The
last time I saw my daughter was a Thursday morning, seven months ago.
It was probably ten a.m. And I was probably wearing the same plaid
pajama bottoms and the same faded “Queers” t-shirt that I wear as
I type this—my standard lazy morning gear. Strangely, the rest of
that last brief meeting is less clear. Of course I didn't know it
would be the last time I'd see her.
E's mother and I separated when she was
seven months old. That is, we ceased cohabitation. We had been, in
effect, broken up since before she was born in February; we spent the
next half-year negotiating our way around each other, physically and
emotionally—inhabiting the same spaces but not sharing them in any
real sense. The days were divided into chores and interior time
zones, an arrangement that became more pronounced when I lost my job
soon after E's birth. I put E down in the evening and after her
morning feeding, took over around 7 am so that S could get a few
hours of sleep. The afternoons usually involved me alone at home—E
and S on this errand or that. Because of an extensive breast-feeding
schedule, E was rarely left alone with me for more than an hour. So
for 50 minutes at a time—when S was teaching, or when she darted
off to pick up groceries, or when she went for a run—E was mine.
We bonded in the ways an infant and a new daddy can. I played her
music and she “danced,” I read her poetry. We took naps together.
By the time S and I separated
physically, after a summer of petty arguments, semi-accurate
accusations on both sides, too many late nights alone in the TV room
with cable movies and Miller High Life, we were both more than a
little broken, but also, I like to think, hopeful. We took every
step to ensure that our own alienation from each other—our
derangement—would not interfere with our co-parenting.
Nightly bath-time? The same. As she got a bit older, favorite
stories before bedtime? Check. Family dinners? Of course. While S
and I weren't always on best terms, we made every effort to convince
ourselves we were making every effort to nurture our child and
protect her from our own petty differences and insecurities. We
would talk about inconsequential minutiae, spout neat phrases like
amateur meteorologists, pretend to discuss politics and film. I'd
offer S thoughtful commentary on her teaching; she'd generally keep
quiet about her dissertation, always almost finished. (A failed PhD
myself, I wondered if she was trying to protect herself or my
feelings by refusing to discuss her academic work). On the surface,
we had a very imperfect but workable relationship. And most
importantly we were ensuring that our daughter had both parents in
her life—what I thought we both wanted.
That Thursday morning in June was out
of the ordinary but not completely unprecedented. My visits with E
usually took place in the evenings, with the occasional afternoons
added when S needed “me” time—usually the gym. But this
morning, S called and informed me they were just on their way home
from an errand and asked if they could stop by. E was in a bad
mood—fussy, as two-year olds tend to be, and they didn't stay long.
I assumed we'd reconnect later in the day or the next day; I had
learned by this time that matters of scheduling were best left to S
as she approached all events in her life with a greater sense of
urgency than I did, no matter the occasion. It was simply easier to
defer to her on some matters.
So Thursday night came and went. Then
it was Saturday. I waited, watched a lot of television, made
countless short jaunts to the supermarket, to walk the aisles, to
pretend I was shopping, anything to shake off the feeling that
something was wrong.
*
On Monday evening, I received the phone
call, wishing me a belated Father's Day. They were, it seemed, in
the mid-west, visiting friends, “just a short vacation,” S
assured me. “We'll probably be back in a week,” said the
receiver. S's voice was chipper, assured, relaxed. Annoyed but
relieved, I rationalized that this small getaway would be good for
all three of us and next week we'd return to business as usual, but
refreshed.
But something kept eating at me. It
just didn't seem right. It
was, as they say in the detective movies, hinky.
A few days after the phone call, I strolled by S's house—something
I would do most days anyway, as she lived only a few blocks away and
was on the way to most places I'd normally find myself walking. Gone
was her new SUV—I was nonplussed when, a week earlier she suddenly
had a new car, since her “old” car she'd owned for scarcely 2
years, and this one was definitely more expensive—and in its place
was a U-Haul. Strange people moved from the truck to the door,
hauling boxes, furniture. I tried to speak to the new tenant but the
woman was reticent to reveal much; she'd only say that they were
moving in today, that the old tenant had moved out last week. I went
next door to the landlord's house. Becky and her husband confirmed
that S had moved out last week, had given her notice a month before.
She didn't seem to find it curious that I had no idea about any of
this. Was I the only one in my sphere, the only one in E's life who
didn't know?
I
guess E, in all her two years, didn't really know either. And that's
what I think about now. It's the small questions that keep me awake
at night, gulping coffee and obsessing over Twitter, or “culture”
and politics blogs, afraid to sleep because sleep, well, sleep is
always difficult. The question that I ponder most frequently is what
she told E. How do you tell a two-year old that you are leaving
Daddy behind? What did she say when E asked for me? When I asked why
she left, every time I asked it, until after a few months I silently
resigned myself to not knowing, S would only clear her throat, change
the subject, or simply pretend not to hear me. If you ignore
something long enough it often does go away. It worked, I suppose.
In
just over a month E will celebrate her third birthday. I, most
likely, will not be there. For the time being, I'm still a known
presence. I'm “Daddy” but what that is coming to mean as the
weeks wear on is that I'm “that man in the computer who reads me
books sometimes and says nice things.” I don't know if she has any
memories of me as a flesh and blood person. Does she still ask about
me? Is it too late to matter?
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