It has been nearly nine years since Kate and I met. Certain chemistry never faded, but room for realizations left us laughing at how little we had in common. In retrospect, we’d mostly been fucking. But what has never changed, what will never change, is the love between us. Loyal, generous, emotionally present—Kate is not just a wonderful friend, she is an honest friend.
My tendency was to fantasize, not look or respond to what was actually happening. I did not listen. And, to put it bluntly, I was codependent. Only now am I finally moving away from that. Better boundaries, less fearful, more openhearted. Stronger, with a burgeoning confidence I did not possess before. Reminders and lessons emerge from our most painful moments, ones I’m sure I will forget and have to remember again. But I would rather remember, I’d rather the hurt than not—at least I got to love you, at least I felt your love for me. Maggie Nelson:
That this blue exists makes my life a remarkable one, just to have seen it. To have seen such beautiful things. To find oneself placed in their midst. Choiceless.
25
CHOOSING FAMILY
“I just want to live with you,” I said to my mother at thirteen, “I don’t want to go back and forth anymore.”
No longer did I want to count the days down to the sixteenth, I wanted to live with my mom full-time.
Her eyes lit up, her posture straightened, I could see the excitement. She worked to conceal her joy, presumably to not influence my decision. I could tell she was happy, which made me happy. Her face went from a big grin to more focused, she wondered why I wanted to make the change?
Nervous, I stumbled on my words. Looking down, I scrounged for a reason, wishing I didn’t need one as guilt clawed at me.
“I just want to be in one place. I am tired of going back and forth. I’m always forgetting stuff.”
Telling her the whole truth about how I felt in that house seemed impossible. An inexplicable fear pulsated within me, holding me back. I was too afraid to cause an upheaval that would never be restored.
The bitterness had reached a peak, a thick fog in the house when I got home from school and found myself alone with Linda. I’d even ask a pal who came over, Did they sense it, too?
“Her vibe is weird, right?” I said. Her energy. That tone. Those looks. “I don’t think she likes me.” They agreed.
I didn’t have friends over much. I wondered what my soccer teammates thought on the rare occasions they came over. As my dad used to “jokingly” catcall them from the car while they walked home from junior high school.
“Heeeey there, looking good, ladies!” he’d yell.
“Ewww, Dennis!” they’d respond. Not quite laughing. I’d hide and cringe in the passenger seat.
My father changed, depending on who was around. With Linda he would shut down with me, but alone with me, he shared deep love, blurring emotional boundaries. Perhaps this was the only way he knew how to remain close, scavenging for connection when he could and protecting it, ours alone.
In any event, I didn’t have the words for it at the time and I still struggle with them. I was running on ice, just hoping for the dirt’s friction.
I asked my mother to not tell my dad yet, my stomach clamped tight at the thought of it. How upset he would be, how hurt. The guilt continued to roam through me.
“Your father will understand,” my mom said in a comforting tone. It is not that she believed he would be devoid of hurt, of course it would sting, but that ultimately he would support my decision despite it.
I knew this was not true. I knew that he would not understand. I knew he’d be furious. Face turned sharp. But I did not know how to express this to my mother.
That evening I had a soccer match. Passing the ball back and forth, Tina and I warmed up on the Dalhousie University turf, a home game for us. A midfielder, right wing, I wanted to focus on the corner kick coming, timing and bending the run perfectly to connect my forehead with the ball, twisting my neck, hoping to see that whoosh at the rear of the net. Instead, I kept looking over my shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse. I knew they would both be in the stands at some point.
Eventually there they were, next to each other, I could see them speaking. Instead of paying attention to the ball I was fixated on my parents’ proximity to each other. Setting up for a throw-in, speeding to receive a pass, tripping over the ball as I tried to deke, all I could think was, Is my mom going to say something?
Walking across the turf, I could feel it squish under my cleats as I readjusted my soccer bag over my shoulder and squirted water in my mouth. I could see my mom and dad standing close-ish. It took the wind out of me more than the ninety minutes of running did.
They separated some as I approached. My tired legs cringed as I made my way up the large steps. I gave my mom a hug and said goodbye, it was the first of the month, so I was going home to my father’s.
“Love you, Mom,” I said as I stepped away with my dad.
“Love you, too, hon.”
My chest pained, but I tried to hide it. Post soccer was the perfect time to disguise feelings—lower back, knees, burning thighs … an abundance of hiding places.
Sinking into the passenger seat of my dad’s car, I placed my bag on the floor in front of me, keeping my shoulders and head in a general downward direction.
Maybe she didn’t say anything? Maybe they just chatted?
Too much time went by with too little noise, making those “maybes” feel obsolete.
My father drove in silence down Quinpool Road, past Horseshoe Island, along the water, up and around the Armdale rotary. He veered left at the pizza place to Purcells Cove Road. As we approached the turn into our neighborhood, the vehicle did not slow. I caught a glance of my dad, who I am sure knew I was looking, but kept his gaze solidly ahead. His mouth was tight.
We continued for about five minutes, passing St. George’s Greek Orthodox Church, the Yacht Club and Deadman’s Island, until turning left onto narrow Dingle Road. Surrounded by thick trees and the occasional home, the car wound down to arrive at Sir Sandford Fleming Park, mostly known as “The Dingle.”
The bottom of the park sits on the water. My dad turned into the gravel lot, not far from the 132-foot stone tower that was built in the early twentieth century. We’d walked to the top with Linda, Scott, and Ashley a few years prior. Two large bronze lions sit on either side of the entrance, always asking to be climbed on. I remember the tower having more stairs than I would have liked, but the view was worth it, and so was the scoop of Moon Mist after, a delicious ice cream flavor that I only just learned is specific to Nova Scotia.
He parked in the shade and turned off the ignition. It was early evening, there were not many people about, just two other cars in the wide lot. Looking forward, his hands were still on the wheel. I sat silently. He turned to me. His eyes welled up.
“You want to go live at your mom’s?”
He started to cry. It sucked the breath from me, I just stared, unsure what to do, unsure what was next.
“Why don’t you want to live with us anymore?”
His head dropped. The crying turned into sobbing.
“You love your mother more than me?”
The weeping continued. Shoulders rising and falling. He looked at me, and his sad eyes hit like a rock. I could feel their weight.
“Do you not love me?”
My chest caught fire with panic, my stomach plummeted like a fair ride, leaving a ring in the ears.
He turned back, the bawling did not stop.
I undid my seat belt and clambered over the center console to hug my father. I wrapped my arms around him, rubbing his back as he cried. My body shook, what had I done? Eyes shut as I held tight, I wished I’d said nothing, desperate to take it back.
“I love you. I am sorry. I still want to go back and forth. I’m sorry,” I said with a pleading tone.
“Well, are you sure though?” he replied. His shoulders slowly returned to their normal state, as he wiped away tears.
“Yes, I am sure. I want to live with mom and you.”
The emotion calming down to sniffles, I sat back down and clicked my seat belt back into place.
“I love you so much,” he said as he turned on the car.
The gravel crunched as he reversed.
“I love you, too.”
And we drove home.
When we got back it was as if nothing had happened. Just a blip. Alone in the car I was desperately wanted, now here we were, at the dinner table. He cut his food with a dour expression. The silence evaporated my appetite, or was it the guilt? I wanted to disappear.
My father called that night to let my mother know that I had changed my mind. He told her the only reason I wanted to live at my mom’s full-time in the first place was because I missed the dog. I assume his frown turned into a gloating smirk, thrilled to update her.