“Well quit with the tears, go wash your damn face, and get your ass back outthere and smile. You blow this for me because of your stupid tears, Kev, I’ll never forgive you. I’ll give you something to cry about.”
Yeeeaaaah. Suuuuure,thatpep-talk…helped.
Not.
Apparently, Mom saw me duck behind the tree, but she wasn’t quick enough to intercept Dad before he pursued me. By the time she caught up with me where Dad had left me standing behind the church building, I wasclose to hyperventilating and was full-on snot-sobbing.
Because I knew I couldn’t get my shit together, which meant I’d ruin this for Dad.
And he’d never forgive me.
Thenhow would I ever get him to love me?
Repeatad infinitum.
Mom somehow calmed me down, gave me something for my headache, which only helped a little, and sent me inside to the air-conditioned sanctuary’s bathroom to washmy face and clean up. She told me to stay inside for a little while, to sit in the front foyer, which was still cooler than outside, before returning to the barbecue.
I don’t know what she said to my dad later, but that ride home was so chilly between them that it felt like my balls were sitting on a block of fucking ice, and my upset stomach didn’t help matters any. Mom talked to me, but Dadignored both of us and projected a disgusted air that I knew all too well.
Remember that seminal moment in the movieA Christmas Story, when Ralphie’s mom covers for him with his father after the fight? That’s what this felt like.
Except my father is a complete dick.
Worse, I don’t know he’s a dick back then. I looked up to him, because he’s an attorney, and he’s got a good job making goodmoney—so he told me all the time—and how would I get him to love me if I couldn’t even catch his attention except when I was disappointing him?
How would I ever make him proud?
Mom put me to bed with a cool, damp washcloth on my forehead. She experienced migraines and immediately wondered if that’s what was hitting me. I thought my eyeballs were going to explode from my skull by the time I finallypuked around midnight.
But then, like magic, the headache went away.
Mom woke up when she heard me in the bathroom, helped me clean up, then stopped before putting me back in bed.
“Did you eat anything today, honey?”
I shook my head. “Not since breakfast.”
She held out her hand and led me to the kitchen, where she had some peach sherbet in the freezer. My favorite. She dished me out two bigscoops and sat at the table with me, talking while I ate it.
“Turn off your alarm clock tonight, sweetie,” she said when I finished. “I’m going to keep you home from school tomorrow. When I was your age and got these, sometimes they’d hit back hard the next day. I’d rather keep you home.”
So I did.
The next day, Mom spent it with me. She cranked down the AC to a chilly sixty-seven to hopefullyhelp stave off a rebound headache, and we curled up on the couch and watched movies while she made sure I drank plenty of water. The migraine didn’t rebound, thank god, but since then I have had some that did.
What I will never forget about that day was how I wished it was as easy to win my dad’s love the way Mom loved me.
No, my dad didn’t win his election.
Yes, he let me know, in ways bigand small whenever Mom wasn’t around, that he considered it my fault.
Because I was only freakingtenyears old, I believed him.
* * * *
I don’t know why I’m thinking about that day with Mom today as I head downstairs to meet my crew.
It’s been eight years since Mom died, but I miss her so damn much. Despite being an adult, I still struggle with my secret shame that I wish it’d been Dad whodied a long, torturous demise from cancer, and not her.
