InsaneJournal

Father
Amidst the atrocities that we commit against one another, it is a tribute to the enormous potential of humankind when a man who has witnessed the horrors of war and death can take a little girl, not of his flesh or of his blood, into his arms and call her daughter.


The first time she comes home with a black eye, he's furious.

Twelve years old, storming through the door in a whirlwind of black hair and pale skin marked with bruises, she stops in the entry hall and glares at him.

“What happened?” he demands, taking her by the shoulders when she tries to storm past him.

“Got into a fight,” she replies, crossing her arms over her chest.

By all rights, she should be afraid of him. He’s three times her weight, twice her height, and there’s a medal in the display case over the television to prove his ruthlessness on the battlefield. Yet, she doesn’t pull away, or shrink from his anger, or do any of the things her brothers do when they’ve been caught doing something they shouldn’t.

“What did I tell you kids about fighting?” he snaps.

“That little shit hit Kenny,” she spits defensively. “Called him a- well, you know.”

Nigger lover.

“Watch your language, young lady,” he warns. “And your brother’s more than old enough to be taking care of himself.”

“You’re the one who told us to look out for each other,” she points out.

Yeah, he supposes, he did. Damn the girl.

“Who threw the first punch?” he sighs.

“Davey hit Kenny first, so I popped him,” she says. There are tears in her eyes, and she’s shaking. The adrenaline high is starting to wear off.

He remembers that feeling.

“How’d you get this?” he asks, rubbing a thumb over her swollen left eye.

“Davey’s sister beat me up,” she mutters, looking away. “I didn’t cry, though.”

He can’t help but smile at that. If he didn’t know damn good and well it was impossible, he’d almost think she’d inherited his stubborn pride. As it is, he’s just glad that their last conversation about fighting seems to have made an impression.

Let them bruise your skin, but never let them bruise your pride.

Let them break your bones, but never let them break your will.

“Hey, listen to me,” he says, kneeling until they’re at eye level. “Don’t you listen to those kids when they call you and your brothers names like that, yeah?”

“I don’t care what they call me,” she retorts. “They don’t have any right, saying you’re not my dad.”

It surprises him that it’s not the dreaded “N” word that’s set her temper off, and he smiles at her.

“They don’t know what they’re talking about,” he tells her. “We even look alike.”

She arches an eyebrow at him, and he chuckles, but doesn’t let on that he saw her practicing that expression in the mirror just a few weeks ago.

“Well, we’ve got the same color eyes,” he relents, and pulls his bottom eyelid down with a forefinger.

Smirking, she does the same, then grins and reaches out to rub the top of his bald head.

“I’ll just tell them you had a tanning accident,” she says.

“You little-“ he laughs as she runs off to her bedroom, giggling like a lunatic.

~*~*~

The first time she has her heart broken, she’s fourteen.

“…told me he was having dinner with his parents, but then he showed up with Carrie and acted like he was surprised to see me…”

Her voice sounds tense, even over the telephone, but somehow he knows she’s not crying.

“Did you beat him up?” he asks.

There’s a halfhearted laugh, and she says, “No, he isn’t worth the energy.”

“That’s the spirit,” he tells her. “Hey, how are things there?”

She pauses, and he knows she’s trying to decide between honesty and the well-bred manners that prevent her from speaking ill of her elders. In the end, she relents with a sigh, and says quietly, “Grandfather is a bastard, and I hate him.”

Well, that’s nothing new.

“What’s he doing now?” he asks.

“He’s mad at me for getting kicked out of cotillion,” she confesses. “And we had a huge argument the other night about the Harvard thing.”

“He’s still pushing Harvard?” he asks.

“Yeah,” she sighs, then mimics her grandfather’s Irish brogue as she quotes, “No granddaughter of mine is going to waste her life being an archaeologist, poor as the dirt she’s digging in.”

“Yeah, he’s a bastard,” he agrees.

There’s another heartbeat of silence, and he knows there’s a silent discussion taking place between them. He’d like to ask her to come back home, would’ve liked to promise her that he could protect her from her mother, but he can’t even protect the other kids or himself. The girl hates her grandfather, hates his pretentious soirees and equally pretentious friends, but she hates her mother more. Frankly, he doesn’t blame her.

“Why do you stay?” she asks softly.

“Someone has to look out for these kids,” he tells her, and immediately knows it is the wrong thing to say.

“I see.”

He can feel the chill in her voice all the way across the miles of copper cable that separate them.

“That’s not what I meant,” he assures her. “You did what you had to do, and there’s no one here who blames you for leaving.”

“Mother does,” she says.

“Your mother blames everything on everyone but herself,” he points out.

“I should go,” she tells him, but there’s no irritation in her voice, just exhaustion. “I have an English test in the morning.”

“Get some sleep, then,” he says.

“I will,” she promises, and then hesitates before saying, very quietly, “I miss you, Dad.”

“Hey,” he tells her, “We’re all made of stardust, remember?”

She laughs, a real laugh that he hasn’t heard in months, and there’s a quiet click before the line goes dead.

~*~*~

The next time they speak, she’s almost twenty.

At first, he doesn’t recognize her. The last time he saw her, she’d been a skinny thirteen year old, all wild black hair and childish defiance- but the black hair is red now, and the dark brown eyes regard him with cool disdain. The coffee shop they’re sitting in is familiar; she isn’t.

It hurts more than he thought it would.

“Hot chocolate?” he asks, gesturing to the paper cup on the table between them.

“Coffee,” she says.

A beat of silence.

“Would you like one?” she asks, lifting a pack of cigarettes in his direction.

It’s a peace offering, he knows, so he takes one even though he’s been trying to cut back.

“So,” he begins once their cigarettes are lit and they’ve both taken a few drags to calm their nerves.

“Yes,” she replies, “So.”

“How have you been?” he asks.

“Well, I’m sure your ex-wife has already delighted in telling you that my grandfather kicked me out shortly after the last time we spoke,” she replies, and the lack of emotion in her tone is unnerving. This is not the tempest of a girl he remembers.

“I heard, but not from your mom,” he tells her. “Your aunt told me.”

“Don’t call her that,” the girl hisses, suddenly furious. “She’s done nothing to earn that title.”

He knows she’s talking about her mother.

“I’m sorry,” he says, patting the table as if it were her hand.

“I graduated with honors even though I was living in my car, I’ve been married, beaten, and divorced,” she continues in that same distant tone she’d used only moments ago, “What else could you possibly need to know?”

“How are you now?” he asks quietly.

“This” –she gestures vaguely with her cigarette- “is how I am.”

“Oh come on,” he says with a sigh, and rubs a hand over his bald head, “Give me a break, would you?”

She surprises him by giving a derisive snort. It’s a dismissal. “What, were you expecting a second chance?”

“No, but I was hoping for one,” he tells her earnestly.

“I called you, you know,” she confesses with a sneer.

There’s nothing he can say to that, so he says nothing.

“When he kicked me out, I called you,” she continues, glaring at him through the haze of smoke from her cigarette. “When Aunt Bridget died, I wrote to you at your mother’s house- I even tried looking for you on the internet.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, leaning across the table and trying to catch the hand she snatches away, “I’m sorry I- you know how horrible your mother can be and- I’m sorry. But honey, I’m still your dad, that hasn’t changed.”

“No,” she spits, stubbing her cigarette out in the ashtray and pushing away from the table. “You’re not my father, you’re a fucking coward.”

When she walks away, he doesn’t try to stop her.

~*~*~

“It’s not working, you know.”

It’s her twenty-fourth birthday, and he’s guessing this phone call means she got the card.

“Yeah it is,” he tells her. “Called me, didn’t you?”

“You’re a pain,” she replies. “Honestly, kittens?”

“They didn’t have anything with bats,” he says with an exaggerated sigh.

“You should be shot,” she replies, but she’s snickering quietly.

“How’s California?” he asks.

“Dreadful,” she tells him. “Everything here is so plastic, it’s sickening- they don’t even let the flowers wilt before they’re ripped out of the ground and replaced with something new.”

“It wasn’t that bad last time I was there,” he says.

“Last time you were here was in what, the thirties?” she asks, and he can hear the smirk in her voice. “Besides, you were in San Diego, not Los Angeles, and probably drunk the entire time.”

“It was the sixties, and I wasn’t drunk the entire time,” he retorts with a grin. “We weren’t allowed to drink unless we were on shore leave.”

She snorts with amusement before asking, “So how’s the old neighborhood?”

“You know, same as how we left it,” he tells her. “O’Connell still has the corner store, but David’s probably going to be taking over since Pat had his stroke.”

“So the little prat’s going by David now,” she deadpans.

“His days of being chased up trees by girls are over,” he replies. “He’s actually a handsome young man, you sho-“

“Don’t start with me,” she interrupts with a groan. “I get enough of that from Grandma, thank you.”

“Well, Mike is single again-“

“Dad!”

There’s a pause, a heartbeat, and he knows they’re both thinking the same thing, so there’s no sense talking about it.

“Alright, alright,” he relents. “But things here are good, you know, for being an Irish neighborhood and all.”

“That’s offensive to my proud heritage,” she laughs.

“Proud my black ass,” he replies with a chuckle. “You’re a bunch of drunks, we’re a bunch of crackheads, so I guess that makes us pretty much even.”

“Yeah,” she says quietly, “I guess we’re even.”

Never let them see you cry, he reminds himself, and swallows around the lump in his throat.

“So hey,” she begins a little too cheerfully, “I was going to send you a copy of this story I’m working on.”

“Yeah?” he prompts, eager to change the subject. “What’s it about?”

“Well, you’ve read Harry Potter, right?” she asks.

“The first two,” he replies, “I haven’t got around to reading the others yet.”

“That’s okay,” she assures him, “So you know Severus Snape and Lucius Malfoy, yes?”

“Yes,” he says slowly, not sure he likes where this seems to be headed, if the mischief in the girl’s voice is any indication.

“So this story is about how they meet and fall in love,” she tells him. “Then have wild, passionate, kinky –“

“Okay, okay!” he interrupts her with a groan. “I thought you wanted to be an archaeologist?”

“I do,” she replies. “Are you saying you’d be opposed to the idea of your daughter as an author of gay pornography?”

“There are so many things wrong with that question, I’m not sure where to start,” he laughs.

“You know, you’re not being very supportive of my chosen career, Dad,” she tells him seriously.

“Okay, that’s it, I’m hanging up now,” he says.

“Fine,” she replies sulkily, then, “I miss you.”

He smiles into the phone, taps the receiver with his forefinger, and says, “We’re all made of stardust, little girl.”

~*~*~

He died when she was twenty-five.

~*~*~

Dear Dad,

This is the hardest letter I’ve ever written. Not just because you’re gone now, but because there were so many things we never said to each other that I’m not sure where I should start. Really, though, I’d like to think you already knew everything I could possibly say.

What I hope you knew, more than anything else, is that I’m okay.

Grandma told me you once confessed to her that after you left, you worried the most about me. I guess that’s not a surprise; Kenny was always pretty good at throwing punches, and Danny’s smart enough to stay out of trouble, but my sharp tongue always had a habit of getting me into messes I couldn’t get myself out of. To be honest, not much has changed.

But I’m okay.

In the time you missed, I went through the same thing every kid goes through between the ages of sixteen and twenty-one. I spent a lot of time playing the poor Irish kid street rat, brawling with my back to the wall, nothing but fists and bared teeth. I also spent a lot of time playing the groomed debutante, all cold disdain and thinly veiled insults. By twenty-one, an age that seems to be much more profound than just a number, I’d convinced myself that I was something entirely different, something that had nothing to do with either extreme from my past. As you can probably imagine, that phase didn’t last for very long.

You told me once that you don’t know how to be anything but what you are.

I’m a writer and an archaeologist, a student and a mentor, a stubborn old woman and a confused little girl. I’m a fucked up perfectionist, and a perfect fuck-up. Sometimes, I’m a sinner and a saint at the same time. I’m the snot-nosed O’Dorchaidhe brat, and the arrogant Loring heiress. I’m frenzied creativity channeled by cold logic, and jaded sneers that curve with childish hope.

I’m your daughter.

And because of that, because of you, I’m a survivor.

If you can’t fly, run; if you can’t run, walk; if you can’t walk, crawl- but whatever you do, keep moving.

Love,
Me

~*~*~

”We’re all made of stardust, little girl, so no matter where you go or how long it’s been, all you have to do is look up at the night sky, and then you’ll know I love you.”

~*~*~