The Hardest Time of the Year

The relationship between a father and a daughter and the time before the ex-wife mother takes her for the summer.

 

Every year is it is the same.

Every year it is different.

Every year it is harder.

“Get your laundry together, Baby-Doll,” he said as he browned the chop meat for her Hamburger Helper.

“Okay, Daddy,” she said walking out of the room and versus going upstairs to her waiting hamper, went to the computer to check her Web-Kins.

“Babe,” he called. “Your laundry?”

He saw her pass by the kitchen door and flashed her tongue at him as she went by.

“Butt munch,” she said under her breath.

“I heard that,” he replied smiling, stirring the frying pieces of meat. He heard her giggle recede as her feet pounded up the stairs.

His smile faded. He knew his daughter’s heart was breaking, but she was trying to make the time stretch by not getting her laundry together.

If she got her laundry together, that meant he would put it in the washer. If he washed her things, that would mean he would put the damp clothes in the dryer. If the clothes were dry, that would mean he would fold it and put it into piles. If the clothes were in piles, that meant he would put them in her bag to take with her when her mother; the ex came to pick her up and take her away from him for the summer.

He hated this time. Each day from the moment that school began in September to a few days after it ended in June, he would wake her every morning, sometimes comb out her hair, make her PB&J for the day and add her granola bars or pudding cups, and walk her to school. They would have their morning talk along the way, discussing everything under the sun, from the pests she had to deal with, to movies she liked, to comic book characters she admired, to things she learned from school and learned from him. At the end of her day, he would pick her up from the YMCA’s after school program, bring her home and help her with her homework while he prepared the evening meal. Then at 8:30 every night, he would send her to bed for the night, giving her all the hugs and kisses she wanted.

Then begin the morning again the same as the last.

On the weekends, if his girlfriend and her daughter did not hang out from Friday to Sunday, he would let her sleep late and laze the day away, play with her or let her do what she wanted. Maybe go to the park with her girlfriend, or simply park herself in his bedroom or in the living room and read or watch movie after movie or TV show after TV show, coming over to him to where he sat at the computer to tell him what happened on whatever it was she was watching or whatever it was she was reading, or just to sit and talk, or just to get that reassuring hug.

On those weekends when his girlfriend stayed over, she got to play elder sister to his lady’s younger child. Even though she had a five year advantage on the little girl, there was the sisterly love and sisterly bickering and sisterly competition, which he could see she loved and needed. And he could see her ‘using’ his girlfriend as a surrogate mother, which he knew she needed more.

But once school was over, a pall filled the house and their hearts. Both father and daughter could feel time steadily ticking away, pulling them apart, separating them. And the waiting. Waiting for the ex to arrive, filled with false joy at seeing her daughter; one she easily dismissed during the year. She would arrive in a flurry of words and motion, grabbing folded clothes, books, and bicycle and cart them away to her car, making unnecessary and unwanted small talk, falsely promising her daughter that they would go here and see this and putting a light in the child’s eyes that would be shortly snuffed out like a candle in a hurricane.

She would arrive and they would be gone.

And each year it became harder for the child to leave because she loved being able to express herself freely to her father; something she could not do with her mother.

The ex had these grand expectations for the little girl, that she would be a doctor or engineer or something that was of no interest to the small one. During the summer months, if she wasn’t placed in a daycare center for the day, the mother would hammer her with science and the Discovery Channel, trying to insert interest where there was none. And being the dutiful child she was, she listened and learned and promptly dismissed all the information when she returned to her home, because at her mature eleven years of age, she knew it was easier than expressing her disinterest to ears that refused to listen.

At first, when she was two, she waved happily at her father from the rear seat of the ex’s car as he stood in front of the house. When she was six, she began to feel sadness at her leaving, but could not put the feeling into words. She was with the mother she had not seen for ten months, so why should she be sad? When she was eight and back home with her father, for no reason, and without prompting, she would break into tears of anger at how her mother lied to her about going here and seeing that, not understanding the adult concept of breaking promises.

When she was ten she sat next to her father with her arms wrapped tightly around his middle, crying while trying to be brave and fight the hysterics that was boiling inside of her, begging him not to let her go, begging him to let her stay with him, pleading with him, promising him any and everything that she thought would change the situation. It took more than an hour to get her to walk the short distance between the living room and the front door, and another hour to get her in the rear of the ex’s car. And when she was finally strapped in, he watched her regress and speak in hysterical baby-gibberish, begging him to get her favorite blanky from the bottom drawer of her dresser. Not knowing what else to do, he ran upstairs and grabbed the worn blanket from the drawer and ran back down the steps to the driveway. He handed it to her and she pushed it back, asking him; begging him to wipe his sweaty face with it. Without a thought, he took the blanket and wiped the perspiration from his skin. He watched her take it from his hands and hold it to her own face and breathed in his scent. As the ex pulled out of the driveway, he could hear her screams of pain echoing in the street for half a block.

“Dad?” she said coming up behind him.

“Yeah, Baby-Doll?” he said as he mixed the milk, water, seasoning and pasta in the pot.

“I love you,” she said.

He lowered the temperature on the stove, placed the cover over the pot and held her close.

After dinner, she asked if they could watch the Batman Animated Series DVD together and of course they did. She laughed and commented and asked comic bio questions as she always did and he readily answered each and every query. While the show played on the television, she crawled up next to him and leaned against him, wrapping her arms around his middle, feeling comfort in his heartbeat, in his steady breathing.

The telephone rang and she jumped up to look at the caller ID. A smile spread across her lips and she answered it.

“Hi Mom!” she said pressing the pause button on the remote.

He stared at the frozen action on the screen and pretended not to listen. He felt a chill come from her side of the couch and he looked over towards her. She was looking back at him, and he was bothered by the look of fear in her eyes.

“Hold on,” she said into the phone. “He’s right next to me.” She pressed the phone against her chest and looked at him with a worried expression. “Mom wants to know could she pick me up on Tuesday instead of tomorrow. She forgot she has an appointment tomorrow.”

He felt a familiar anger fill his chest. Not being privy to what was said, he felt the implication that he wanted; demanded the ex pick her up on Monday. That he wanted his little girl removed by a certain time. He forced the frown away from his face and gave his daughter a warm smile.

“Tuesday will be fine,” he said.

She smiled back and repeated his reply, but he was already up and walking out of the living room to the office where he cursed his ex-wife’s soul. When he saw the light blink out on the extension, he returned to the living room and sat back on the couch.

When the episode ended and he had switched back to cable, she crawled onto his lap and simply sat there, her head against his chest, small tears pouring down her cheeks.

“I don’t want to leave you,” she whispered.

“And I don’t want you to leave,” he replied, “But you’ll have a good time with Momma.” He felt the bile rush to his throat as the lie so easily left his lips.

“Dad?” she whispered.

“Yeah, Hon,” he answered.

“Don’t tell Momma,” she said lifting her sad eyes to his, “But I have more fun with you than her.”

He smiled down at her, having heard this declaration before.

“I’ll never tell,” he said.

A short while later, she sat next to him with her white board and her erasable marker. He glanced over to the board while she was engrossed in writing. There was DAD with eight check marks next to his name, in blocked off columns. Underneath was MOM with two check marks and six X’s. She looked up from the board and jumped slightly when she saw him watching her.

“Uh, the check marks are for all the good things and the X’s are for . . . “ her voice trailed off and she quickly erased the board.

Nothing more was said.

When it was time for her to go to bed, she kept coming back from her room to sit next to him, lean against him, hug and kiss him. He shooed her off again and again and she, with a sad but mischievous smile on her lips, went back upstairs, only to come down minutes later.

He understood. For her to sleep was to allow time to slip by faster.

He blindly watched the news for a while and shut the TV off and went upstairs. He stopped by his room and found her sleeping in his bed, her face pressed against the pillow. He sat on the edge of the bed and watched her for an hour, looking at the shape of her face, listening to her soft snoring, glancing down at her lengthening arms and legs, thinking of how tall she was going to be. He leaned forward and placed a small kiss on her lips. Her snoring stopped and her lips spread in a smile, then relaxed. He watched her curl up, her knees up to her chest.

He lay next to her and stared at the darkness. He would try to make the day and evening fun for her, knowing that both of them would be glued to the clock, watching the minutes tick by. He closed his eyes and saw her reaching out to him from the rear of the ex’s car, tears streaming down her cheeks, her face contorted in pain and misery. He could hear her wailing his name as the car went down the block and disappeared from sight.

He pulled himself from the bed and pulled the sheets around her neck. In the darkness, he could see a sleepy smile cross her face. He turned on the hall light and went downstairs to the computer. He sat in his chair and opened a black Word document. He stared at the blank page for several minutes and began to type.

Every year is it is the same.

Every year it is different.

Every year it is harder.

 

Reviews

[phlogiston]

Wow. This is a really interesting piece. You convey the situation really well. I love the insight you give into a circumstance which usually doesn't get this viewpoint. Very intriguing read.