My Stupid Girl (38 page)

“When you love someone, you’ll do anything
for them. At least that’s how it was for me and my wife.” A tender memory
popped into my head, a girl with long brown hair, big lips and ridiculously
long eye lashes. Freckles on top of a wrinkled nose. A face I had a very hard
time saying “no” to. I fought the memory into submission, not ready to feel
anything but contempt at the moment. “It took a year and one night she comes
home with you, in a little pile of blankets, this halo of black fuzz on your
head..” He actually wiggled with pleasure. He was enjoying this memory.

After the initial shock, I felt a swelling
in my chest, realizing I was hearing an actual baby story about myself. I
fought the strange spasm of joy I felt and spoke out of hurt, again.   

“Then she died and you got stuck with me.”
It didn’t come out right, though. I was, for the first time in our lives,
talking to this man as a scared widower, instead of an abusive father. I
couldn’t feel that bad, though. He had just confessed, for the hundredth time,
that he never wanted me.

“I have no excuses, David, only
explanations.” He looked into my eyes for a fleeting moment before looking away
again. “I didn’t have time to get used to you before she was gone. Then it
wasn’t even about you, it was the memory that you caused.” He leaned in,
willing me to understand him. “You made her happy in a way I never could. But
more than that, you made her happy in a way I never felt from or towards a
parent. You made me jealous. And you made me so scared.”

He got up and walked to the fridge, his
knees popping like they were out of practice.  He opened it the old, heavy
door, and stared inside. I could see the twenty-four pack of beer that was
waiting to be cracked open. If his finger so much as twitched toward that thing
I was out of there. His back stiffened like he could read my mind. He closed
the door slowly and walked to the other side of the small kitchen. He was
acting like he wanted to keep talking to me, but had no idea how. 

“I understand that.” I was grateful that he
had shut the refrigerator, I figured I could reward his decision by being a
little nicer.

“I never sent you to go live with your
grandma because it felt like giving up. I wanted to take care of you. You were
the only thing I had left of her. I wanted to make it work for Jane, even
though she was gone and I had no idea how to.” He looked like a man who had
been haunted by evil memories, from his past and present. What he was saying
was true. I had been like a picture he put in his wallet to take around with
him and look at every once in a while. I was neglected and wrinkled around the
edges, kept close enough to remember but far enough away to not have to think
about all the time. 

“Why did you hate your father?” I asked
again, trying to sound more caring than I had before. He lifted his eyes to
mine, his despondent face at war with his mind. I could see it in the way he
held his body. He was guarded and straight-backed, but looked like he was
aching for his lips to submit to what he wanted to say. He opened and closed
his mouth a few times before he answered me. 

“My father was an alcoholic.” A laugh burst
from him as punctuation of the irony in that statement. “When he was drunk, he
would come into my room when everyone else was asleep.” He let those words hang
in the air. I felt the coldness creep out of his my father’s body as he spoke.
“I was very young. It wasn’t until I was around twelve that he finally left me
alone.” There was a moment of silence in the kitchen; the story was over. I
knew he wanted me to fill in the blanks for him so he wouldn’t have to speak
the words. 

“David, I never wanted a child because that
is the only memory I hold of a father.” The very word “father” looked like it
left a bad taste in his mouth. “Every single morning of your entire life here I
would wake up on the couch or on the floor and I would be so afraid that I had
somehow done something to you.” Words turned into silent sobs that wracked his
shoulders. His hands were shaking and he looked up at me again, begging me to
tell him that he never sexually abused me.

I felt sick, and, I know this is going to
sound crazy, but I felt defensive for my father.  Despite my best intentions, I
felt compassion rising in my chest. I didn’t want to fight it in this moment, I
wanted to feel something for him. And then a thought rocked me.

“You don’t remember anything do you?” As he
shook his head, ashamed, I realized my father had no recollection of ever
hurting me. I didn’t know whether to feel relieved or angry about it. The thing
that filled my thoughts and haunted me, the reason I could barely communicate
with people, the fear that held me back, were all caused by a person who didn’t
even remember anything he had done.

“No, I don’t remember anything, David. That
may sound like a lame out, but it’s true.” I nodded. It was indeed an easy out
to say you didn’t remember ever doing anything to someone. Even if it was true,
he remembered popping the first can open. Although his lack of memory changed
the game, he was still responsible for his actions.

His eyes pleaded with me to answer him,
while looking afraid of my answer at the same time. I was actually impressed
with the courage it must have taken him to ask, even as an unspoken question.

“You never did anything like that to me.” I
tried to sound indifferent, holding back the pain I felt for him. This feeling
was quiet apart from the pain that I felt for myself. There was a lot more pity
mixed in. His entire body seemed to collapse in a heap. I kept going, though. I
wasn’t done, and I sure wasn’t going to waste this moment.

“You know, you say you were so afraid you
had done something to me, yet you chose every night to drink.” I paused, to
make sure my words sunk in. “You must not have been that worried about what you
did to me.” His eyes grew blank at the flat tone in my voice. It wasn’t the
coldness I had seen so many times, just a blank look, like a wall was going
up.  

“I should have given you to your grandma. I
am a selfish man, David. You are so much better than I am.” He looked like he
was done with the conversation after that admission, but it wasn’t over yet. I
wasn’t done yet.

I relaxed my arms from across my chest.
They ached in protest as I straightened them.  I lifted my hand and swept my
blanket of bangs behind my ears. My face’s right side was completely exposed to
him so he could see it clearly. The scar was fully exposed. The man who put it
there had the decency to look at my face, to look at what he had done to me. In
fact, he looked like he was going to vomit. 

He stood up and walked over to me. I stood
up quickly, ready to fight him off, but he dropped to his knees in front of me
instead of raising his hand in anger.

“Don’t be like me, David.” He actually
started weeping at my feet. I stood, unable to move or speak. Nothing came to
mind but to stand completely still. “I am a broken fool who is haunted by
demons I can never get rid of.” He trembled at my feet. Never in my life would
I have expected this. While he kneeled there, completely humbled, I felt
something click into place inside of me. This man, whoever he was, was not the
great monster I always imagined. He was simply broken. His life and the way he
operated had nothing to do with me and everything to do with him. I felt, for
the first time, real tenderness for him. I put my hand on the top of his head
and waited for him to stop crying.

It took a while.

“I forgive you.” I finally said it. There
was no contempt or sarcasm in my words, just true, honest longing to be his
son. No matter the past, I wanted to be someone’s son, and he was the closest
thing I had ever had. And he was trying. To some extent, he had always been
trying. He had just been really, incredibly bad at it for pretty much my entire
life.

His head jerked in my direction at my
words. His grateful eyes met mine. When he stood up, we were eye level. I would
guess that mine were actually a little higher. My father reached his arms out
and embraced me in a crushing hug that squeezed the breath out of me. I enjoyed
it. I had never been hugged like that before, certainly not by my father. I put
my arms around his head and felt a tear escape from my left eye. The tiny trail
of water worked its way down my face and ran into the corner of my mouth. It
tasted like makeup and salt. 

“Thank you.” With his face buried in my
shoulder his voice was muffled. He said it a few more times before I patted his
back in a “please release me” motion, hoping he would let me go. My back was
beginning to ache under the pressure of his enormous body. The patting worked;
he went and sat back down across from me again. A smile I had never seen on him
before was splayed across his face and I could feel my own joy deep in my chest,
rising and falling with my breath. He took a big red handkerchief out of his
back pocket and wiped his hairy face with it, ridding himself of any tears. A
few deep breaths flowed through him before he spoke again.

“I have something for you.” He reached for
his little filing cabinet. “I was planning on giving it to you when you turned
eighteen. Sorry I’m a few months late.” He opened the cabinet and went straight
to a file, taking the entire thing out and handing it to me. 

The little tab on the top said, “David”. 

“What is this?” I opened it, seeing a mound
of papers, documents, and bank account statements.  My birth certificate caught
my eye. I pulled it out to look at it closely. 

“David Anthony Pfalmer?” I asked. I
remembered that my grandmother had told me my birth father’s name was Anthony.
But this last name was strange. “Puh-Falmer? That’s a weird last name.” My
father was looking sheepish and scared, but he spoke clearly. 

“I believe its Falmer; the P is silent.” 

“So, my birth name is Pfalmer?” It wasn’t
really a question. I knew I was right. What felt strange wasn’t the sudden
exposure to a whole new avenue of my life, but the name. I was going from
having a normal, almost to common last name like Johnson, to finding out that
my last name might have been Pfalmer, with a silent P. I looked at my birth
mother’s name. Her signature on the paper, one of a Lindsey Hurst, was slanted
and beautiful, like she was an artist. The thought made me smile. “Lindsey is a
beautiful name.” I marveled at the little piece of paper that my birth parents
had both touched. Then I put it back, careful not to bend any corners, and took
out a checkbook that had never been used. It looked old, like it was from the
1980s. 

“What is this?” I asked my father, confused
at the names on the checks.

“It’s a savings account that your mother
and I started for you after we adopted you.” He gave me an exhausted smile.

“Wow, really?” Excitement rose in me; this
part of the file was a complete surprise. He had never mentioned it before,
ever. The fact that it probably had more than thirty-seven dollars, which was
the amount of my current bank account, was also pretty exciting.

“Thanks. Thank you.” I put everything back
in the yellow folder as I tried to think of something else to say. Nothing came
to mind so I stopped trying and sighed deeply. 

“You have to go, don’t you?” My father
sounded disappointed. That was encouraging.

“I should. Grandma will be wanting me to
come back soon.” My father’s smile told me that he understood, that he knew
what she was like.

“You can come by anytime you want.” Hope
filled his voice. 

“I will, Dad.” I called him Dad for the
first time and it made me feel happier than I ever thought that simple word
could.

I had spent my life not calling him anything,
really. Maybe jerk or that man, but never just Dad. I never realized how
powerful that word was before.

This day had turned out to be one of the
best days I had ever had. Not only did I get to see Isaiah slap Evelyn away
like an over-excited puppy, but I got to experience a weight being lifted off
of me. I could honestly say that I felt no malice towards the big man sitting
in front of me. I was actually looking forward to coming to see him again. Dad
looked embarrassed as he shook my hand goodbye. I figured it would take a while
for him to forgive himself. I predicted that this wasn’t the end of our
troubles; I could only assume that he would be drinking tonight. How does
someone end a cycle started many years ago? Maybe I could help him with that.
Maybe it was something we could do together. 

I left the house that somehow looked
brighter, even though the lights were still off.

* * *

It was a cold day but sunny, so the walk
was nice. It felt good to clear my head and really take in what had just happened.
After wandering around the old neighborhood for a while, I walked into a big
bank a few blocks away from my father’s house. I figured I would figure out
this other bank account I had. With a few hundred bucks I could just scratch my
other one and go with this one. I walked over to a very attractive teller with
a heart-shaped face dotted with random freckles. I smiled because she reminded
me of Lucy. Also because I was beginning to realize I had a thing for freckles.

“Hi.” The echo surprised me; I didn’t
realize how quiet it was in there. 

“May I help you?” She pulled off her
glasses off and looked slightly affronted by my appearance. The scar was still
out, and my makeup probably hadn’t recovered from crying.

“Yes, can you tell me about this account?”
I held one of the statements.

“Ok, sir, take a seat and I’ll pull that
right up for you.” She put my paperwork down in front of her and started typing
furiously. After a few seconds, her eyes opened wide and her head snapped up to
look at me. “Whose account is this, sir?” 

“Mine, I guess. My father just told me
about it today.”