The You I've Never Known(17)

with any of your family?”

You’re my family, Air.

Besides . . . He trails off, then continues. Okay, I never told you this because it didn’t seem important for you to know, but Drew was killed in the line of duty a few years ago. He was a damn good cop, but he messed up bad that day. Never assume someone with their hands in the air isn’t concealing a weapon.





Uncle Drew


I can scarcely picture him, and what surrounds the memory is the smell

of tobacco on his fingers when he held me.

“Of course it was important for me to know, Dad! You and I have always been so isolated. So insulated.

And you’re the one who kept us

that way. I’d like to think I have family outside of just the two of us.”

Family is a recipe for heartbreak, Ariel. A recipe for heartbreak, he repeats, louder, for emphasis.

We’re almost home before I finally find the courage to ask the question that prickles on every birthday.

“Do you suppose my mother’s missing me today? Not that I really care, but do you think she wonders about me?”

I expect his usual barrage of expletives.

Instead, he sits quietly for several long seconds. Finally, he sighs heavily.

You know, sometimes I ponder that. When you first came along, Jenny seemed like such a good mama.





My Jaw Drops


I

am

blown

away.

I can’t remember

him saying one

nice thing about her.

He hardly ever even mentions her name.

“Really?”

I hope I didn’t sound too eager. But I know nothing about my babyhood.

It’s not something he discusses, and he doesn’t have a single picture of me before the age of three.

Yeah. Jesus, did she have me fooled! You know, I’ve been with a lot of women in my time. Enjoyed the company of ladies near and far.

But Jenny was the only one I ever let myself love.

I’ll never make that mistake again.





The Confession


Materializes from inner

space, so unrecognizable

it’s totally alien.

And yet it makes Dad human.

“You were in love with my mother.”

The simple declarative sentence pushes Dad over the edge.

Goddamn straight. Why does that surprise you?

“I don’t know. I just never heard you say so before.”

I had to pretend she meant nothing, or lose my mind.

She used me. Played me.

But even if I could’ve gotten past that, I’ll never forgive her for screwing you over.

Not one goddamn word in all these years! Too damn busy playing bushwhacker with her girlfriend.





Bushwhacker?


No comment. But now I have

to hear the story again.

I pretend to listen, catching

snatches (ooh, bad word in

context here) of his recitation: . . . from deployment, no one there to greet me.

. . . got home and Jenny says she’s moving out.

. . . in with her girlfriend. Girl.

Friend. She left me—and you— for a goddamn dyke!

. . . out the door, not so much as a good-bye kiss for her baby girl.

Wish I’d have seen it coming.

How could a mama do such a vile thing to her child?

I’ve asked myself that very

question many, many times,

invariably after Dad repeats

the tale. Usually, he’s two sheets into the wind, and today he’s

at least a sheet-and-a-half-way

there. How can he drive like this?





It’s Nothing New


Of course, and for the most part

we’ve been lucky. I mean, considering

the miles we’ve traveled, oftentimes

with him drinking either before we got

into the car or even after we were on

our way, most of his beer-fueled faux

pas were relatively minor. There was

one time I can barely remember. I couldn’t have been older than three. It wasn’t

long after we first started road tripping.

Dad let me sit up front, where I was, for sure, not safe, despite the fact that his car was too old to have air bags. Luckily,

it was equipped with seat belts. Thankfully, I was wearing mine when he swerved

to miss something in the road, overcorrected, and skidded off the highway, rolling us

down a muddy bank. We landed on the tires, and Dad was drunk enough to start laughing, even though he’d broken bones in one arm and one leg. Except for peeing my panties, I was totally fine. But we weren’t going anywhere, not in that wreck. Which is

how we came to live with Leona, who

witnessed the entire incident and stopped to ascertain the extent of our injuries.

Funny, but I can see her face peering

into my window as clear as water, and

I can make out her razor-voiced words.

Everyone okay in there? I’m a nurse.

The details blur after that, but Leona

helped us out of the car, noting Dad’s

extremities. You stay right here. Don’t try to get up. I’ll go call for an ambulance.