37. Chapter 37 #2
Dad sat with me and Fetus for a while. As I finished my bottle of water, I noticed his leg shaking.
When Fetus took his leave, Dad also excused himself to mingle.
Just the word made me feel itchy. After an extended version of the Cupid Shuffle that nearly everyone (but me) had to get up and do, the DJ packed it up for the evening.
Dad’s friends climbed onto the little stage at the end of the closed-off street.
The 5-piece band had a solid, jazzy sound.
Their tunes got people out of their seats.
Old ladies and kids danced across the cement. I tapped my foot off-beat.
I pulled out my phone. No notifications. I sighed. I missed my boyfriend. Our communication was limited to texts.
I had been lurking on Daisy’s social media. She posted photos of the farm, pretty dresses, and delicious brunches. The feeling of missing out still overcame me. I sent a text to Summoner.
Poppy: I miss you <3
I pushed my phone back into my pocket, not knowing when I’d get a reply.
I waved at dad, who sipped on a beer. Tonight, I got to see him in a different context.
Here he was, a social butterfly. He buzzed amongst groups of people with ease, laughing and talking.
I’d never seen him interacting so easily before.
I didn’t recognize this person. My jaw clenched. Was I the one holding him back?
No. No.
Dad and I were in this together. At least, that was the way I always saw it.
The sun slipped beyond the horizon just as Dad’s friends from the band dragged him onto the stage. My insides twisted into a knot.
Why is he about to embarrass himself?
I didn’t want to watch, but I couldn’t move from my seat.
My jaw ticked as the saxophone player took his time swapping out mouth pieces.
My palms were suddenly sticky with sweat.
He was going to make a fool of himself, and I didn’t know what to do.
Music was a muscle that needed regular stretching.
Dad hadn’t played in years. He couldn’t keep up with these guys.
The guitar player started his count, and the band drove into a quick, upbeat riff.
A wave of bile rose in my throat as Dad played along.
He jammed effortlessly. His cheeks puffed out as he played. His neighbors cheered. A bubble of trapped air burned my throat. Dad effortlessly fitted himself into the spaces allowed by the band. His notes were complementary and expressive. He was fucking amazing.
This is wrong.
What I watched didn’t fit with the narrative I held. Dad stopped playing the saxophone. Playing music was a part of his life put to rest when I murdered Mom.
I don’t fucking understand.
Shaking, I pulled myself to my feet and walked through the crowd.
There was talking, shouting, and applause, but I couldn’t make heads or tails of it.
One foot in front of the other, and I made it back to the house.
My thighs pressed onto the cool cement as I sat on the front stoop.
Like always, I cried. Pain was etched into my bones.
Physically pulling me down. It was an unshakeable part of me.
But I was tired of lugging around my hurt. I couldn’t keep going.
“Poppy?”
Tears distorted the image of Dad standing at the bottom of the stairs.
“What’s wrong?”
I hiccupped. “W-W-What’s wrong? How can you not know what’s wrong!? You’re different! Everything’s different!”
“What are you talking about, Poppy?”
I ground my back molars to dust as rage scorched my soul.
“You never know what I’m talking about!! Poppy’s crazy! Poppy’s speaking out of turn! Maybe I am! How can you still play saxophone, Dad?!”
He grimaced.
“Make what I just saw make sense!” I demanded.
“Poppy…” he sighed.
My shoulders shook as he walked up the stairs and sat beside me.
“…I never stopped playing music. I just never do it at home.”
A painful cry escaped my throat. Dad reached for me, but I shoved him away. I didn’t want him touching me.
“I don’t understand! How could you keep that from me?! Who keeps something like that from their child!?”
Tears tickled as they ran down my chin and neck.
“How could you keep that from me?!” I yelled again. All my pain and anger dissipated into the evening air and block party noise. I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to see anything. Everything was a deception. A lie. Everything I thought I knew never existed.
“Poppy, I didn’t do that to hurt you…I needed a connection to your mom away from you. Music was that. One thing we shared that I could keep to myself.”
My eyes shot open. “What do I get to have?! I never got to know her! I know nothing about her, but I know you would have picked Mom over me! My whole fucking life I had to walk around knowing you wanted her and got me! You have no idea how that fucking feels!”
Dad’s gaze dropped to his lap. “I love you, Poppy. How could you ever question that?”
“You have to love me! You never would have chosen me! You blame me for her not being here!”
He shook his head. “You’re being ridiculous.”
Dismissal. The stinging strike of dismissal. My nails dug into my thighs. I couldn’t let him push this aside anymore.
“I’m not being ridiculous! You can’t even look at me!”
His shoulders drooped. My years of stored barbs were deflating him.
“I never meant to hurt you Poppy…” His words vanished, formed but unspoken in his mouth.
I heard that so many times before.
“You hurt me! I’m hurting! I needed parents.
I killed my mom and was raised by half a dad!
A ghost was more important than me in the house I lived in.
I say a ghost, but really my parents were both fucking ghosts because you died that day, too, and you blamed me.
” I pointed at him. “You blamed me but did the right thing bringing me up. Whatever the right thing means! Bringing me up in a damn mausoleum where nothing changes!”
He opened his mouth to speak, but I wouldn’t let him in. I finally had my chance, and I wasn’t going to waste it. “I don’t know Mom because you wouldn’t let me! I needed connections to her, and you wouldn’t let me have them! This shit isn’t normal, Dad!”
“I never meant to hurt you, Poppy,” he repeated.
I pounded my chest. “I am hurting! Recognize that! Please!”
Hear me, please.
The muscles in Dad’s neck pulsed before he spoke up quietly, “…You’re right, a small part of me thought that.
I couldn’t help it. We had so much together and in a fucking moment—” He snapped his fingers— “she was gone. But I knew Meghan would want me raising you. Every day, I’d rub lotion on her stretch marks and talk to her belly.
She’d say we’re getting to know each other. ”
His lips twitched as he recalled the memory. I tried to picture Dad being that tender, but the image my mind created seemed wrong. That version of him was lost to time.
“In the aftermath, I came home to an empty and quiet house, except for you. This tiny person wholly depended on me, who took my love away from me, who looked just like her… my mind was a fucking mess. I couldn’t do anything else, but you were my daughter.
So, I compartmentalized. I did what I had to survive.
I tucked parts of my heart and soul away. ”
My heart shattered as he spoke his truth. Things I already knew, but those things weighed differently when spoken aloud.
“I wasn’t a good parent. I didn’t know what to do or how to be. Meghan was meant to be here. We promised each other that we were in this together and without her, I was lost.” He swallowed and turned to me.
Unshed tears clouded Dad’s eyes.
“I’m still lost. It’s been years, but every time I see you, Poppy…I see Meghan and it’s a knife in my fucking heart.”
His fingertips gingerly touched his chest. The bite of my anger snapped back into its cage.
“I…I look like her?” My voice was small and childlike.
I was 5 years old again and desperate for any connection to my mother. Instead of pushing me away, Dad nodded.
I didn’t know that…
I’d seen pictures of her, of course. Stolen moments when I dug out yellowed photo albums from the back of the closet. I never saw myself in the woman captured in those Polaroids. Dad’s confirmation was a balm to my ravaged soul.
“…I’m sorry Mom is gone, but Dad, I’m here now. I’m a person too.”
“You’re right.” He ran a hand over his face. “My baby girl. I love you, Poppy. I love you so much. You’re the best thing I’ve ever done with my life.”
Maybe he was reassuring himself. I slid down a step to sit beside Dad. Our truths, however agonizing, were in the open. It wasn’t much, but after years of pushing things down and repressing, a gradual sense of freedom was starting to surface.
“… Dad?” My throat tightened in the aftermath of such emotion that only the fear of childhood shame was left. “…I know you think I’m weird and crazy, but you need help, too. There’s nothing wrong with that. Everybody’s a bit broken and everybody needs help sometimes.”
I leaned against his shoulder. He was never perfect, but the security of his presence, his Dadness, surrounded me.
“Yeah. You’re right, baby girl. You’re right.”