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18 July 1997 Friday
Dad
He's staring at her. He's staring at her and I know it's not good. My mom continues to talk, not meeting his eye. I keep watching him, my father, the guy who had nothing to do with raising me, but who has a lot to do with who I am. My parents separated when I was six. My mom usually doesn't visit Grandma when my father is in town. He doesn't take it very well. I watch them both, my eyes darting back and forth, I seem to be the only one in the room who's aware of the tension. My dad gets up. Walks out of the room. I talk to my aunt who's sitting next to me. My mom goes to help with the dishes. Movement. Shouting. I'm there before I even realize I got out of my seat. "Go downstairs Norman!" "You're going to hurt your mother!" "She shouldn't be here. Why does she have to come here?" "She's visiting Mama" "She just comes here to make me feel like a chump. She shouldn't be here." My mom stands in the kitchen with one of my aunts, holding a dish and looking mildly surprised. I'm blocking the door way into the kitchen, as my grandmother shouts at my drunken, broken father who's listing on his feet. He's wearing shorts and a white t-shirt that was torn in the scuffle. "You ruined me! Why do you have to come here and rub it in my face? She just comes here to make me look like a jerk." "Norman, get out! Go downstairs!" "Yeah, and what did she do when the welfare ran out? Huh. Yeah she knew how to take care of that!" My aunt looks at me. "Angela, are you alright? You're as white as a sheet!" I run out of the room, out on to the landing. Breathe deep, and cry. My other aunt comes out, puts a cool hand on my neck. "Are you OK?" "No." I get up and go back in. I grab my mom's arm and say, "Let's go." I lead her out of the kitchen, safely past my dad. At this point his yelling has degraded to agonized animal grunts to my ears. "OK, we're going." I run past my dad, to the den and get my bag. My grandmother says, "Why do you have to do this? Can't you see what it's doing to your daughter?" His reply: "I don't care." I walk past him. Point in his face. "Up yours. You're such an asshole!" "Yeah, fine." We escape. But have I really? |