down the window.

"I love you, Daddy," I repeated, and I leaned into the car and gave him a quick, little kiss on the cheek.

"You keep smiling," he said, and he brushed the end of my nose lightly with his finger, and offered me a smile.

I smiled back.

And he was gone.

I never saw my father again. He left. Left his beat-up car, and his run-down apartment in the bad part of town. When he didn't show up at work for a couple of days, and didn't answer the phone or the door, the police forced their way into his apartment. He hadn't even taken his clothes. He just left.

And it was kind of like I understood. I didn't cry as the days passed into weeks, and the weeks passed into months, and still there was no word either from him or about him. Finally, I was all grown up.

I heard it said that he killed himself, but I never believed that stuff. I think he just went off to start a new life for himself, and he didn't want any reminders of his old life, on account of his broken heart and how much it hurt him sometimes.

I love him still.

I miss him.

Sometimes, it's hard being in a split family.