My father was a troubled man. He bounced from juvie to boys homes after being raised by an alcoholic father and an absent mother. He faced unspeakable horrors at the hands of his deadbeat dad. He did better with us than his dad did with him, but there’s only improvement where my grandfathers parenting style is concerned. So he essentially terrorized us too, but less so. He had his demons; and that much was apparent growing up.
My father turned to drinking, and eventually opiates to ease the trauma of his early life, which only compounded his already erratic behavior. He did all manner of things while under the influence of whatever it was he was ingesting that day. Once, he barricaded himself in the house while my mom and I were out shopping with my siblings. We came home to find him brandishing a weapon; screaming about how “they were after him” and “it wasn’t safe for us”
My mom sent me in because “he listened to me better”. And thus began my lifelong career of talking my dad out of his near constant crises. One by one, he abused them, and one by one, they left. All except me. It had been my job to care for him, after all. It was my responsibility to see him through it all. Even at the expense of my own safety.
Then the big one came. After 25 years of tumultuous marriage, my mom finally left. I breathed a sign of relief as she frantically gathered her things with the help of a police escort, and my coaching of my dad to stay calm. I drove with my mom as she fled across the country to escape his clutches. All the while, on the phone with my dad, dodging his every question about her whereabouts. Thankfully, the drugs kept him from putting two and two together that I wasn’t present for the same amount of time my mom was on the run.
When I finally did return home he asked again where my mom was.
“I don’t know dad, she hasn’t spoken to me since she stop speaking to you” I said.
He just spoke one word; “traitor” and shut the door in my face. I kept on with my life. I worked, I ate, I shit. Lather, rinse and repeat. It went on like this for weeks. Finally I got concerned. I took it upon myself to stop by the house. As I pulled up to the imposing block and wrought iron fence, I could feel the despondent quality of the atmosphere wash over me before I even entered. But something else was off. The lawn hadn’t been watered or mowed in an indeterminate amount of time. The exterior of the house was….dusty. All of the curtains were drawn.
My parents were always good at keeping up appearances. You would never have been able to guess the horrors lurking inside that house just from looking at it. From the perfectly manicured lawn to the immaculate and spotlessly clean interior. They never allowed their children to look even slightly disheveled in hopes that no one would be able to guess the manner of unspeakable abuse we had to endure.
On multiple occasions, we were kicked out of the house on a hot summer day, with no shoes, no food, and no water. We were ordered to stay away from the house for an unknown amount of time so mom and dad could “talk”. When we were finally allowed back in, mom was withdrawn, her tear streaked face pointed to the ground, afraid to make a sound, so as not to give away her “imperfect” life she had worked so hard to upkeep the illusion didn’t exist. A piece of furniture was suspiciously removed after each these “talks” most likely broken from the impact of my mothers body. And afterwards my moms body was all different shades of yellows, purples and greens. But we never spoke of it. None of us spoke of the personalized abuse we endured separately from each other.
The only conversation my mom and I had ever had about our shared / separate nightmare was one night in particular. We both got up from our respective beds around 2:30 A.M. we were both scared, without any knowledge why, and we both laid on each couch without a word to each other. We laid in silence for about a half an hour until our fear mounted to terror. I heard grunting and thumping coming from my parents room next door. We held hands in the dark, praying a silent plea of protection to whatever higher powers that be. We slept, holding onto each other and we awoke to the sun rising. Surprised surviving the night. We both commiserated on our shared experience. It felt as though there was pure evil in the next room, my parents room. It felt as though there were demons crawling up the walls. And if we moved even a millimeter, we would be facing a fatal consequence.
My mom instructed me to go into the room and check on my father, because I “could handle him better” I walked in to find my dad fully clothed, lying on top of the bed sheets, surrounded by scraps of paper and plastic and fabric. As it turns out, my dad had spent the night cutting up my moms clothing, shredding all of her credit cards and identification documents and disconnecting the alarm system which conveniently had a panic button in the hallway next to the living room. I believe that the only reason we survived that night was due to our silent prayers.
I shook myself out of my day dream. Dream? No, Nightmare. I reinforced my courage and steeled myself to make the short walk up the driveway to the house. I didn’t have any house keys because my father never allowed anyone to have access to his house in fear that we would allow a stranger to come in and ransack the place, or that we would lose them in some parking lot and a criminal would be able to trace the generic master key back to him and come commit some unspeakable crime against him. The mind of childhood trauma speaks a different language than we do, I guess.
As I walked up the driveway, the house seemed to breathe. I could feel warmth and anger radiating from it. The imposing archway stood before me. I just had to walk underneath it. Right. Just walk underneath it. Simple. One final deep inhale to boost my courage and confidence, and I did just that. I knocked on the door. No answer. No noise came from inside the house. I knocked again, but louder. Nothing. I pushed the button for the doorbell, and as the Westminster chime rang I saw movement in the curtains. As I walked over to see if it was my father, peeking through them, probably in some state of paranoia, I was greeted my a pair of emerald green eyes that met my own. I jumped back in shock. “What the fuck was that?” I half screamed. Then came our family cat clawing at the window. She was frantic. Her usually fluffy white cheeks were sunken and her body looked as if it hadn’t seen a meal in days.
This is when I knew something was deeply wrong. While my father was a monster to us; that cat was his pride and joy. She followed him everywhere. If I was good at talking him down from the ledge; she was a savant. Emma, the cat was a long haired mute calico cat who spent her days lying in the sun, being pampered by my father. All of us loved her, but there was an underlying jealousy there. Because we knew that my dad was capable of being tender and loving to something. Turns out it just wasn’t us. I tapped on the window and said “it’s okay Emma! I’ll come get you soon!”
And with that, I picked up my phone. I didn’t know who I would call. I started with he police departments. Nothing. Then the morgues. Still nothing. And finally, after about the third hospital, I got a hit. He was there. They quickly connected me to his room after a brief shuffle of surprised overlapping voices. I can only assume that he wasn’t exactly a walk in the park during his hospital stay and no one else had made any calls concerning him.
“Hello?” His husky voice spoke through the receiver.
“Dad? Are you okay?” I replied
“Rache? Is that you?”
“Yeah dad, it’s me. I’m coming to see you. Just….stay put I guess.”
I arrived at the hospital room about 30 minutes later. As I walked into the room, I was overwhelmed with the sweet, sickly smell of a person who is actively dying. My nostrils were filled with the musky odor of kidney disease mixed with the sterile cleaning products used in a hospital. He looked like hell, too. His skin was swollen and discolored. He had a greasy yellow pallor to him. The whites of his eyes were ringed blood red and his irises were shrouded in the telltale yellow jaundice of renal failure. The next few minutes were a whirlwind of activity. Doctors and nurses came through. I don’t remember most of it, but I do remember hearing words like “ end-of-life care” and “dialysis” there were lots of sympathetic pats on the shoulders. And then it stopped. I was given a pile of pamphlets to read and the room was still again.
I looked at my dad and asked “how long have you been here?”
“Couple days, maybe a week” he said
“Has anyone been feeding Emma? Why didn’t you call” I replied
“Nahh Emma’s fine I’m sure. Don’t know why I didn’t call, just didn’t” he replied back.
After nearly an hour of convincing, I finally got his keys back from him. After much reassurance of “no I won’t lose them” “no I won’t let anyone else in” and “no I won’t allow some machete wielding maniac to steal your shit” he finally relented, and the only thing that really convinced him was the concern for that god damned cat.
I went back to the house and awaited further instructions. As I entered the house, the stillness startled me. There’s was always something going on here, some kind of hustle and bustle of day to day life. Whether it was arguing and objects clattering in the aftermath; or my mom frantically keeping the house as spotless as possible, there was always something. The only thing that stirred was the urging of Emma, letting me know that the food bowl had been empty for quite some time, and that the crystal glass on my fathers nightstand she drank from had long run dry. I dutifully gave her food and water and took a look around.
All the curtains were drawn and every light in the house was off. There were scent plug ins all around the house which were most likely put there to mask the sickness that hung over this place. But the scent of manufactured lavender was overwhelming, combined with the stale air inside the house. Cheap plastic vodka bottles littered the counter tops; stacks and stacks of mail was piled up. I looked at one, bills. Mom had always kept the finances on track so I’m sure he was behind. He had always hid his drinking, but I guess he didn’t feel the need to do that with everyone gone so he must have gone on one hell of a bender. After the years of abuse to his liver, I guess this one final bender did him in.
My phone rang, shocking me out of my reverie.
“Hello?” I answered.
“Hey Rach, they want to send me home” it was my dad.
“What? But… I thought there was all that talk of hospice? And dialysis?” I replied, shocked.
“Just come fucking get me!” He screamed on the other end “I’m sure Emma is missing me and I want to get the fuck out of here”
So I did. I’m sure he left that hospital AMA but I can only assume he was a huge pain in the ass while he was there and they were only happy to get rid of him. As I pulled up to the entrance, he sat alone in a wheelchair parked outside of the doors. They had rolled him out there and left him to sit alone to wait to be picked up. Classic dad move. Except he had ran these people off in record time. I brought him home and did my best to make him comfortable. I didn’t know what I was doing or how to even care for him in this state. But I kept hearing the words overland over in my head “you know how to deal with him” so I guess it was my job. I knew none of my siblings would come to his aid and I wouldn’t dream of asking my mom to come back after her harrowing escape, so it was up to me. Tall order for someone who had just turned 18. But my mom didn’t raise a quitter.
After he was settled in, the house was cleaned up, the cat fed and his medications administered. I got a call. Teenage me still had obligations, right?
“Do you wanna come watch a movie with me?” I heard the warmth of my best friends voice over the phone
Uncertainly I replied “uhhhh… Sure. Just give me a few minutes and I’ll be over”
I hung up and checked on my dad he was sleeping, fitfully. But sleeping. I whispered “Hey dad, I’m gonna go watch a movie tonight. I won’t be gone long”
He sputtered out a weak “okay”
And I left.
The night went on as usual. I filled my friend in on the happenings with my mom leaving and my dad apparently dying. She offered her support and we settled in to watch Thor. Somewhere along the way, I fell asleep. I awoke in a panic to sunshine filtering in. I got home as fast as I could. I frantically began doing whatever monotonous household chores I could think of to stave off his anger at me being out all night without asking. And then I remembered, he is a dying man in the next room. A dying man that i’d better go check on.
I tiptoed into his room; still afraid at his reaction, though I knew there wasn’t much he could do. The man could barely walk, but old habits die hard I guess. He wasn’t in his bed. I kept walking into his room, a room I was so rarely allowed in. It felt like I was committing a crime just being in there. And then I saw him. He was lying face down the cat lying at his feet. As I got closer I saw that his head was wedged between his large wooden nightstand and his bed frame. His arm was bent upwards with the bedsheets still clutched tight in his hands. As if he were trying to get himself back up off the ground. His other arm lay at his side. I rushed to his side and slammed my palm into his back repeatedly, as you would a choking toddler. Hollow. I went to his ankles to try and pull him out from between the furniture. My hands clasped around his swollen, purple ankles. As I gripped, my fingers left deep depressions in his ankles, as if he were made of play- doh. Cold. He was cold. My last resort. I moved the nightstand away from his head and tried to roll him on his back.
His body stayed rigid and in the exact same position it had been as it was resting against the bed. Arm bent, face down on the carpet. His face kept the same shape as it had been while smashed against the floor. Blood poured from his mouth, eyes, nose and ear closest to the ground and the blood inside his body had pooled to the lowest point, leaving his disfigured face, swollen and purple. His clouded eyes stared at me as if to say “you let me die alone” I left him there, face down.
My only option was to dial 911. I could barely hear the dial tone of the phone. It sounded like someone far away was talking to me.
“911, what is the location of your emergency?”
“Hello? 911? Where are you located?”
I heard the sudden hiss of air escaping lungs. My head snapped over to my father a few feet away. Was he….breathing? No. I checked for a pulse. There’s shit in his pants, what the fuck? What. The. Fuck. I could hear cracking as I watched his head began to turn. I clutched phone at my side, operator still calling out for someone. His head turned, and turned until it faced me directly. The bones snapped and tendons groaned in protest. Then he began to stand. Still in the same position as before. He rose in irregular, jerking motions. He grunted and gurgled at me. I stood motionless. Unable to move or make a sound out of pure terror. He began to make his way towards me. The swollen, discolored thing that was once my father. His arm still bent. Face still smashed and purple with coagulated blood gathered around it. He twitched and jolted his disfigured body towards me. The room grew dark with evil. The walls faded away until it felt like they were a thousand miles displaced in every direction. I was surrounded by an immeasurable darkness. And then he stopped
He spoke with several voices behind his own, high pitched, bass toned, childlike. And he said two words “you. Traitor”
Then my trance was broken, and the fear that had rendered me immobile just moments before had lent me the strength to run. He screamed after me. But I ran. I kept running.
I don’t remember much after that. But I do know that police showed up. I know his body was hauled away. And I know I moved out of state shortly after that. My life since then has been a series of waiting rooms and therapists. Talking and talking and talking. They seem to believe what I went through was some sort of “stress induced psychosis” and I choose to believe them. It’s much easier than believing that any of that was actually real.
I don’t know if it’s true. But I do know that on nights when I’m alone, and the house is dark. I’ll see him. The gnarled and deform shape of my dead father. Lurking to get revenge on his traitor of a daughter. Maybe one day he might get me. Or maybe this is his form of revenge. Who knows.