Thanks for Letting Me Know

by Jenny Morelli

Image cedit: Jonathan Farber on Unsplash

After receiving the news that my dad died, I visited my childhood home where the breeze from the backyard carried to me his familiar scent.

I followed it to the window where the wind rustled through the taller-than-me weeds, and I saw him again as if I were watching an old film. 

Just past the ghosts of the rusty swings, the pool that collapsed, the pets we buried under the pine tree, and disheveled, dervishing daycare kids, was Dad.  

He was sitting in his mesh-webbed folding chair under a summer morning sun in a faded white tee shirt and dress pants, never jeans. His grass-stained sock had a hole in the big toe. His hair was already peppered, combed neatly over his bald spot. One leg was crossed over the other, and every breeze held his Old Spice scent. 

He was reading a book while I sat cross-legged on a blanket at his feet, reading a picture book about rainbows and unicorns.  

I worshipped him unconditionally. I wanted so much for him to love me as much as I loved him; I wanted to be Daddy’s little girl, his princess like in my fairytale books. My unfulfilled little-girl fantasies revolved solely around him picking me up and hugging me tight, kissing my cheek and saying I love you. 

We never spoke, but so much was said in our quiet moments alone together, even if it was all just fantasy-filled fluff.

That memory lived in a time before locked doors, when my world still held glimmers of smiles and playtimes, but then the storms moved in, and doors were locked behind which words were thrown like weapons: How could you? and It’s over from Mom; between Dad’s teeth flopped like dying fish lies and twisted truths, It meant nothing and It’s all your fault. 

After that, Mom moved onto our side of their bedroom door after he deadbolted it. Most days, he left before daylight, returned after dinner. He slammed doors. Thundered up the stairs. Locked his bedroom door fast and without compromise, then paced above us like a caged beast.

He lashed out like one, too. When he was mad, his left eye twitched. He bit the insides of his cheeks. Clenched and unclenched his fists. Made sure we all knew when a storm was headed our way.

He got in his own way at every turn, quitting jobs with ‘bad bosses,’ being fired for his entitled defiance. We couldn’t keep our heads above water with whatever income he managed to earn, which put pressure on Mom to create her own by running a covert in-house daycare business.

Kids arrived early and stayed past dark. There were too many to count and permeated every crevice of our family home. Eventually, Dad grew tired of stepping over other people’s children and moved out. I never saw or heard from him again; never said goodbye, nor did he. He knew whose side I was on, since no one could ever be on his side.

Years later, I learned in a psychology class about narcissism, which made me begin to understand a little more clearly what it was like inside his head; made me rethink what I knew about my dad.

Through the years from then to now, something has shifted inside my mind as revelations have sprouted among my memories like roses among weeds. Now that so much time has distanced me from my past, the images tattooed on my brain of Dad’s clenched fists and twitching eye, his clamped-tight jaw and constant pacing, always poised to pounce, all his sharp and ragged edges have morphed and softened; flattened him into a one-dimensional character sketch.

I can see more clearly the sadness seeping through his flimsy façade, a sadness for a life not lived, a life he longed for, unfulfilled. His eyes are less angry and more anguished. His jaw is looser, as if tired from so much frustration. His fists are open palms pressed in prayer, imploring forgiveness, repenting for the inner demons that cultivated a feral monster never meant for family.

So, when I read my brother’s text, Frank passed away today, I felt nothing; not now, when I remembered that nostalgic time when we read together beneath a Sunday sun, nor when I imagined him in the end, dying alone with just his demons for companions, drowning in a pool of self-pity, regret and resentment.

I’ve long-since forgiven him for all the damage he’d done, not for his sake, but for mine. But no matter how hard I tried as I paced for hours back and forth, biting the inside of my cheek while reading my brother’s text, I still felt no melancholy, not even when I sent my empty reply, Thanks for letting me know.

***

Jenny Morelli

Jenny Morelli is a high school English teacher who lives in New Jersey with her husband and cat. She is often either inspired by her students or else they're triggering memories in her of when she was young and struggling with her self-confidence. She has been published in a number of literary magazines, including Spare Parts for a novel excerpt, Spillwords for several themed poems, and Bottlecap Press for her own chapbook This is Not a Drill.