Driving into the gravelly lot, I had pretended to be asleep, which wasnt entirely a lie. My
back had grown accustomed to the hump in the middle of the back seat, and my legs had
officially locked into the fetal position, as if they were remembering a time I couldnt. Hours and hours of staring into the deep navy sky, like a bolt of silk that stretched across the western coast.
I had wanted them to carry me in, but I knew that was too much to hope for. They had already gone inside, exhausted from driving nearly nonstop for the past week. And of course, I wasnt 6 anymore. Though short, in the grand scheme of things, 10 years of a humans lifespan
can be the difference between innocence, and a paradise lost.
As stillness and silence stretched, I took in the knowledge that I was home.
It had been a few weeks since I had made it to __________. A native _____, I marvelled
at the abundance of coffee grounds that you had to make, and the presence of heat, despite my hope that I had finally left its clutches. Sadly, the north had smouldering summers too.
It had already been close to a month ago when my father and new step-mom signed the papers in a parking lot in ___ _______. The blue pen scrawled over solid lines, the air thick with
anticipation, and the catharsis of finding myself in my fathers arms for the second time since
talking to him again, and the first time since knowing I would be able to go home with him.
Home, Id say to myself. The air mattress on the living room floor was home. The pictures of my
father, step-mother, and little brother on the wall were home. I was allowed to eat anything I saw in the kitchen, and drink tea anytime I wanted, which was something I was glad to be thankful for.
But in truth, the conversations Id had with my father since regaining contact hadnt been
entirely reassuring. They were always in the presence of my case workers, or through phone calls with 10 other kids in the background screaming and fighting over movies or video games.
There was just only so much I could say then. In my whole life, I have only known my father to be truly fond of two things. Driving cars, and driving them fast. And with the pandemic in full swing, there was nothing more enticing than the empty freeways, and his bright sports car that sat pristine in the driveway.
Our routine would be every weekend. When my dad was off of work, and my step mom away visiting her mother, hed walk up to my bed and say, You wanna go for a drive? And without fail, I had my boots on before his feet left the doormat.
This day was one of those days where we had been out since noon, cruising the empty
freeways at the speed of light, techno music blaring so loud my feet were often numb when we
got home.
Sometimes wed laugh about whatever fight had caused my step mom to leave for her
mothers this time, or Id listen to my dad talk about work, mentioning concepts and phrases with words I only knew the meaning of separately. But most of the time we were in our own thoughts, kindred in that we both were more content in our own head spaces than in the real world.
Eventually the stretch of the highway met its end, and night had long since fallen, so we headed home, stopping by our favorite Mexican place that was always open, and knew the difference between carne and ground beef.
When he stopped by the gas station, I knew it was going to be one of those sort of nights where he talked about the past, and Id answer his open-ended
questions about myself, his way of seeing how alike we really were.
We had probably been sitting on the living room couch for nearly an hour, if not more; I can never remember, for in those early days of quarantine, time passed differently than it does
now.
We ate our burritos, and drank our Mexican Cokes, sated and full of sugar and cholesterol. I
stared at the glass sugar skulls in their shelves underneath the tv.
He looked at me, then took a sip.
Have you ever felt angry because you couldnt control something?
Yes.
And so it began.
When was that?
When I got assaulted.
The very reason I was here. The reason my now guardians were given emergency custody of me.
What did you feel?
I thought about it. What did I feel? Anger. At who? Anger for being assaulted for
something so trivial as a simple romance that wouldnt last beyond high school? Angry because someone had punched me in the face? No. Anger towards myself. I was angry, because I was weak. I was angry, because even trying with the entirety of my strength boosted with adrenaline, I still couldnt break free. I was always under someones thumb.
Angry.
The skulls had once held various spirits. But now they were only souvenirs. Some I recognized from years before when I had lived with him. Some were new.
Why?
Because I was weak.
There were also plague masks. I remembered my father always having a fascination with the Black Plague. A rather grim blot of history that was often easily recognized by even those who didnt know much about it. Like how teenage girls easily recognized the Salem Witch Trials or like teenage boys and WWII.
Doesnt that make you angry? Doesnt that make you want to fight? To get yourself out of that
situation so it never happens again?
He was looking at me again. I thought about this. This was the separation between us. Anger made him strong. Anger had brought him out of poverty, and ruin.
Anger made me cower even further, and turn inside of
myself.
Thats kind of how I felt when I left _____.
I stopped, and turned towards him. For a second, I searched his dark eyes, then he turned
to open another drink. After a minute, he continued.
I was so fucking angry that you left, and that the court fucked me over again. So I threw
everything away, and I started over.
His eyes glistened for a moment before returning to normal.
I remembered the little house we had. Id always wondered what happened.
Several times I had tried to walk to ______ from _______, getting no farther than 13 miles, and weary dehydration.
I looked it up on Google Earth once. There was a street view picture with his car still in the driveway.
Was he still there, I wondered. Or was this all I would have left of him until Google updated their pictures, and then that would fade too.
So many ghosts.
I had a girlfriend up here at first, but that didnt work out. I told you how I travelled for a couple years for work. But I eventually decided to stay here for a bit. There's only so much moving you can do before you need to settle down.
I thought of how it mustve been for him. I had come here already knowing what was in store through the various phone calls wed had after he got off work.
He had his girlfriend at the time, but I knew how easy it was to slip when you only have one person to hold onto; additionally, I knew what it was like for them to let go too, and fall, sprawling into the unknown.
He had done it to me.
The calls were forced at first, arguments coached and instigated by my mom. She had
successfully persuaded me to live with her again, and she was sure to rub the salt in his wound.
Regurgitating my mothers words to my father had already become a second language by then.
He doesnt know how to love. she said.
And I believed her. I believed her when he called, and when I talked to my mothers family friend lawyer on the phone about how I had changed my mind and wanted to live with my mother now.
And when the calls stopped, and turned into
voicemails, I believed her then too.
As much as I hated to admit it, I wanted his love just as much as my mothers. How could
I not?
I remembered the smell of his cologne. Ferry rides, being held in big arms, and prickly kisses on my cheek.
I remembered his nickname for me, punkins, which Id always thought was a stupid word on its own, but from him, it meant everything. It meant being the world to someone, just like Daddy meant finding the world in someone else.
And just like that, he was gone. By the time I realized I shouldnt have left, it was too late. He stopped caring about me, and that had hurt. More than the wounds from my mother, who
was still fighting for me.
How could he just stop? Did he not want me anymore?
A lump formed in my throat.
Sometimes.... I used to think that you just stopped caring. You just left, and didnt want me anymore.
He stopped, and set his drink down. He ran his hands over his sweaty face, and whitening
beard. They wouldve gone through his hair if he werent bald. He dried them on his pants.
I left, because I thought it was what was best for you. After you went with your mother, I knew
she wasnt going to cooperate with me, and neither was her lawyer.
I felt his anger start to rise, then subside.
I never stopped loving you.
His voice broke. I just didnt want to put you in the middle of things. I didnt want you to feel like you had to pick sides. I know you love your mom, and I didnt want to take that away from you. So I just thought it would be easier if I wasnt around.
I looked up from my hands in my lap to see my dad for the first time, broken. His eyes
were red, and welling up. Without looking, I knew mine were too.
Those dark eyes, which had always seemed to hold such weight, such mystery. It was like not knowing someones name for as long as you knew them; But that day I saw why he was
always so angry.
I saw why he didnt like to talk about the past often, yet I could see why he
needed to.
It wasnt only hatred, as I had thought all my life. It was love, taken, and battered, again and again until it barely stood, but stood still.
Can I hug you? he asked, not bothering to hide his tears that were streaming across his tan
flushed cheeks.
Yes.
And again, I found the world.
Still turning on its axis, older, but there still. And he sobbed into me like he found it again too.
A day, a month, a year. Turning, turning, turning.
And today I still hear it. Ill check from time to time to see it there, and remember the words it
said to me.
I never stopped loving you.