Two
Melissa Mahadeo
He’s still a mystery to you. An unanswered question, an empty stadium, a closed case. And you, the ungranted wish, the fire put out too quickly, the uninterested, yet conflicted audience. That’s what you’ll never understand. Why you care. Why you get anxious. Why you can’t seem to forget. Maybe it’s the way the wind blows or the rain that follows it. Or the way butterflies have short lives. Or how moments seem to crystallize in cold air. Or the way you look down at your feet when you cross the street and don’t think to look left or right.
It could be anything, but it’s not.
When people say, “But he’s your father...”
You want to spit and say, “I’m sorry. Is he your father?”
You don’t resemble him in any way besides the color of your hair and pigment of your complexion or shape of your feet, and even there, you don’t really look like anybody besides yourself.
Sometimes you wonder who you would be if he wasn’t half of you. If he never operated buses or drove taxis in St. Catherine. If he never met your mom on a rainy day in 1987 during one of his routes. If she never chose him. If your grandma kept her doubts about him. If mom wasn’t so stubborn. If she never rode on the back of his motorcycle. If they never went on day trips. If they never got married nor emigrated to America. If they hadn’t lived in that small apartment in Jersey. If they never had your sister. If they never saved for their first house. If they were never happy. If they never fought. If your mom hadn’t fought for you. If she hadn’t wanted you, you wouldn’t be you.
When you were one or two years old, anytime he’d come home from work, you’d barrel down the hallway towards him and hop into his lap at the dinner table, when you should’ve been asleep, and stuff the food he was eating into your face. What a selfish kid.
For the longest time, you knew you could rely on him. He was always there to feed you, take you to school, braid your hair, paint your nails that sparkly shade of pink you loved. He was your dad; you couldn’t see him as anything else.
On the weekends your mom worked, he often took you and your sister out of the house whether you wanted to or not. Groceries, hardware, doctor, dentist, fast-food. You didn’t understand why you couldn’t just stay home. That day, you really didn’t want to go anywhere, yet still you brushed your teeth, combed your hair, put on your plastic sandals, and flung yourself out the front door.
You climb into the backseat and cross your arms, ferocity radiating off you and crackling in the late May heat. You refused to look at anyone, not even your silent sister in the front seat.
“Melissa, fix your face.” He starts the car and backs out of the driveway.
You were eleven. You had (have) a temper, just like his. It flashes red when detonated. Swallows anyone who steps on it, like a trap door. When you think about it, you were kinda being a brat that day. It’s probably the reason the leather hit so hard.
Afterward, in your tear-stained room on your queen-sized bed covered in colorful hearts, you called your mom and listened to “Rainbow Veins” to feel okay again. That night, you went to sleep and didn’t wake up for centuries.
Hate. That’s a strong word. You don’t hate him. No matter how many times you say or think it. In your heart you know you don’t. You can’t hate him. There’s no way. It’s impossible to hate someone you don’t know.
When you were younger, you’d often feel bad for your mother. It’s why you were always glued to her side. Mommy’s girl. She taught you everything he couldn’t be bothered to do. Cook, clean, wash, fold, read. How to be strong, independent, and lovely. How not to cry. So whenever she’d get wound up after a fight and passively vent to you and your sister, you’d further adhere yourself to her side and promise to not let go.
You have respect. Oodles of it. You have so much you could open a store and sell it for $9.99 a pop, like novelty figurines. You could make a fortune off what’s been ingrained in you since age five. You’re kinder and more patient than anyone you know.
Therefore, when you hear, “You don’t respect your father. How could you respect me?” from your wretched uncle who idolizes him as GQ Man of the Year, a trap door appears.
It’ll always hurt you. It’ll always spark in your mind and make you remember anytime it wants. You could be watching a movie, walking down the street, eavesdropping from the staircase, be flitting through a magazine, clicking through multiple screens, and see it, hear it, feel it crawl across your skin. An impression of him in name, title, and even shape.
You never knew his father or mother, for that matter. Frank and Nellie were in heaven long before God created you. They said Nellie was a sweetheart but too frail; she died soon after her son got married, the first time. A lot of people told you he was just like Frank: ignorant, selfish, quick to touch; Frank died in the 80s, nearly ten years before Nellie. Shows how far sweetness can go.
Sometimes you think if you’d known them, you’d be able to understand him more. Understand why he cheated on your mom, why he abused his children, why he left, why he couldn’t trust himself or other people, why he always made himself out to be the victim, why he lost his job, why he wasted money, why he married someone young enough to be one of his daughters, why he abandoned you, why he made you hate him as a kid, why he is who he is. But the biggest unknown is the reason why you associate who he is with what he did.
In your fever dreams, you often imagine that he and your mother are at war but somehow fighting on the same side against a common enemy.
Craters could form. Bubbles could burst. There could be an eternal winter. The sun could come too close to the earth. The ground could shake everyone off its surface. And you still wouldn’t pick up the phone.
It’s hard to feel sorry for someone who has no sympathy.
You recall every book, article, blogpost, and daytime talk show that tells you, “Girls tend to date guys who resemble their fathers.”
You try to suppress that tendency as you swipe through dating apps.
Everything has a purpose. Pants cover your underwear. A shirt covers your bra. Shoes hold your feet. Gloves warm your hands. A comb brushes your hair. But what purpose did he have, besides conception?
You imagine his funeral on the regular. Would you come? Who would be there? Would you be pleased? To this day, you still can’t decide.
You stopped getting upset over him a while ago. By severing any connection, you forfeited that feeling. However, for your sister, it took her a little bit longer. As his secretary, raised on dependency, she forgot to give in her two weeks’ notice. For your mother, she stopped thinking about him as soon as the ink dried on the divorce papers.
Trauma takes five forms.
Denial: he’s not your dad
Anger: he’s not your dad
Bargaining: he’s not your dad
Depression: he’s not your dad
Acceptance: he’s not your dad
I didn’t cry. At first, I told myself there was nothing to cry about. This was what I’d been waiting for. Departure. What I’d always wished for those nights I sat by the window and wanted to hold a star in my hand. Those nights my sister cried as he broke her heart. Those nights my mother tried to protect us. Those nights everybody saw it and didn’t say anything. And although there was nothing to cry about, although I told myself I was over it and to forget, I still--
[the sound of your body crashing in on itself.]
He said: “I don’t know what I did to you.”
It felt like a giving up, of sorts. The pressure released. That last breath finally exhaled into the open air. He was gone. All you remember of that March morning was the silhouette of his Toyota disappearing, withering, spiriting away into the dizzying fog almost like he was never here at all.
Melissa Mahadeo (‘22) is an English major who eats, sleeps, and breathes poetry. As her primary creative outlet, she often writes about romance, mentalities, and moments of stillness. When she’s not writing, she enjoys singing, making art, and watching old films. Following graduation, she hopes to pursue a career in publishing and continue to create.