Even when I needed him to be angry, too.
In early childhood, before I knew or understood myself, Dad would try, calmly, to explain my hurts to me.
The other kids teased me for my big words, dirty hair, and muddy boots, and called me every variety of the word annoying because“People often ridicule what they don’t understand.”
My teachers didn’t like my questions… or couldn’t answer them because“Your questions often fall outside the curriculum and exceed their knowledge set.”
I didn’t feel I belonged because“The intricacies of group dynamics don’t favor those who are exceptional.”
Ordifficult, I’d tack on in my head.
My frustration led to impulses I struggled to control, often failing.
Screaming, at no one in particular, just to give the energy surge somewhere to go.
Stamping my feet.
Fisting my hands.
Pulling my hair.
Running.
Always running.Racing through the woods flickers through my thoughts.In the rain.In the snow.In the heat.Sunlight.Grayness.Darkness.Boots.Bare feet.Socks.Scratches on my arms and legs from whipping through branches.Tripping.Hurting.Panting.
My head shakes, breaking me from the thought cycle.My control increased with age.But my worst moments are most remembered, as if it takes a million positive encounters to cancel out a single negative one.They still expect the worst from me.
Ivy and Dad almost appear to be holding their breaths, awaiting my response.I wonder how Dad and Ivy explained me to their significant others.Evidence suggests that they may have said something like,“She’s smart but difficult.”That’s how they’ve explained me before.
Alwayswith abut.
But I understand—I often say the wrong things.I have a lazy, unreliable filter with a low efficacy rate.At least, that’s what Dr.Broderick and I have concluded.I sift through years of my therapist’s advice for an answer that I hope isn’tweirdordifficult.“Your thoughts are intriguing and worth consideration.”I tack on a toothy smile for good measure, though it feels incorrect on my face.
Everyone relaxes at once.Well, except for Dad.He maintains his usual composure.
A white and black puppy paws at my leg, demanding attention.I lean over and give it a customary rub behind the ears—I’ve read that dogs appreciate that.
“That’s Buster.He’s a Border Collie.”Ivy reaches into her bag for a ball and tosses it across the room.The dog races after it, fishtailing across the wood floor.He retrieves the ball dutifully, drops it at her feet, and races around our group, barking.
“Hmm, I do believe we’re being herded,” Dad says, amused.
Gil presents Dad with a bottle of wine.“Christie said we’re having lasagna.I thought a pinot might be a good pairing.”
“Ah, excellent.”Dad scrutinizes the label, though he’s not a wine connoisseur.“A good wine pairs perfectly with good company.I’ll get this open.”
“I’ll help with glasses,” Gil says, following him into the small kitchen.
“Okay, girls,” Christie coos conspiratorially, “let’s hurry outside to the table and dish about how cute and nervous Gil is.”
Giggling ensues as they rush through the living room to the glass doors.Buster yaps, trailing behind them.I hesitate, unsure if I want to engage in that conversation.
But when Christie holds the door open and waves me along, I comply.Christie is an excellent conversationalist, as he demonstrated earlier when he “spilled the tea” about his relationship with Dad.
They met several months ago when he and his daughter, Wren, discovered Venus flytraps around a swamp near their home in Seagrove.Interested in preserving the discovery, they emailed the expert for advice.Dad drove out to see for himself.
“He expected a woman.I signed my emailsChristie, you see,” he laughed as he explained, “but he wasn’t disappointed at the surprise.We’re both single dads with daughters named for something in nature—funny, right?It was an instant connection.It’s never too late to find your soulmate.”
“Um, if you believe in that sort of thing,” I said, though I do.“I’m happy for you both.”
