“Your mother and I have been talking. I guess you’ve been updated with my condition? Well, the truth is that my prognosis is less than rosy, and I want to get my affairs in order.”
An affair, is that what I am? Just another menial inconvenience that needs to be dealt with? I’m gripping the chair as hard as I can, forcing myself not to interrupt him.
“I wanted to let you know that I don’t blame you.”
I’m not sure that I’m hearing him right; I watch him closely, waiting for him to carry on, but it’s apparent that he’s expecting my response.
“Don’t blame me for what? For you being in here? Wait, no…you don’t blame me for screwing up your life? Or you don’t blame me for my real mother dying? Maybe you don’t blame me for aggravating you and making you hit me. Come on Dad, you’ll have to help me out here because there’s quite a list to choose from. Which one is it that you’re absolving me of?”
My knuckles have turned white from the pressure I’m applying to the back of the seat, my breathing feels labored, and I’m having a hard time maintaining control over the volume of my voice. I want to scream, toss this chair at him and let go of the rage that’s simmering so close to the surface. It worries me that I may not be able to contain it much longer.
He squeezes his eyes shut and works his jaw back and forth. He doesn’t have the luxury of expressing the anger and frustration I can tell he so badly wants to let out.
“I guess I deserve that. I know I’ve been less than a model father to you.”
My sardonic laughter halts his admissions. “Model father! Damn…you must be on more drugs than I realized if you think your parenting skills can even be classified in the same realm as a model father.”
It’s a low blow; I don’t know why I’m trying to aggravate him and pick a fight. I suppose I’m not comfortable with this situation, and when you feel out of your depths, you revert to what you know. All I’ve ever known with my dad is him talking down to me, shouting, complaining. I’m so used to it that it makes me uncomfortable when he’s not. I don’t know the last time we had a discussion that didn’t end in him yelling at me about what a worthless screw up I am.
“Let me get this out, will you?” he wheezes and I can tell it's an effort for him to talk. “I know my failings. I don’t need them pointed out. I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry before it’s too late.”
“It’s already too late, Dad.”
“You have every right to hate me. I’ve struggled for so long, watching you grow into a version of Samantha that I just couldn’t deal with. Your mannerisms, appearance, everything about you reminds me of her. I know you can’t help that, but you need to understand what it’s like for me. Every time I look at you, I see her. Then I’m overcome with resentment, and I can’t stop my anger. I’ll start talking to you and my control slips and before I know it I’m not talking, I’m screaming louder and louder and I know it’s wrong, but I can’t stop myself.
“I thought that if I emotionally disconnected from you, it would get better. Before long I felt completely overwhelmed that I couldn’t get control over the bitterness. The resentment was eating at me, and I didn’t want anything to do with you. Day after day, especially when you were younger, I wanted to be left alone and for you to be quiet. That way I wouldn’t have to be this monster I’ve become. But you always wanted my attention, my approval. You wouldn’t listen. If you’d just listened, I wouldn’t have had to be so strict.”
I’ve known for a long time that he hated me, but having him confirm it to me has my whole body vibrating. I’m not sure if it’s shock, anger, or hurt, even. I need to sit down. I move around the chair and drop into it like a ragdoll as my legs give way, and I clutch at chunks of my hair as I rest my elbows on my knees.
“Why did you not just give me up? Why spend your life looking after a kid you hate?”
“I don’t hate you…I love you.”
That has my attention; my eyes snap back to his. “Are you kidding me right now? You’ve just told me how much you resent me. You’ve basically blamed me for making you into a monster, and now you’re telling me you love me. Well, fuck you!”
“Now, hold on—”
“No, you hold on! You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to explain the abuse away with a ten minute monologue, tag on a token ‘I love you’ for good measure, and think that absolves your treatment of me for my entire goddamn existence.”