Say what?
The other night I had the God awful task of taking my step-mother out for dinner.
She lives in the States and is here visiting her father who has been ill. I don’t particularly care to see her but I know my father would have wanted me to make an effort (especially since she’s the mother of my “babiest” brother). Anyhow I have been calling her and leaving messages for over a week. To no avail.
But I am not going to bitch too much on that as there is so much else I can bitch about so let me not digress.
I went to her parents flat to pick her up for a nice dinner out somewhere, but instead we landed up eating at the little restaurant next door her parents flat as she didn’t want to stray too far “in case”. Uh huh…….
And as for the conversation…
Well we spoke about my father (who’s dead) the entire night. Not kidding. THE ENTIRE NIGHT. Now the thing is my father and I did not have any form of relationship until he got sick. I hated him my whole life which in turn I used as an excuse to be a disgusting teenager, allowing my emotional-cum-man issues to wreck almost everything. However I have emerged as an independent women from this ordeal, a little scarred but wiser nonetheless.
Neewhays when my dad got sick I felt I had no option but to confront my demons, and so I did. And it was the best thing I could have done, as forgiveness is a lot lighter than resentment…. And a hunchback isn’t exactly 2007 is it?
But.
I don’t know my father like she does. She lived with the man for 20 odd years (she was 19 he was 33). He was her lover, her partner, her provider, the father of her child etcetera etcetera etcetera.
But.
He was my father. My blood. And sometimes that counts too… Right?
So back to the conversation….. Dad this Dad that When Dad and I yadda yadda and there I was listening patiently.
Quietly thinking to myself: “ Why yes! I am fine! Thank you for asking. What’s that? My job? Oh yes its lovely I really enjoy it, everyday is a new challenge, great fun, good company. What do I do? Oh well I run an entire fucking warehouse of goods and staff is all. What’s that you say? Men? No there isn’t anyone at all in my life. Under construction as they say. CPM? Oh we ended things over a year ago. Remember I told you? No you don’t…oh must be because you’re a brain-dead selfish git. Hmmmm? My bazooka wound? Oh well funny you should mention it because just the other day I was cleaning the house – yes yes the one you haven’t been to – and the wound just opened up right there and then! I know can you imagine! Gosh bazooka wounds, they just don’t make ‘em like they used to do they?”
And just when I thought it couldn’t get any heavier, she comes out with a statement that shot through me like fire: “You know what luvvy, I have figured out why dad died. It’s because he fulfilled his purpose here on earth. I was so young and dependant on him that I could do nothing for myself. And that’s why he died. He died so that I could realize that I can actually do things on my own – like write a cheque”.
Deathly Silence.
Yes.
That must be it.
My father was savaged by cancer so that you could learn about finances.
That’s why he was born.
Not to father two kids. Not to be a good son. Not even to enjoy life’s pleasures.
No.
He died so that you, you fucking self-centred empty-headed moron, could pay the electricity bill on your own.
Gosh!
He must have loved life having such purpose.
I mean seriously?
But of course, I kept quiet.
Because what’s the point? Why even attempt it.
It was clear from the outset that this conversation wasn’t to share feelings, or memories.
So why bother?
And it was here that I realized that there are times when I literally sew my mouth shut and I really shouldn’t. And times when I bang my gums together and make a big noise, and really I shouldn’t.
So now I have to see her tomorrow for lunch.
And I am thinking……. Anybody got a bazooka handy?
