Lady of the House

I can remember the first time I saw my father cry. I immediately pulled his head into my arms and squeezed it there, muffling all sound inside my shirt. That was mostly so he wouldn't be embarrassed for crying in front of his 12-year-old daughter, and so I wouldn't feel awkward just sitting, staring at him. Or listening to him. I just felt his whole body shaking. My mother had been gone for almost two weeks, and although neither of us had spoken much about it, we both knew she wouldn't be returning. I didn't need to be told that things were changing--that required no other outward sign than the fistful of my father's hair and the trembling, leaving a dampness near my neck.

I could be the lady of the house Dad said. That was the first significant change, and it started with the Christmas tree. Divorce settlement papers outlined most of the details, like which boxes in the attic Mom got to take with her, including the ones labeled "Christmas stuff." A box labeled "tree" was taken too, which turned out to be great since Dad preferred the scent of a fresh tree anyway. That first Christmas without her, he wanted to surprise me.

"It's a Douglas fir," he said, grinning. My heart sank. The top of the spindly tree barely reached my forehead. Dad sensed my disapproval even before I said a word; we both stood back and took a long look at the fir, until I finally blurted my disappointment.

"It's a Charlie Brown, Dad. I honestly doubt it will hold up all the lights we bought." Luckily I was able to convince him it would look nice planted in the backyard near the woods, so his feelings wouldn't be hurt for the rest of the day. For the new lady of the house, paying attention to those kinds of details was crucial when making important decisions.

The tree that followed (every tree that followed every year) was nine-and-a-half feet tall, grazing the cathedral ceiling of our family room. The struggle was always the same--pushing and yanking a prickly giant, sticky with sap, through the narrow glass door, followed with a balancing act that included some sawing, screwing, and snipping. Afterwards, I would sit picking pine needles out of the bottoms of my socks while Dad vacuumed. Our labor was rewarded with the clean fragrance Dad raved about, and I was finally satisfied with the tree.

"Now that's a Douglas fir," I said, when it was lit white, adorned with crystal and the gold and burgundy looped bows I had made by hand. There was no room for the plastic red apples and plaid bows that hung from the artificial tree my mom had gloated over. She could keep her simplistic red and green Christmas. I was the lady of the house, and while I was in charge, my Christmas would be gold and burgundy. I used to wonder if Mom remembered how perfect the porcelain nativity set had looked in our foyer, my foyer, at home. I wondered if she ever considered giving us at least half of it, just so I could have some of the pieces, but then I imagined Mary hovering over a baby sheep instead of a baby Jesus, and laughed.

Psychologists say there is an "unexpected legacy of divorce": one professional observed children of divorce for more than 25 years and ended up giving her book that very title. I watch psychologists on the Oprah Winfrey show, talking about their best-selling books, analyzing 30- and 40-year olds who still deal with the pain of their parents' separation. They speak about conscious and unconscious pain universally as if all the favorite nativity sets from childhood got separated at some point--two wise men traded for one shepherd, one Joseph for two camels and an angel. Others just got taken away as mine did. Nobody expects the adverse effects to resurface later in life. Nobody expects anything but that first year of tears spilling out of this change--the joint custody, financial confusions, the divvying up of boxes in the attic.

The second time I saw my father cry, it was more of a whimper. He was lying in a hospital bed, and the neighboring patient's family was overcrowding their portion of the room, bumping into the plastic divider, chatting loudly enough to disturb my drowsy father, who was fighting off the fogginess of anesthesia. His cry was tiny and helpless, and I jumped to squeeze his hand, push a cup with a straw towards his mouth, raise his pillow, open a window. I had been in that hospital for ten hours and was waiting two more until I would be able to drive him home. I had made friends with the hospital that day. When I got bored I took the elevator to other floors, savored snacks in the cafeteria, fed my change to the payphones and was rewarded with the automated voices of answering machines. I never left any messages though. The surgery had been long and tedious, so there was no point in going anywhere, and I wouldn't leave Dad all alone. I was the lady of the house, the only lady in the waiting room when the surgeon came to inform me of his progress, the only lady in the outpatient room when the nurse let me know what to do if he should suddenly feel like puking everywhere. I said I could handle it.

But the repetitive answering machine voices weren't comforting me, and I was running out of quarters. That weekend was the fourth of July, and I wanted to go out with everyone. When my father was safe at home, lying on the couch in front of me, I stamped my foot and exclaimed how hard it was being the lady of the house all the time! The mom, the daughter, the pseudo-"significant other" roles I had been juggling since Mom left. Look at me, I was 16--I didn't want to be so important anymore, so needed and depended upon. Not that weekend.

I've told this story to a friend, explaining my frustration and the sadness I saw in my father's eyes that day. He simply said, "You are the mother, daughter, wife, and best friend all together. And that's the most beautiful part." Beautiful for whom I wanted to say. It was meant to be a compliment. I recall the counselors always told Dad to stop telling me so much--stop treating me like an adult. Everyone else said to him, with all she's been through, look how she turned out so well. Like I was my dad's chicken casserole just out of the oven. It wasn't too crispy or too soupy, look how it turned out so well. It's okay, Dad, you can talk to me about anything; it won't hurt me.

My father and I both started dating at the same time. I had just turned 16; he was 40. Women loved my father. The phone was always ringing. At work, he was flirty with the coy younger ones and not intimidated by the aggressive older ones either. Despite his flirtation, in the dating arena things were different. Dad's criteria were very specific, and he was surprised by the behavior of some of his dates.

". . . So she said 'I think I have a cough,'" he would imitate his date, clearing his throat, "'could you come over here and examine my chest?'"

"She didn't!" I played along as if I had never heard the story.

"Then I told her I had just the thing for her! I went into the kitchen and mixed up some hot tea with that garlic stuff that's supposed to clear your sinuses and get rid of coughing. . . ."

Every time I heard the story, it seemed funnier. I would clap my hands, egging him on.

"When I gave it to her, she said, 'You sure know how to kill the mood.'" Dad's grin was triumphant; he wasn't at all embarrassed for killing the mood. He was proud. Maybe he was a tease.

No, I'd stood at his bedroom door in the hallway light, brushing my teeth, listening to the soft snoring that settled into the walls like gentle humming. He never let one of his dates spend the night and never spent the night at their houses. When everyone told him he should "just get laid," he defended himself--it was his moral responsibility to be some sort of example for me. But I knew he just missed Mom. The only woman I ever loved, he still says to this day, almost ten years after she left him.

The problem was I thought I could be the answer to my father's lonely heart. The psychologists never mention the "unexpected legacy" of a little girl who tries to take her mother's place in the home, and all she knows how to do is change the decorations on a Christmas tree. When I laced up the empty shoes she left, I was too proud to say they were too big for my feet, I just kept layering socks. That's what it felt like, putting on sock after sock just so my toes could reach the ends. I said I could handle it. When I stumbled around in the void she left, I said I could listen and could understand, that I was emotionally equipped to take on the insurmountable. My dad would never be hurt again if I were nearby. Nobody expected me to do it. But I never expected I couldn't do it.

I couldn't do it. All those years of practice and I still can't. I've wanted to be pampered and cared for like a little girl but given the freedom and reign to be queen of my household domain. I'm unable to find the balance; this is my struggle.

Dad tells me of the throat surgery he will undergo later this month.

"It will be the first time I'll have surgery without you. I'll be under a knife and you'll be 3,000 miles away." He emphasizes 3,000 as if I'm unaware of the distance between California and Massachusetts, that he's in Massachusetts where it's cold and I'm living on the beach in California where everything goes right all the time. "Will you be my medical proxy?"

"Your what?"

"You know, the person who has the final say on my life if anything should happen and I have to be put on life support." The surgeon had told him that with this type of surgery, he would be risking possible brain damage and maybe even death. "How long would you keep me on life support?"

His questions are ridiculous. And yet, they aren't that ridiculous. What would happen if he really didn't come out of the anesthesia? He's told me of a condition he has that makes him very vulnerable to the effects of anesthesia; he had to discuss it rather extensively with the surgeons.

You're gonna be fine, I tell him. Don't worry. Just pretend it's like all the other surgeries and I'm sitting in the waiting room with my headphones and a book, bored as hell.

"Kel," his voice suddenly becomes a whisper, "I'm scared shitless."

I know.

I'm realizing it's okay to admit I am too, even though I've always assumed I could diffuse any fear in him. Three thousand miles away is plenty of room to question a multitude of things--room for fear, anxiety, and the powerlessness I am having difficulty embracing.

"Do you know how much I'm worth?" He brings me back to hard, cold details, an emotional detachment, a little dark humor. "You could sell the house, take over my stocks, sell the car. . . ." He's got it all figured out, and I'm the only one in the world who gets to keep anything that ever belonged to him; he doesn't even include his own family members in his will. Then Dad gives me the dollar total of what he's worth.

"That's it?" I tease him, then pretend to make plans to visit Italy with the money he will leave me.

Again he asks, "Would you be my proxy? Could you do that, just in case? C'mon, this is serious."

I turn around. The woman I see in the mirror has a ponytail today and one gap still in the middle of her teeth. Not much has changed, has it? Sure I'll be the medical proxy, whatever it is. I say I can handle it.

He seems a little more relieved now, but I'm remembering the last time I saw my father cry and how probably everyone who was eating at Legal Seafood next to my gate in the airport remembers it too. I had boarded the plane that would take me to a college in California where I would spend the next five months without him. I wondered if I'd said goodbye to him like I'd wanted to. I wasn't secure; it seemed all so rushed. I made sure I could get back onto the plane, and with my ticket stub in hand, I ran back up the ramp and practically knocked him over where he stood motionless at the gate, next to the restaurant. If it scared him, I didn't apologize. None of the sounds he made were muffled in the sleeve of my shirt when I held him, leaving stains of my own tears on the sleeve of his shirt. It was quite a scene--everyone paused from plates of seafood to look up at us. You're my best friend, I think was what he said.

The psychologists on Oprah never say what happens when the children of divorce leave their parents all alone. What would be the legacy for him? Hugging him in the airport, I was wondering how my dad would turn out without me. I squeezed him harder but his trembling was gone. His arms released mine; there was a half-smile on his lips when he stepped back. I remember how surprisingly calm he stood before me, handling the new transition with the same kind of confidence it takes for a 12-year old to single-handedly redecorate a Christmas tree.

"Better get back on that plane," he said. "California is waiting."