I'm Glad My Mom Died(75)

As for how I remember it, I remember a few good things. I remember loving the way that Dad’s flannels smelled—pinewood with a dab of fresh paint. Sometimes I would sleep in them for comfort. I remember him teaching me how to tie my baby-pink Winnie the Pooh shoes bunny-ears-style while I sat in a shopping cart in Sam’s Club and Mom complained about how expensive toilet paper had gotten. I remember him inviting me to his work Christmas party at Home Depot. I couldn’t believe he had chosen me to go to the party with him. Me! I didn’t have to believe it for long because I quickly discovered it was Mom who wanted me to go with him, to collect intel on which co-workers he might potentially be having an affair with. “Don’t rule out Don. I’ve always wondered if your father’s secretly gay. Something about the way he sits, the way he crosses his legs.” Regardless, I had a fun time at the party. There were red-and-green chiffon curtains hanging from the walls. Unsold Christmas trees lined the room. I learned how to play blackjack. I really felt loved by Dad that day.

But otherwise, the memories were less than fantastic. Mostly I remember Dad not being present. Seeming uninterested. I remember him trying to read Stan the Hot Dog Man to me and Scottie every night for what must have been a three-or four-week stretch until eventually we gave up on him reading it because he couldn’t get through the children’s book without falling asleep. I remember him forgetting dance recitals and falling asleep during the family watch parties Mom would have for my TV performances. I remember The Great Pornography Debacle of ’03. Mom caught Dad watching pornography—a major sin in Mormonism—and kicked him out of the house again, that time for a month. She insisted that I call him by his first name—“Mark”—after that. I did until she died.

Now, as I sit here opposite Dad and his new girlfriend, I’m not looking for Mom’s side, and I’m not looking for how I remember things. I’m looking for Dad’s side.

“You know, it was so long ago I hardly even remember,” Dad finally answers, after a ten-second pause. He looks over to his girlfriend for approval.

Dad’s girlfriend is Karen, Mom’s high school best friend who stole her baby name. As I study Karen from across the room, I realize Mom tried to do her makeup like Karen does hers. Or maybe Karen tries to do her makeup like Mom did hers. I can’t tell, but either way it makes me uncomfortable.

I want Dad to be happy but he’s a little… too happy. It’s been a year since Mom’s death, and he’s been seeing Karen since one week after she died. Dad seemed more concerned with getting Karen’s phone number than he was with mourning his wife of thirty years at the funeral after-party. (Is that what they call the part after the funeral where everyone eats finger sandwiches and tells you how they can relate to your loss because they lost a cat a few years back?)

Dad moved quicker than my brothers and I expected, and it hasn’t been easy on any of us. We struggle but still make efforts to connect with him. We already lost our mom, we don’t want to lose our dad, too.

To be fair, Dad’s been making efforts as well, a lot more than he made when Mom was alive. He’s been calling us every so often to check in, and he had us make Amazon wish lists for Christmas so he’d know what to get us.

That’s why when Dad called me up last week to say he wanted to meet in person to “talk about things,” while I was slightly surprised by the framing, I assumed that this chat session set for today was just another one of those efforts.

But as I’m sitting here across from Dad and Karen, soaking in the lack of chemistry, I quickly realize that this is not one of Dad’s efforts at all. There’s something stiffer than usual in his body language. I figure this must be some sort of announcement.

Now my body stiffens. Shit. Dad and Karen are getting married. Oh God, am I gonna have to pretend to be supportive, excited even? I pick at my fingernails so I don’t have to make eye contact while I prepare myself for what I’m about to ask.

“So… Why’d you want to meet up?”

“Oh, well, uh…” Dad looks to Karen. She gives him big “go on” eyes. Oh God, no, here it comes.

Here it comes…

“Dustin, Scottie, and you… are not… my biological children.”

…

…

…

Huh?

I’m shocked. I feel the color drain from my face. I’m sure I’m about to pass out.

“Wha—?” my cottonmouth finally chokes out.

Dad just nods. Tears well in Karen’s eyes.

“But he is your father,” she says, her voice cracking with emotional strain. “This man’s your father.”

The dizziness starts to subside, but I still can’t think straight. Tears fall down my cheeks even though I’m completely numb.

“I just thought you should know,” Dad says, eyes looking down at his hands while he rubs them together. Mom always hated when Dad rubbed his hands together. “Get a hand cream, Mark.”

I lean over and hug him. He hugs me back. Karen watches.

“Thank you for telling me,” I say.

My head’s buried in his flannel. I smell the familiar pinewood and paint. All I can see is the plaid chest pocket right in front of my eyes. I feel the fabric getting all wet from my tears.

Karen leans toward my hunched-over body and drapes her right arm over me in a sort of half hug. Why, whenever two people are hugging in a room of three, does the third person feel the need to get in on the hug? Hugs were meant as a two-person activity, not a three-person one. We don’t need you, Number 3. Thank you.