The You I've Never Known(19)

I Don’t Dare


Vocalize that, of course, and not because of bad language. Dad doesn’t appreciate my pushing back on anything. If he utters it, I’m supposed to believe every word.

Sometimes I think he

wants to own my brain, manage it, housekeep it, scrub it until it’s polished to a contemplation-free sheen, then reprogram every single opinion.

At times I feel he’d like to keep me in a box, tied up with a pretty bow, and truthfully, existing stuffed in a cube would be easier than mustering the will to shake down the invisible walls, break free from my history, go in search of the woman I want to become, with or without Dad’s blessing.

Oh, who am I kidding?

Forget the damn “with.”





Dad Will Never


Willingly let me go. Never encourage me to grow up and detach myself

from his greedy grasp. No, I’ll have to wrest myself away forcibly.

But then what? It’s not like I’ve got a whole lot of options. Graduating high school is goal number one,

and I’ve still got a way to go. I can barely consider what’s beyond that

horizon. Placid ocean? Tsunami? Icebergs?

I can’t imagine life without my dad in control. He’s definitely an overbearing admiral, but what if I’m the kind of captain who can’t avoid sideswiping the glacier and sinking the ship? Oh, look. Here I go again. Whenever I converse with myself I talk a great game, but when I take a firm mental stand, eventually I chicken out.

I really need to quit that. Dependency isn’t only self-defeating. It’s self-perpetuating.





As Dad and I Go Inside


That silly Santa sentence keeps knocking on the door to a corridor in my brain I can never quite access. I swear I’ll unlock the portal one day. Dad asks about TV, but I’m tired and it’s approaching late, and algebra comes with a test tomorrow.

I take a quick shower, brush my teeth, don my pj’s, and climb into bed with my math notes, not that they’ll do me much good. Math and I have agreed

to disagree. The only reason I care at all is I have to keep up my grades so I can play basketball. The main problem

is, with all the school I missed growing up, I never got the basics down very well.

Dad, who sometimes played the role

of homeschooler, tried his best to teach me what he could, but his own education was lacking. Some people might write that off as Oklahoma ranchers not caring about reading, writing, and arithmetic, but Ma-maw and Pops valued school

learning. Uncle Drew was a good

student, according to Ma-maw, but Dad always preferred messing around with engines to building his brain.

That boy always did as little schoolwork as possible. Just barely enough to get by, she told me once. Then he’d sweet-talk his teachers into passing him anyway.

That isn’t so hard to believe, especially if his teachers were female. Knowing this now doesn’t bother me much,

but when I was young it used to make me mad because I loved when I got

to go to school. It made me feel like a normal kid. Whenever I had actual

classroom time, I gathered every bit of knowledge I could, and held it close.

But English and social studies came easier than math and science, so I guess

I’ll always lag in anything numbers related.





One Thing Math Is Good For


Is making me drowsy.

Can’t sleep? You don’t need melatonin or Lunestra.

Twenty minutes staring

vacantly at notes about

algebraic equations

does the trick every time.

I click off my bedside lamp, drop my head on the pillow, close my eyes, and burrow

into the darkness. The faint sound of Dad’s TV show

is soothing, and somewhere outside an owl cries whoo-whoo over wind tapping against window glass.

A pleasant lull wraps itself around me and as I wait

for sleep to find me, that

silly refrain surfaces again.

The sleigh knows the way, so Santa, please don’t sweat it.

Only this time, the faintest hint of a voice is attached.

It’s a clear, warm soprano, familiar but not, and now

she sings, You better watch out. You better not cry. You better not pout, I’m telling you why. Santa Claus is coming . . .

It’s at once unsettling and comforting. The latter because I know the words are meant for my ears; the former

because I can’t match a face with the voice, and I must.

One of Dad’s women? Maybe, but I don’t remember any of them singing, at least not like this, and definitely not to me. I know, somehow, this person’s song is meant specifically for my ears.

My mother. That’s who it is, and I don’t want to listen to this remnant of my earlier musing.

I put the pillow over my head so the only thing left to hear is the rasp of my breathing.





By Morning


My heart

has mostly glued itself back together, and my brain has excised last night’s unbidden memory, scrubbed away most of the remains, leaving me slightly off-kilter. I’ve never embraced the idea of chasing

after the past when the present is difficult enough. Besides, I want no specters

inhabiting my future, so I’ve determined to exorcise them, banish them into the realm of nightmares.