Retrospective suprise

So my mother comes out the bad one. I thought I was going to dive into the darkness around my father — and no, it is not so bad, really. Just the distance of another time and culture, of trying to be a father to four girls, one definitely not his own, another born in his presence, and raised from birth as his. Still, Rachel and I have shared memories of that moment at the edge of the Singing Tree, a moment I remember as defining every moment before something is known. How to explain? We had a tree at the curve in our driveway where it split to go around the house. We had a long driveway, a couple of hundred yards, I guess, and then it circled the house, and one branch went off down to the garage and the stables. And to the left of the spot where it curved and headed downhill to go to the back of the house and the garage stood a tall tree we called the Singing Tree. We used to climb it and survey our four acres from its higher branches. Ruth May fell from it and broke her jaw. I stacked hay bales under it every weekend of winter, so that in the early frosty hours of schooldays I could toss breakfast over the fence to the donkeys without having to go all the way down the dog pen where the hay was stacked safely under cover. We loved that tree, the way the wind sighed through it, the way we felt above the world and safe in its tall branches. It was some kind of evergreen, with branches that bounced as we climbed them, and it smelled tart and mountainous. When I remember that it is gone, I feel something resist in me, and turn away.

Anyway, it obscured the back of the house, where Dad parked the Volvo. Rachel and I would run down the driveway after school, waiting for that instance when we could round the Singing Tree and discover what we wanted to know most, at that moment — was the Volvo there? Was Dad home? I think of getting letters from literary journals and publishing companies and agents, those letters that will accept or reject you, and the moment when you hold the letter in your hand, before you KNOW. It might be good news. There is a delicious joy in that moment, in all the possibilities it holds. Then you slit the envelope open, slip the letter out, unfold it, and the words are there, shattering what you’d hoped for. So often rounding that tree was a shattering of hope — the Volvo neatly parked by the kitchen window, Dad home, nothing to look forward to but being sent to our rooms the moment we entered the door, till tea was ready and we could come out long enough to sit and drink it with the silence of the house echoing around us. Then outside to play, or lined up to do our homework, and always the taut, hard silence ringing in our ears, my father’s dark, impenetrable presence upstairs, in his chair in the living room. To this day, Rachel hates silence, the silence of anger that permeated so much of our childhood. She’s rather instigate a screaming match with her partner than sit through that icy quiet.

Sometimes, on rare, beautiful occasions, the car would be gone, and Rachel and I would barrel down the hill and burst through the back door and into the kitchen, the words tumbling from out mouths: “When’s Daddy back at?” And Mum would say, “When will Daddy be back. You don’t end a sentence with a preposition,” and we’d stand and jig with our satchels still on our shoulders, waiting to hear whether we should go to our rooms or could fling off our coats and flop down for tea and as many biscuits as we wanted (chocolate-covered, of course), and laugher and conversation till the long blue grumble of the Volvo rounding the corner woke us to the silence once more.

3 responses to “Retrospective suprise

  1. How sad. How sad that little girls had to dread their father’s presence rather than feel joy for it. I could just feel that tree, and the difficult, double-edged anticipation.

    Again, I find myself wondering what you have “done” with these experiences. (I suppose because I’m so in the throes of dealing with my own experiences differently.)

    Wish I could reach out and hug those little girls.

  2. Hi Stella: I don’t really know what I’ve “done” with my experiences. Your question kind of stopped me in my tracks! I think maybe I’ll find out as I continue the retrospective. I suppose off the cuff I’d say that I tried to understand where Mum’s actions came from, and Dad’s, so that I could recognize their inevitability in some way. Also, one thing that hasn’t yet come out about my Mum is how SHE changed, what she did to become whole and strong and remarkable (which she was). And I think that’s colored my own view of the world, and helped me in trying to transform the challenges of our childhood into something positive. I don’t know. I guess it’ll unfold as we go.

    I do notice that my relationship with my mother is something I return to again and again (and my father too, now), and I think maybe I’m still trying to get past some of the sadness, though in truth I don’t feel sad most of the time. “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” Mum used to say all the time. It was true in her case. Maybe it’ll be true in mine?

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