My Stupid Girl (37 page)

“Thanks,” I said simply. Evelyn nodded.

Isaiah came rolling back. I was glad for
the conversation to be over.

“What’s wrong with you?” Isaiah asked
Evelyn, stopping in front of us, looking a little less affronted and a little
more concerned. Evelyn turned her face so she was staring right at him. I saw
all the muscles relax in horror. He knew something big was coming. She stood up
and grabbed the front of his shirt, dragging him right in front of her amazing
face.

“You’re going to start being nice to me!”
She released him, turned his chair around with a snap, and started pushing him
back to her car without another word. Isaiah’s shoulders started shaking with
laughter as she scurried away with him like they were in some kind of
wheelchair race. He turned back and looked at me and I could tell that he was
willing me to keep my mouth shut.  Evelyn let me help him into the car, which
was surprisingly harder after physical therapy than before. Isaiah was much
stiffer and in much more pain. He’d probably sleep for hours once we got him
home. 

Evelyn started her car, looking less
uncomfortable than before, but still as determined. She backed out of her
parking space and headed towards the freeway, to Isaiah’s house. I watched the
neighborhoods pass, street after street lined with tall trees that overhung the
road, creating a green sunshiny tunnel of leaves. My father’s house was only
three blocks away. Half of me wanted to get away from there as fast as
possible. The other half was thinking of my grandma and Lucy, my two girls, the
two most important girls I’d ever known. Them and forgiveness.

I made a decision in an instant. 

“Evelyn,” I said quietly.

“Yeah?”

“Could you turn down this street here?” I
pointed to the sign that said Hudson. Isaiah turned around to look at me, his
eyebrows raised. 

“I have to talk to him,” I explained in a
low voice. 

“You going to be ok?” He asked, his
shoulders swelling protectively. 

“I think so.” I really had no idea what I
was doing, just that I had to go see my dad. I didn’t know what I was going to
say. But, if I didn’t do it, Dad would be my excuse for the rest of my life
until it was too late. I would let my whole life go by, nothing every changing
or getting better, because of what a coward I was. I had to face this head on.

Evelyn drove down my old street until I
pointed to a little white house with a flat blue roof. 

“Do you want us to wait?” Isaiah’s eyes
were determined but I knew he was tired. 

“I know the bus schedule by heart, man.
I’ll just ride to your house afterwards.” I clapped his shoulders reassuringly,
even though I didn’t feel sure about anything. Outside the car, I expected them
to drive away but they waited, car idling. , I walked slowly up the cracked
cement walkway to my father’s old, forgotten-looking house. Junk hunkered in
different piles on the front porch; it smelled moldy and dirty. It was like any
attempt at appearance had completely gone out the window after I’d left. 

I stood at the door, remembering so many
times I hadn’t wanted to walk though. All those times I’d had no choice; I’d
wanted so badly just to be able to get away. Now I was voluntarily walking back
into that prison. Feelings and memories rushed over me, but they didn’t really
bother me. I knew where my home was and what kind of person I was, and none of
it had to do with this cold house.  I took a deep breath and knocked on the
door, not really expecting an answer. He was probably passed out on the couch.

But the door swung open as I knocked, like
it hadn’t been shut the whole way the last time someone walked through it. 

“Hello?” I called out, walking into the
dusty house. Even though it was the middle of the day, it was dark in there,
with lights off and the curtains pulled shut. In the kitchen I saw my father.
Too much hair grew from the top of his head, like he’d forgotten what a haircut
was. Usually clean-shaven, he now sported a beard that was worthy of an
Oregon-state backwoods logger. The stained white t-shirt and old blue jeans he
wore were too big for him, like he’d lost a ton of weight recently. 

I stood in the doorway, looking at my
father who was sitting at the dining room table surrounded by stacks of paper.
He lifted his head slowly when he saw I was there. His face was gaunt and much
more ancient-looking that I remembered it. He opened his wrinkled lips and
spoke.    

“Hey, David.”  

21. A NEW FATHER  

My father’s gaze was sad, but he looked unsurprised
to see me standing in front of him. His eyes dropped down to the papers on the
table like he had forgotten about the mess in front of him for a moment. He
hurriedly scooped everything up, dropped them into folders then shoved it all
into a portable filing cabinet that was on the ground next to him. Then he
stood up. 

“Would you like something to drink?” He
headed over to the refrigerator. “I have juice, soda, tea.” He trailed off,
waiting for my answer, one that I didn’t have for him. “I have hot tea. Water?”
He looked at me from the corner of his eye, willing me to say something. 

“I’m good.” I still stood at the entrance
to the kitchen. His shoulders relaxed slightly until he made eye contact with
me. Then he quickly looked down again and started walking around, probably
wishing something would jump out to help him busy himself. I looked around the
kitchen. Unlike the front porch, it was clean, but it was totally unorganized.
There were papers scattered, food out that should have been in cabinets, and a
few dishes in the sink. I had always been the one who cleaned up around the
house. Looked like he had gotten used to living with an obsessive-compulsive
neat freak and didn’t know what to do once I left. 

The familiar damp smell of the house filled
my nostrils. It wasn’t a dirty smell, just old. We both stood there, staring at
each other for a minute. I had no idea what to say, but felt this burning
desire to just stare at him in the dim light of the kitchen bulb. I think, for
once, I felt power over this man. He was sober and he was out of his element. I
couldn’t help but bask in this a little, seeing my father squirm around not
knowing what to say or do.                

 “You look good.” He still stood in the
middle of the kitchen, his hand on the refrigerator handle like it was his
safety net. If I wasn’t mistaken, he almost looked like he was afraid of me,
which was absurd. He was around the same height as me, six feet, but he had
beat me out in girth.

I flattened my hair down in front of my
eyes when he complimented me. His face contorted into dismal sorrow when he saw
my nervous twitch. “Sit down, David.” He walked slowly over to his own chair
where he had been sitting when I came in. I nodded and sat on the other side of
the table, facing him. A part of me enjoyed how uncomfortable he seemed. I
couldn’t help but take some pleasure in this tiny bit of payback.

 “I read about the fire at the prom. I’m
glad you’re okay.” 

“How did you even know I was there? I go to
school in Whitefish.” I probably sounded more suspicious than I should have.

“The paper,” he replied simply. Then he
turned around and leafed through another pile of papers and pulled out a
newspaper. He began to read.

“David Johnson, 18, a student of Whitefish
High, was instrumental in all students surviving the blaze, reported several
students. Shannon Marcus, 17, a student at Kalispell High explained, ‘He found
the other exit behind all these boxes and bales of hay and he and a few other people
moved them so everyone could get out.’ Johnson, a former student at Kalispell,
was attending the event as the guest of a Kalispell student.”

My throat tightened a little at the
reminder of Lucy and how crappy that night had ended up, even though we all
survived.

 My father looked up at me with pride in
his eyes, but didn’t hold my gaze long.

“I hadn’t read that,” I said, trying to
fill the awkward silence. I also wanted to see the article but didn’t want to
take it from him. So I concentrated on keeping my hands tightly around my
chest. He put the paper down and looked up at me seriously.

“Do you need something”? His checkbook
suddenly appeared in his hands.

“No,” I said, trying to ignore his pleading
eyes. 

“Do you want anything?” His pen was poised
above a check that already had my name written on it. My father may have been
an unpredictable, abusive, lonely man, but I couldn’t say that he never
provided for me. I couldn’t ever think of a time when I didn’t have something
that I needed, something physical anyways. 

When it came to a father figure who taught
things like manners, how to be social, or how to get along with other human
beings, my father had failed so completely it was almost funny. But financially
he did very well. He didn’t make a lot of money, but he always made sure I had
what I needed, and usually got what I wanted as well. When I got too old for
him to know what I wanted he would give me an envelope at the beginning of each
pay period. I always knew it was his poor way of showing me that he at least
acknowledged my presence. 

“I’m okay.” I was trying to feel guilty for
secretly enjoying his discomfort. “I was in the area and just wanted to come
by, to, you know…” I shrugged my shoulders, unable to finish my sentence. I
knew that he knew I was lying; it was complete bull. Why would I ever come by
just to chat, as I had been about to say?

“Oh. How is your grandma?” A hundred dollar
check appeared in front of me on the table. I didn’t even acknowledge it.
Falling back into that pattern wasn’t why I was here.

“She’s good; I wish I had moved there a
long time ago.” I felt brave as I said it. My father’s face fell and his hands
clenched into tight fists. My blood boiled excitedly. Is this really what I had
come for, to fight with him? 

“I do too, actually.” The words exploded
out of his mouth.

“Then why didn’t I?” I was suddenly
incredibly angry. He laughed and loosened his hands and relaxed his shoulders.

“Believe it or not, David, I wanted you
around.” I laughed then, cynically.

“Wow, really? Could have fooled me.” My
face hardened as I realized I had never spoken so freely to my father before.
Something was different in me; something had changed. I was confident, sure of
what I was saying. The man across the table looked intently at me like he was
trying to figure out who this new person was sitting in front of him.

“You think you’re the only person in the
world who’s had it rough?” A mocking tone gave me back as much attitude as I
was dishing out. My face hardened into solid granite at his words. Soft eyes
were in the place of the cold black ones I was used to seeing. “You look a
little too much like me right now, David.”

When others compared me to my father it
made me feel violent inside. But when he did it I became numb and paralyzed
with fear. My bones hurt; the very fiber of my being ached. I loosened my rigid
stance, forcing myself to try and figure out another way to behave. 

“How do I look like you?” I asked. Lamely.

“People told me when I was younger that if
I didn’t make peace with my father that I would regret it when he died.” My
father looked at me with meaningful eyes. “Well, he’s been dead for over a
decade and I still hate his guts.” He smiled. I hadn’t ever heard him talk
about his father. We didn’t talk about much though, so I had never realized
that he had hated my grandfather.

“Probably very much close to how you feel
about me, actually.” He sighed deeply and studied a spot on the back of his
hand. A liver spot, no doubt, the mark of an old man. “David, don’t be like me.
I hated my father, still do, and I turned out like him. Maybe not completely
like him, but enough that I hate myself more than I ever hated him.” He lifted
his face and his eyes pierced me. “I assure you I hate myself more than you
ever will.” The bold statement took me back. Just the fact that I was sitting
here having a normal conversation with my father, especially about things that,
until now, had been completely unspoken between us, was blowing my mind.     

“Why did you hate him?” I was curious. I
didn’t want to taunt him; I was truly interested in how his father had treated
him to make him hate him so much. To say that I would be glad when my father
was gone would be going too far. The pure fact that we never had a relationship
would make me mourn him. But my father looked nothing but happy that he didn’t
have to deal with his anymore. I expected an easy answer but nothing came. He
shook his great shaggy head and lowered his eyes from mine. 

“I never wanted kids, you know. But your
mother, she wanted them so badly.” That was his answer. I couldn’t believe it.

“So you’ve said.” He ignored my irritation
and continued.   

“When I was younger I vowed never to have
kids. Then I met your mother, this ornery little thing who told me she couldn’t
have children. I confess that is one of the things that first attracted me to
her.” He smiled like he was remembering something wonderful. “I loved her, but
the fact that kids weren’t in the picture made me feel safe.” 

“Your point?” My voice was harsh. I
wondered if he was dodging my question. 

“After a few years of marriage your mom
wanted kids. Adoption was our only way and, David, I didn’t have the heart to
tell her no. I loved her so much.” He started drumming his fingers on the table
that stood between us. “I loved her so much I would have done anything for her,
even put my own comfort on the back burner.”

“Wow, I guess I should thank you for being
so selfless.” The words jumped out of my mouth. I was definitely channeling
Isaiah. He laughed bitterly, getting my sarcastic joke, his chuckles agreeing
with me.