All That You Leave Behind: A Memoir(25)

Driving was a particularly hazardous endeavor with him. Due to a Hodgkin’s lymphoma diagnosis at thirty-five, he endured radiation, which corroded the muscles in his neck, and thus he had a hard time looking fully left or right. Instead of fixing the problem or asking me to check his blind spot, he would swing our Explorer into the lane he wanted to be in, sometimes putting on his blinker, but mostly not. He just assumed that a car would move out of the way for him. This was true on the highway and in life.

In the summer of 2014, we were alone at our cabin in the Adirondacks. Something had happened with his column days earlier, and he was in an irritable mood. We got dinner at the local chicken shack, a beloved place called Hattie’s. I ordered the same thing that he did. Big-boy order of fried chicken with a side of collard greens and mashed potatoes with a generous amount of gravy piled on top. Diet Coke accompanied the order, naturally. Our stomachs and hearts full, we piled back into the car. He clicked through his music until he found the Replacements, a band that he adored. It was dark now. He cranked the music up almost as loud as it could go. The car began to shake from the bass. It was too loud for me. I watched as he raced back to our green cabin, pushing eighty miles an hour on mountain highways that were known to hide deer. I shouted at him, “Maybe we should slow down!” He grunted in response, paying me no mind. I started to sweat and had a sick thought: This is how I die, in this car with my dad. My heart raced as I watched him, window open, cigarette smoking, foot on the gas. Extreme in so many ways. He did not fear death as others might; instead, I imagine he courted it, taunted it, as if to say, “Look at what I’ve been through already, and I’m still here.”

We arrived back home safely, against the odds, and I slammed the door. “That was way too fast. It wasn’t safe.” He reminded me through gritted teeth to never tell him how to run his show. With that he walked into the cabin living room and closed the door. I retreated to my side of the house and thought about what had just happened. Was I overreacting? I didn’t feel like a cautious person. Why couldn’t my dad hear me when I told him I wasn’t feeling safe? It was like he was willing to do anything to protect me, except when it intersected with his control issues. When it came to that territory, he was unwilling to compromise. Or was there something about me that made him push the mental IGNORE button?

I stayed mad at him for days. The next morning, I glowered at him as he made coffee for the both of us. He just could not stand anyone telling him what to do. I wondered what he was like at work, with bosses and deadlines. Navigating the internal political waters at the Times surely required making compromises.

Even though I was distraught, I didn’t bother calling my sisters to intervene on my behalf. I had the distinct impression that nothing I or my sisters said would elicit meaningful change; only he had the power to dictate that.

As the days passed I tried to just forget about the incident and move past it, but when he asked me if I wanted to get dinner, saying he was tired of hot dogs on the family stove, I shook my head. I lied and told him I wasn’t feeling well. I didn’t want to get in the car with him again. I didn’t like not having a way out. He likely didn’t care.





15


    Choose Wisely





It all started with some oversharing. When I set out to write this book, I posted on Facebook: “Hive-mind: Have any of you guys done writing residencies? Do you have a creative place that you loved when you made your doc/book/project? I would love your feedback…xo.” Helpful suggestions trickled in, and then I saw that my ex-boyfriend Paul had posted a comment on my status. I clicked on the notification and saw the words “locked in my bedroom crying.” I instinctively smiled, flushed with a mixture of excitement and dread. He knew what I was going to write about and asked to meet with me.

I agreed to meet Paul for coffee in Park Slope, Brooklyn. Originally he suggested dinner, but that sounded too intimate and time-consuming for this confrontation.

I was already seated when he walked in. I had to admit, he looked good. We started with some small talk, but he was determined to cut to the chase, questioning me about my book. As I told him about my writing, he interjected with “But are you going to talk about that one night?”

I said yes, then tried to lessen his fears by saying I would like to interview him and get his side of the story. I knew I was by no means an angel in my version.

“I just…I don’t know why you need to go into that whole thing. Everyone will know it’s me.”

“Who, our four mutual friends?” I replied.

He looked down. “Everyone, everyone who knows you is going to read it and know it’s me. I have never acted like that since then and I would prefer if that is not what I am known for.”

I nod.

“Do I have any rights here?” he said.

I could not help but feel sad for him. “Well, I can’t print libel or lies. It has to be what happened.”

He looked down again. “That’s what I am worried about.”

A few minutes later we got up to leave. I almost tripped on the way out. When I got dressed that morning I had chosen heels for this very moment, imagining a graceful exit as I walked away from the table with Aretha Franklin pounding in my head. But instead, we shuffled out the door together. It wasn’t triumphant or empowering. It was more depressing and uncomfortable.