2004-05-03 - 11:14 p.m.
The Return of the Father
My mother called tonight. She had “news.” Apparently, my father called. His mother died, and he called her to give me the news. He left a number.
A fucking NUMBER. This asshole calls my mother, tells her his mother died, tells her when the funeral is and leaves a number. No other information.
This probably sounds pretty innocuous. It’s not. You see, I haven’t voluntarily spoken to the man since I was 12, since the night something told me I couldn’t take it anymore and I called my mother and begged her to come get me. The last time I spoke to that bastard was when I was 17; I happened to be home when he called to speak to my mother, and I got nothing but a guilt trip—why did I leave, it was all my fault, etc.
Fuck you, fuck you, FUCK. YOU.
And now he calls and leaves a NUMBER. Not an address of the funeral home, or information on where they’re sitting shiva. Just a number. Because he wants me not to call so he can blame me again. I told my mother this, and she said, “Don’t you think things happen and people change?” I replied, “Mom, has he ever done anything that’s not manipulative?” “No,” she said. There you go.
If I don’t call, and if I do nothing, they get to paint me as the bad guy. I mentioned that to my mom too, and she said something about how they would blame HER for not giving me the number. No, Mom, I said, I’ve heard what they’ve said about me. I know how they think, and I know what they say. I’ve heard it my whole life. I’ve heard that he called me a “little bitch” to his younger children, and they repeated it to anyone who ever claimed an acquaintance with me. I know they’ll find a way to blame me again. And I am not having it.
Grandmom (my REAL grandmother) is going to find out where the funeral is, and I’ll make a donation, just so they don’t have the satisfaction. This might be a little amusing for my grandparents; they hated this woman and they hate my father—so much so that if Grandpop expresses interest in the funeral I would beg him not to go—and Grandmom has checked the obits every day for YEARS to find out if That Woman had died yet. I wouldn’t be surprised if Grandmom offers to go to the funeral just to make sure she’s dead. I would kind of like to see that.
Yes, I know, I’m speaking ill of the dead. That goes against everything I believe in, really. My father’s mother, however, was a cruel, cold, manipulative woman. She taught her son well. She claimed to denounce him and love me, but when he discovered that I was visiting her, he decided to be The Loving Son again and wrench her away from me. He pitted her against me just as he did with me and my brother. She went willingly, though. She was a grown, smart woman who knew exactly what she was doing and did it anyway. She would visit Baltimore and not bother to call me, even though I was around the corner and would have liked to hear from her. You don’t do that to a 15-year-old who’s got enough shit going on. You just don’t.
And him. The idea that he wants to manipulate me again fills me with a horrid, awful rage. I think I’ve gone beyond him, and he pops up again. And I have gone beyond him. I will never get over my anger towards him (not unless he writes me a letter and fucking APOLOGIZES for making a 12-year-old feel like she is more worthless than a sack of shit), but I am passed the sadness. I don’t need this shit right now. I have too much on my plate—comps, moving to NYC, finding a job—and I just don’t need this. Oh, yeah—I have all this stuff on my plate that has nothing to do with him.
Take that, you manipulative rat bastard.
