Snapback

I was so angry I could hardly see straight. My breathing had become shallow and I could hear a ringing in my ears. Tears were springing to my eyes and my arms and legs jangled, looking for something ... to kick? to punch? I stormed into the house, trying to hide my anger from Munchkin, a blameless bystander to this emotional storm. I hugged her, kissed her, took off her boots and patted her off by the bum in the direction of Daddy.

"Where's Auntie Soo-see?" he asked, innocently.

And that's when I had to leave. She was an hour and a half late, and I thought I was angry because I had made her a hair appointment with my own stylist and she was due in the chair in five minutes. I jumped in the car and went to have my own hair cut in her stead.

But that wasn't it.

In my heart, it was 30 years ago. My sister and I were dressed in matching outfits--maybe it was pink frilled Easter dresses, little white socks and shiny patent leather shoes; maybe it was rubber boots, jeans, and thick hooded sweatshirts; maybe we had suitcases or maybe we had just a picnic lunch packed. My sister had her blankie close by. I had my bunny. We were sitting on the couch in the living room, trying to stay neat, looking out the front window for the brown two-door Bronco. Then we were sitting in the window itself, peering up and down the street, down to the corners. Then we were in our coats sitting on the stone fence flipping our feet out over the sidwalk, looking further still. We ran further and further up and down the sidewalk, drawing away from home, from waiting.

For Dad. Who usually came, but never on time. Never close to on time. To bring us to his house. To drive us eight hours on a trip to the grandparents'. To bring us camping with his family, our family. Never less than an hour late.

We were full of beans, my sister and I. She naturally had ants in her pants, as my mom always said, but the wait was one fidget among all the others in her day. I, on the other hand, was made desperate by these situations. I was always so anxious to see him, my Dad--Dad!--who loved me best, who called me his Hoper, who saw in me something special. I could hardly wait for the appointed time, much less bear those way-longer minutes of his continued absence.

Tick-tock. Mom's frown deepens. Tick-tock. My sister is getting sillier and sillier. Tick-tock. My joy is turning to anxiety. Tick-tock. I don't feel special anymore, I feel, with every passing minute, abandoned. Abandoned again and again and again. A childhood of infrequent visits that meant so little to him that he never bothered to show up on time. A man so selfish he never considered what those minutes, those hours, meant to us, the daughters he saw maybe twice a year even though he lived quite literally at the end of our street.

Tick-tock. I need to love him and so I push it down, keep smiling, keep looking up and down the street. Because he will come, if my own desire can make it happen.

Tick-tock. Auntie Soo-see is coming, Munckin! When? After breakfast. Is she here now? Where is Auntie Soo-see, Mom? I want to see my cousin! Is it the weekend? Is she here now?

I get anxious and annoyed and after sitting on the couch, and after looking out the windows, and after getting dressed and walking up and down the sidewalk, we run into the backyard. Munchkin is happy to be playing with me, and quite honestly, she's sort of forgotten Auntie Soo-see at this point. But I haven't. I'm looking up and down the street, craning to see around the neighbouring houses. I lift my head quickly every time I hear an engine.

And this is why I burst into tears driving to the hairdresser.

I never let myself feel this pain, this disappointment, all those years ago, for all those years. He died 9 years ago this month. We didn't go to his funeral. In a hushed conversation over the telephone, two provinces separating us, my sister and I admitted to each other we were relieved to hear the waiting was finally over. You don't expect birthday cards from the dead, nor Christmas cards. You don't expect the dead to call you, to wonder what you're doing. It's okay if the dead don't love you. But I could never tell him how much he hurt me. I could never hurt him back, insulated as he was in his various addictions--alcohol, cocaine, women. He didn't care enough about anything to know anything of the feelings of those who did.

And so I'm irrationally angry with my sister, who was trapped behind a terrible accident on the highway, who came late, Munchkin already asleep, but stayed late too so we could all go to the park together, a happy, wonderful outing. It was a great day, and Munchkin, being a toddler and not literate, can't tell the difference between 'tomorrow' and 'five minutes from now' so I don't think she's been hurt.

But I have been hurt. And my sister has been hurt. We've talked it over, now, and I explained why I was so viciously angry when she finally dashed into the hairdresser, with one minute to spare. We talked it over, and she felt it, too, that abandonment all those years ago, that continuing sense of panic when a happily awaited visitor is more than five minutes late.

It's okay now. Pynchon knows the story and my sister lived the story and I understand my own feelings a little better now and we're working on harm-avoidance for the future. A little bit of reconciliation today from a wound inflicted 30 years ago. There's hope in that, I think.