I woke up chilly and groggy, my small fingers numb in the cold of Dad’s tiny living room. I looked over toward the other end of our dingy brown couch. My dad wasn’t awake, which was unusual--he was always up before me. 

I called his name, quietly at first, “Daddy?” 

Then a little louder, “Daddy! Please wake up.” 

And louder, “DADDY, WHY WON’T YOU WAKE UP?”

And louder, and louder, and louder I continued to cry out, fear building up in my little chest. My attempts to wake him were fruitless, though. He couldn’t hear me. I shook his arm, then his whole body, but it was no use; he couldn’t feel me. 

I wish someone were here, I thought. Maybe if Mom came back, she could wake Daddy.

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“We’ll stop at Daddy’s and pick up shoes for church on Sunday.” Mom was supposed to have me for the weekend. I don’t remember much else of the conversation that occurred during the car ride, but my mother, as usual, was driving without her license. I was only seven at the time.

We pulled into the short gravel driveway. My dad rushed out of the trailer, opened my car door, and lifted me out of the car. There was some arguing between my parents. In the end, I guess my father won. Mom got back in the car and angrily slammed the driver’s door.

My dad carried me toward the trailer. I dropped one of my purple gloves in the lane on our way to the house. My father didn’t stop to let me pick it up, as his anger was still flaring. Mom left, which wasn’t surprising with her track record. She never was one to put up a fight when it came to me. 

Later that evening, after my father had popped a few pills--medicine, he called them, we sat watching America’s Funniest Home Videos. I was curled up on one end of the couch, which was covered in cigarette holes, while my Dad was sprawled out on the other.  My bursts of chatter became fewer and farther between, as my eyelids began to droop. I hovered between wakefulness and sleep on my end of the couch, like I always did on Friday nights. Weekends were my special time with Dad. Before I closed my eyes for the last time, I said, “I love you, Daddy.” He mumbled something back that sounded like an affirmation. 

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Daddy still wouldn’t wake up, and I didn’t know what to do. My wide eyes flickered over the items scattered in the trailer. They landed on his cell phone for a couple of minutes, but I turned away, unsure if I should call anyone. “He’ll wake up eventually,” I told myself as I settled on the floor, criss cross applesauce, and focused my attention on the screen in front of me. 

I don’t know how much time passed as I sat watching the television, which was still on from the night before. My thoughts would wander, though, from the images being depicted on the screen to the still form of my father lying silently behind me. The tears slipped down my cheeks, but I stayed rooted in my spot. The picture of my daddy’s body motionless on the couch, with crusty yellow strips coming down from his nostrils would remain with me forever.

Finally, I heard Sonny, our landlord, come up the driveway in his rusty pickup, and my spirits lifted. Making sure to unlock the door, I ran out of the trailer in my pajamas. Running across the driveway, I spotted the purple glove I had dropped on my way into the trailer the evening before. I grabbed it from the ground as I made my way toward Sonny. The gravel poked into my bare feet while I walked. 

“I can’t get Daddy to wake up,” I told Sonny. Sonny followed me into the trailer. He walked over to my father’s body, lying on the couch. 

“He’s dead,” Sonny said. I thought he was joking. He wasn’t.

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Who is this man?
He looks like my daddy,

But his soul’s not there.

Why is Grammy crying?

All these people everywhere,

So sad, so dreary.

I stare at the man

Stuck lying

In the box.

His eyes are closed,

His lips are sealed,

And his hands are cold.

Where is my daddy?

I ask the man,

But he doesn’t answer.

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I was frightened, scared, and confused. My mother laid on the couch, looking as still as I remembered my father being, on a morning that wasn’t so distant. But when I went to wake her, she startled and slurred a few words: “I’m awake...I’ll get up.” Daddy hadn't done that. 

My fear eased slightly, but not completely. The worries of Randy, her boyfriend, angrily storming into the house and screaming at my mother, plagued me. She should be milking the cows now, not lying immobile on the couch. I knew that’s what he would say. I thought about trying harder to get her up, so he wouldn’t yell today. Instead, I just slipped back into the chair and watched the television, hoping for once everything would go alright.

It was dark outside the next evening, as I situated myself in the bus seat, resting my face against the window. Mom, and maybe even Randy, should have been waiting at the top of the lane in the gator for me. As we neared my stop, I didn't see the headlights to the gator, and my heart dropped. The bus stopped, and I made my way down the aisle. I got off the bus and crossed the road to stand at the beginning of the lane. I stared down into the darkness, able to see the lights from the barn in the distance. 

"It’s just the dark," I told myself, but the dark is scary. Monsters, animals, and ghosts can hide in the blackness. I started to walk down the lane, wishing I had a flashlight to scare away the boogeyman. I heard a noise in the fields by the lane and ran the rest of the way to the house, my heart pounding against my chest. I made it safely inside, but I was alone with the creaking floorboards and peeling wallpaper

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I’ll give you credit--

You’re a damn good liar,

As you say you’re clean.

Then, when my back’s turned,

You shove some pills

Down your throat again.

I’ll give you credit--

You know how to make a scene,

Playing the loving mother,

With hugs and kisses

And everything in between,

Expressing great affection.

I’ll give you credit--

You know how to get empathy,

Playing on my heartstrings

With all your sufferings,

But I don’t allow myself

To feel sorry for you--

You never did for me.

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One sunny day, I was playing in the sand pile. After a while, though, I got bored and went to find my mom. She wasn’t in the house or the barn, nor in the fields with the cows. I went to find Randy. 

“Do you know where my mom is?” I asked. He didn’t. I started to panic. Where did my mom go? She didn’t tell me she was going anywhere. Where is she? The fear was all-consuming. Mom finally showed up, flying down the lane in a car battered by her previous accidents. She had been at Pat and Lee’s, a place she frequented often--I suppose another source for drugs.

Mom’s disappearances were not one-time occurrences. My grandmother was driving me back to the farm one Sunday evening. Mom wasn’t there when we arrived, and neither was Randy. 

“Randy probably killed her and buried her in the manure pile. That’s what he does to dead cats,” I fearfully told my grandmother. 

“He did not. She just went somewhere. She’ll be back.” 

Sure enough, my grandmother was right. Mom came rushing down the lane and into the house. She had been somewhere in Breezewood--for more drugs, if I had to guess.

Living with my mother ended quickly. Word had gotten back to my grandmother that I was not being supervised enough at the farm and could get hurt. The tipping point in the matter occurred when Randy upset me one morning before school. I was eating my Cap’n Crunch’s Crunch Berries when Randy entered the kitchen. He pulled out a handful of my cereal from the box and went to eat it.

“You know you should ask before taking someone’s food?” I joked.

Randy’s whole demeanor changed and he snapped back, “Well, you eat the food I buy without asking.”

I stopped eating my Cap’n Crunch at the sound of Randy’s sharp tone, and began to cry. My mom yelled at Randy and told him not to speak to me like that, but it was too late, I didn’t want to be there any longer. My mom tried to calm me down, but all I wanted was to leave. I didn’t give her a chance to reason. I continuously told my mother I wanted to go back to living with my grandma, and my wish was granted. Grammy showed up after school to pick me up. My mother had called her, and just as I had requested, I was going back to live with my grandmother.

That Christmas, I was at the farm, spending time with Mom. We were putting up the tree when she said, “I would’ve gotten back together with Daddy if he would have gotten off of drugs.” 

I was so enamored with that sentence then, but now I scoff at the thought of it. It was just another one of her lies. That’s how it was, though: me being the naive child and believing every one of my mother’s stories. 

“I’m off of drugs.” 

“I’m clean.” 

“I promise…” 

Every time, I believed her. Each lie was like the Holy Grail to me, but just like all the men that went in search of that treasure, I came up empty-handed.

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Throughout the years, I have tried to reconnect with my mother, but I’ve always ended each attempt feeling worse than before. My mother may be clean today, but my doubts will always remain. There will always be the memories haunting me, so I’ve forced a gap between us. There are times when I miss my mom more than anything and feel the urge to reach out to her, but I know it’s best to keep the space if I want to save myself from more heartache. My mother tries, in the only way she knows how, but in reality, it will never be enough. 

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Daddy’s gone.

Momma’s lost her chance.

So now I try

To put myself back together.

Each day is a struggle,

Reliving the past,

Fighting the pain,

Trying to push it all away.

My emotions swirl,

Confused and hurt,

But I know

I’m better off now.

So each day,

I take a step forward,

Trying to leave behind

What has broken me. 

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