Daddy

I know people are sometimes pronounced dead and then they come back around. Having some sideshow sensibilities, I’m often drawn to things creepy and demented. Take Coraline, for example. Or Tom Waits. I’m fascinated by dreams and cults and near-death experiences. I read a wonderful memoir by Maggie O’Farrell, titled, “I am, I am, I am: Seventeen Brushes with Death.” Well, apparently, I was so caught up in what it would be like to die and come back to life, I wasn’t even thinking about what it might be like to have to lose someone twice. I’ve lost a couple friends, but the death that derailed everything was my dad’s. He died when I was three. Then he died again when I was 39. Same dad. Different deaths.

Let me explain.

Recently, after sharing a poem I wrote with my friend Roger, we both agreed that my weird rhymes deserved a macabre illustration style, something in the same vein as Edward Gorey or Aubrey Beardsley. In pursuit of inspiration, I perused Gorey illustrations, coming across one that reminded me of my own family portraits from when I was a child. I used to draw my dad as an angel floating over my mom, my brother and me.

My dad died on Super Bowl Sunday, 1987. Every year, Super Bowl Sunday comes with scant associations to distract me from the anniversary of his death. It really doesn’t matter who is performing in the half-time show. I’m as dispirited as a shoelace when it comes to football. I remember watching games with my dad on TV. In the mid-eighties TVs were very box-like, and I remember being unable to differentiate between the TV and other box-like appliances, namely the washer and dryer. I remember thinking, “Why are we watching clothes spin around in the washer?” My opinion of football hasn’t improved much since then. In fact, I think I’d rather watch clothes spin around than watch men tackle each other and sustain concussions.

When my family discovered him on the couch, I tried to wake him up, and my mom yanked me back. My brother stood there quietly. He was five, old enough to understand that there was no point in trying to wake him. After reality settled in, I was fuming. I yelled, “My daddy’s asleep, and he’s never going to wake up!”

Recently, my mother came by to visit me in Mishawaka. I still had a shamrock painted on my cheek from St. Patrick's Day the day before. “I have some news,” my mom told me. Despite having some dark interests, I really am an optimist at heart. I thought she’d landed a book deal or won the lottery. “It’s serious,” she added. Then I immediately thought, “Oh, no. Cancer. She’s dying.” Fortunately, it wasn’t that. The news was that someone who had died was dead all over again. “Your father is not your biological father,” she said. “Winfield had a botched double hernia surgery, and we found out he was sterile. We used a donor for both you and Cory.”

I guess the shamrock on my cheek didn’t bring me luck. Still, I’d rather know the truth, even if it’s painful. I joked with my mom that she should have capitalized on this family secret and revealed it on some day time talk show. I pretended I was okay at first, but couldn’t help but cry. I’m still searching for ways I can assuage my pain. Drinking pomegranate juice and listening to jazz are pleasant ways to pass the time. I’ve heard the Al Green song “L-O-V-E” playing on several occasions since receiving the news that I’m once again fatherless, enough times to find it a bit unusual. I’m thinking my dad is sending me a message through this Al Green song. I’m so thankful I don’t drink excessively. I usually just have one glass of wine per month. If I had a drinking problem, I may have gone off the deep end and tried to dull my pain through the bottle, stumbling and slurring my speech as I tell everyone that my dad is communicating with me through an Al Green song. Thanks to that song, the pain has gone from a constant throbbing to a dull ache.

During a French conversation lesson, I brought up how I used to wear my dad’s clothes when I was a teenager. I found a pair of some tan corduroy lederhosen in the attic, and I wore those with one of his sleeveless undershirts and a newsboy cap. I was supposed to be talking about Halloween costumes in French, but I got sidetracked.

On April Fools Day, my mom and I drove up to Michigan to watch a movie. That might sound crazy, but Indiana is grievously lacking in good theaters, and I miss going to movies. Back when I lived in Portland, I used to go to movies all the time. In the summer, I would go several times a week. If I loved a movie, I would save the ticket stub as a souvenir. I can still remember who accompanied me to each movie and our discussion afterward.

Anyway, a comforting thought occurred to me as I was watching the film, “The Lost King” with my mom. The main character, Philippa, becomes obsessed with Richard III. She feels a kinship with him because they are two lost souls, both deeply misunderstood. She becomes close with him, or his ghost anyway, and he gives her hints as to the whereabouts of his remains. Fun fact: The actor who plays Richard III, Harry Lloyd, is the great-great-great grandson of Charles Dickens.

At the end of the film, Richard III is given a proper burial. In finding him, Philippa manages to clear his name and make a name for herself.

As for my comforting thought, I realized that two people can be close, even form a sort of father-daughter bond, and it doesn’t matter that they lived five hundred years apart. Time doesn’t matter. And neither does biology.