Authors: Cathy Lamb
I tapped her on the knee.
‘We also have giant cupcakes,’ she rambled. ‘We’ve named them Bommarito’s Heavenly Cupcakes.’ She leapt up and grabbed eight – eight – of the cupcakes and plonked them on the table. ‘The flowers almost look alive, it’s sort of freaky, but we weren’t trying to scare anyone, it’s how they turned out, all wiggling and squiggling, like they could talk. The flowers, I mean. Not that I think flowers can talk. I don’t. They don’t talk.’
‘Janie.’
Her head snapped to me. I put a hand on her arm.
She took a deep breath.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, breathless. ‘Sorry.’
‘Please.’ Our dad held up a hand. ‘Please don’t be sorry. I can see you have a thriving business here.’ He cleared his throat. He blinked rapidly. Blinking didn’t help. Tears dribbled out of his eyes.
‘He’s crying,’ Janie murmured. ‘Those are tears.’
I raised my eyebrows when she stuck her finger through a non-talking flowery cupcake. She stared at her finger, seemingly surprised at the action it had taken, then raised hurt, green eyes to our dad. ‘Where were you, Dad?’ she said, her voice breaking into little glass shards. ‘Why did you leave us? Why didn’t you come back?’
The silence was so noisy, I could almost feel the nerves in my head cracking.
Janie reached for my hand under the table and pulsed it in sets of four. ‘Where were you?’ The icing squished between us.
Yes
,
Dad
,
where were you? Where were you when we fell apart? When things collapsed for our family and then got worse?
‘I have…’ He started, cleared his throat, started again. ‘I have thought for years, forever…about what I would tell you girls if I ever saw you again. How I would explain my unforgivable absence.’ He tipped his chin up. ‘I have never veered from my first answer to myself: I would tell you the truth.’
‘Truth is good,’ I told him. ‘We deserve it.’
‘So where were you?’ Janie asked. She tapped the table, then reached for the sugar packets. I knew she would sort them into groups of four.
‘I was in jail for fifteen years.’
The words hung between us, like an exploding emotional grenade. Fiery, smoky, heavy, dangerous.
‘J…’ Janie couldn’t get the word out. She sorted quicker. ‘Jail?’
He nodded. ‘Yes, jail.’
Jail? Jail!
‘What…what did you do?’ I asked, not sure I wanted to hear this any more than I wanted to hear the details about a human gutting.
‘You committed a crime?’ Janie asked.
I breathed then. Thank God for Janie and her inane questions. ‘No. He made the cotton candy at the carnival too pink.’
‘Well…uh…um…um…um! Um! I thought he would say that he was innocent!’
Janie actually hates crime. It fascinates her to write about it, but when she reads about people committing crimes and innocent people getting hurt, she gets upset. We have to be careful around her. Crime pays, for Janie, but only in her books. The rest of the time she prefers to believe the world outside is a nice, fuzzy, yellowish-pink place filled with Jane Austen and Little Women that she doesn’t have to interact with too much and our childhood was simply a nightmare.
‘I wasn’t innocent.’
We both sagged at the same time against the booth, my stomach slipping down my insides and heading south for my feet.
‘I was guilty. I accepted it from the start,’ he stopped. ‘I will never get over what I did. Not a day goes by that I don’t regret it a hundred times.’
‘What did you…’ Janie started in on a napkin, ripping each one into four pieces, then reached for another one.
‘What did I do?’ His gaze did not waver. ‘I killed a man.’
‘You kill—’ Janie stuttered, then ripped another napkin.
My stomach kept sliding. I wanted to get on that pirate ship and take off.
Our dad was a killer. ‘
Hello, this is my dad. He’s a murderer
.’
‘I did. I had left you all about three years before and was having…’ He stopped, his voice barely above a whisper. ‘I was having a bad time of it.’
He
was having a bad time? Bits of my childhood shot to my mind, quite unpleasantly. ‘
You
were having a bad time so you killed someone? Should I feel sorry for you?’
The gentleness in that familiar face was almost my undoing. How could he have taken that gentleness from us? I remembered my dad laughing. I remembered how he’d taught us to make omelettes and how we’d watch Saturday morning cartoons and lay all over him. I remembered how we rode on wagons to get pumpkins for Halloween.
And then, in a flash, he was gone.
We were children. Our entire world crashed.
‘You should not feel sorry for me, Isabelle. I’m not asking for that.’ His voice was warm and humble and low.
‘Do you know—’ I stopped because the rush of emotion about drowned me and I decided to put the murdering my dad did aside for a second. ‘Do you know what happened to us after you left? Do you have any idea?’
Janie patted my arm. Pat pat, pat pat. Four times. Pat pat, pat pat.
He bent his head for a second, then lifted it back up. Through my mist of anger and anguish, I had the impression he was a man who was willing to take it on the chin. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t. The hurt I caused you has haunted me daily. Nightly. Always.’
‘And that excuses it?’ The mist bubbled in me, bubbled in the kid I used to be, lonely and lost and thrust headfirst into a scary, relentlessly cold world.
‘No.’ Firm, resolute tone. ‘What I did is inexcusable.’
‘We lost the house. The sheriff actually came and kicked us out. It was devastating.’ I remembered a neighbour helping Momma out. She was bent over with grief, clutching her wedding album and her wedding veil. We had sold anything of even remote value, so there wasn’t much to pack.
‘We went through homelessness in different states.’ There. I’d said it. We’d never said it when we were kids. That word was
not allowed
. Janie had said it once and Momma had slapped her. ‘We’re not homeless,’ Momma had seethed. ‘We’re not losers. We’re not white trash. We are temporarily spending the night in our car until I can figure out what to do, but we are not homeless. Do you have that?’
I could tell he was dumbfounded, then horrified.
‘We went through times when we were starving, especially during the summer when the school wasn’t providing us with free meals.’
He paled further.
‘Henry had health problems, but you knew that when you left, didn’t you?’ I could feel my anger building.
‘Yes. I knew that Henry…there was almost always something wrong… I knew that.’
‘But you left anyhow.
You left
. One time Momma had bronchitis for a year because we couldn’t afford the medication. Cecilia kept getting rashes we couldn’t treat. Janie had migraines and the over-the-counter medication didn’t work.’
I saw that jawline clenching. Not in anger, though. Not in anger.
In shock
.
But I was angry. ‘We were broke. Momma couldn’t pay the bills. She often couldn’t find a normal job because she couldn’t get someone to watch Henry while she worked because he was so often sick. She didn’t have an education, didn’t have work skills. Kids made fun of us because we were so poor.’ And because we were the daughters of The River of Love. ‘They picked on Henry.
We had nothing
.’
He put a shaky hand to his face and rubbed it.
‘That wasn’t the worst of it. You know Momma suffers from depression? She’d take to her bed for weeks at a time, so Janie and Cecilia and I took care of Henry and baked desserts for money. We fought for each damn thing we had. We were always scared, always moving, always striving to survive. And Momma,’ I paused, inhaled. ‘Momma was not often in a good mood.’
The understatement about undid me. As an adult, I could understand Momma’s moods, the swings, the unbelievable stress, and the depression better. She was suffering more than any of us. But knowing what caused parents to act as they did in childhood does not make childhood better. It doesn’t make it sweeter or pinker or more rainbowlike. The scars are still there, the hurts ongoing, those brittle, searing moments still raw.
Janie patted me. Pat pat, pat pat.
‘You abandoned us. To this day, do you understand,
to this day
, I do not trust men. I do not trust relationships. I hardly trust myself. Cecilia eats all the time and is constantly flipping her lid about something, and Janie, well, look at her.’
Janie had destroyed six napkins. She had piled the pieces up in four different piles. The pieces crisscrossed each other. ‘I’ve got some mental issues,’ she whispered. ‘A few. Here and there. A couple of habits and counting problems and I check things. I don’t like to leave my houseboat. People make me nervous…’ she drivelled off. ‘I tap. Check. Tap.’
I saw nothing but compassion on my dad’s face, but I ignored it.
‘Want to know what your wife ended up doing?’ I demanded, sitting forward in my seat and leaning towards him.
Our dad exhaled. ‘Yes, I do.’
‘Stripping. Stripping her clothes off.’
We did not miss that strangled sound in his throat or the way his face turned into a tight mask.
‘And don’t you dare judge her.
She
hated it. It about killed her, but she did it because we didn’t have money for food or rent or Henry’s medical bills, and waitressing and our desserts weren’t cutting it. That’s what you did to us,
Daddy
, and we’re only touching on a few surface problems.’
I took a deep breath. I felt my tears, wrapped up in a tight ball in my throat, expand and grow.
My daddy was now about the same colour as the napkins Janie was shredding. ‘I don’t understand—’ he rasped out, as if he could hardly get his words between his vocal cords. ‘Your mother never should
have—’
‘Would you like to say that to her face,
Daddy? “You never should have stripped
,
River
.” Trust me, it wouldn’t go over well. She did what she had to do.’ And that was the truth. River Bommarito had done what she had to do. She was backed in a corner and she was fighting for four kids, all on her own.
I rolled those words around in my head and felt a little love seep in for Momma.
She’d done what she’d had to do
.
Our dad sank back against the booth, as if the bones in his body had collapsed.
‘It’s nice to see you, Dad,’ I snapped. ‘But forgive me for not being more gracious. Momma, right now, is refusing to leave a retirement centre after heart surgery, even though she’s perfectly healthy, because she’s getting the first vacation of her life.
Of her life
.’
I thought of Momma going out on the town, to shows and restaurants, bowling and book group, bridge tournaments and chess games.
For the first time in forever
.
‘I don’t think you understand the situation we were in when you left,’ Janie started, gentle as always, shred shred, shred.
‘No, I’m not understanding that situation,’ Dad said, completely confused, palms up. ‘I’m not understanding your financial struggles, at least. Why didn’t your mother use the money I left her? Why didn’t she?’
Janie stopped shredding and gasped.
I’m sure my arteries stopped pumping blood. The pirate ship on the roof came to a dead halt.
‘What are you talking about?’ I whispered, shoving the words out of my constricted throat. ‘There was no money. None.’
‘Yes.’ Dad leant forward. ‘Yes, there was! The money from the government, from my years in the military. I authorised my monthly cheque to be mailed to your mother, as it was mailed to her the whole time I was in the army. Plus, I left her the inheritance I received from my parents after they died when I was in ’Nam. What happened to that money? That was enough to pay off the house. It was enough for savings. It was enough for college for you girls. River should not have had to work a day in her life. Not one day.’
I was stunned. It felt like someone had lassoed that pirate ship that had landed on our bakery and bashed me in the head. Janie made squeaking sounds. She clung to my hand and pulsed.
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ I told him. ‘
None
.’
‘There wasn’t any money,’ Janie squeaked. ‘Except for what we made from the lemon meringue pies you taught us to make, the chocolate cookies with peppermint were popular, I think the cherry pies did well…’ Her voice trailed off weakly. She went back to shredding.
‘Oh my God,’ our dad groaned, putting both hands to the sides of his head. ‘
Oh my God
.’
I called Cecilia and asked if she could come over to Grandma’s for dinner. I figured it would be better there, then Cecilia could run, major temper tantrum flaming, if she wanted. I was uncertain of Cecilia’s reaction.
No, strike that.
The only uncertainty I had was how extreme Cecilia’s reaction would be and if she would start throwing items of value out the windows as she eviscerated our dad.
We decided that Dad – how odd it was to say that word – would follow me behind my motorcycle up to the house in his blue SUV, and Janie would follow him in her Porsche. I think we all needed a moment alone on the drive.
It was all a bit much. A dad appearing – the shock, the tears, the initial rush of love, then the fury. The white, burning fury.
A fury that had flared up and settled back down, then flared up and settled. I could feel it flaring up again.
How dare he?
How could he? Waltzing back into our lives after ruining our childhoods? After leaving us with Momma? After all we went through that could have been prevented, or at least mitigated, by his presence?
We had made him Christmas presents for three years. We didn’t even leave our apartments on our birthdays in the hope that he’d call. It shattered us to lose our dad. It would have been easier if we’d lost a leg and half our brain.
And here he was.
I turned out of town, breathed in, breathed out, following the rushing Columbia River part of the way, before turning up the hill.
I couldn’t deny my other emotions, though: part of me was so glad to see my dad again I could cry.
So I did.
Cry, that is.
My dad held my gaze on the front porch and those big brown eyes teared up and I had the distinct impression he wanted to hug me.
I turned away.
He held the screen door for me and Janie.
‘Thank you, thank you,’ Janie fluttered. ‘This is Grandma’s house. There’s a sunroom. A pergola. It’s a house. It’s Grandma’s. She hides her secrets in the towers,’ Janie babbled. ‘We’ll sit in the sunroom.’
Dad just nodded, smiling, tearing up.
Janie grinned with her teeth when she went through the doorway. ‘You didn’t smile,’ she whispered to me. I ignored her.
‘I’ll make coffee,’ I disappeared into the kitchen. The sun was slanting through Momma’s bottle collection, sending a prism of colour to the countertop. I sighed.
I heard Grandma marching down the stairs. She was singing a patriotic song at the top of her lungs. ‘It’s a grand old flag, it’s a high-flying flag… It’s the emblem of the land Amelia loves…’
She came to an abrupt halt when she saw me. She had found a cane somewhere and thumped it on the wooden floor.
‘I can see I have company,’ she announced. ‘I’m giving my autobiography on the front porch tonight and I’m expecting a crowd. Please make pretzels for them.’
‘I’ll do that, Amelia, and I’ll eagerly anticipate your autobiography.’
‘You should. The United States is dying to know the secrets of Amelia Earhart.’ She thumped her cane again. ‘I am a flying genius.’
I heard Janie’s voice in the other room. So did Grandma.
‘The crowds must be forming already.’ She spun on her heel and headed to the sunroom.
I grabbed her arm. ‘Uh, Amelia.’
‘Yes, dear?’ She snapped her goggles over her eyes. When I did not respond, she put them back up on her flight helmet. ‘Speak now or forever hold your peace. Speak.’
What to say? Your son-in-law is here? You only met him a few times after Momma ran off and married him. Remember that man? He went to Vietnam? Lived in a cage for a while…that one?
But, no, she wouldn’t remember. Her memory was shrivelled and hiding somewhere in a cavern in her mind, door shut.
‘I’m happy to see you, Amelia.’
She tapped my foot with her cane. ‘And I, you, young lady.’ She strutted towards the sunroom.
I put sugar and cream on a tray. Should I prepare Dad? I stopped. Why should I prepare him? Had he been here when Grandma started going downhill, forgetting everything, getting lost, getting angry, talking nonsense, her behaviour erratic? No. Had he been around to make sure that Momma didn’t become exhausted taking care of a mother with dementia and a mentally disabled son? No. Had he been able to provide a home? No. Grandma had provided that.
Grandma marched into the sunroom. ‘It’s a grand old flag…’
‘Mrs Howe,’ I heard Dad say, so polite.
‘Young man!’ Grandma protested, arms rigid at her sides. ‘Watch your manners!’
I followed her in.
She marched past Dad. ‘My name is Amelia Earhart. I’ve got a crowd today to speak to, and I have no time for more interviews by pot-smoking, crackpot journalists. Out of the way.’
Dad got out of the way.
‘Let me give you some advice, young man.’ She ogled him, leaning towards him, then adjusted her goggles over her head. ‘Do I know you?’
‘Yes,’ Dad said. ‘I believe you do.’
‘What is your name then?’
‘I’m Carl Bommarito. I married your daughter, River.’
‘Hmm,’ Grandma said, fiddling with her goggles. ‘River River. That is not correct. You are confused. Confounded.’ She grabbed a piece of paper and pen from her antique rollback desk.
I knew what she was doing. I wondered how Dad would react.
She turned around and gave the paper to Dad.
‘That’s a map of Hawaii. You’ll need that in order to land. I use it myself. No need to thank me. I must go now.’
I watched Grandma march out the door. She made the sound of an engine, then yelled, ‘Get me my co-pilot!’ She farted. ‘Bottom bullet wounds!’
Velvet followed behind after nodding at Dad.
Dad opened up the paper. There was a smiley face on it.
His face was unutterably sad as he rubbed his eyes.
‘She believes she’s Amelia Earhart,’ I told him.
I thought he might cry again.
She pushed him as hard as she could.
She screamed at him, ‘Get out, get out, get out!’
Then she let him have it.
Janie and I physically held Cecilia back.
‘Asshole!’ she snapped. ‘You jerk! You leave us, you leave
four
kids, and now, after we’re all grown, you come back? What are you thinking? I have two kids.
Two of them
, and I would never, ever abandon my children. Get out.
Get out!
’
‘I understand, Cecilia,’ our dad said. ‘I do.’ He stood up, his face grave, pained, exhausted.
I still held the raging Cecilia; so did Janie. We were a clump of writhing Bommarito sisters.
‘Oh my God,’ Cecilia accused, shaking her head in disgust. ‘You deserted us, we were instantly
broke—’
‘Uh, Cecilia,’ I said.
Dad’s left eye started to twitch.
‘Momma had to sell her wedding ring the first month. She cried over that ring.
She cried over it
. She held it in her hands and kissed it right before she went to the pawnshop.’
Dad’s pale face became ashen. He swayed.
‘Cecilia, um, can we chat for a sec?’ I said.
‘We moved from one slummy, scary apartment to another with slummy, scary people.’
Dad dropped his head, hand to neck.
‘Don’t let go,’ I whispered to Janie over Cecilia’s head.
‘Why are you here? Why the hell did you come back? Want to play Dad? It’s too late. It is too late for you.
We don’t need a dad
. We got by without you and we don’t need you in our lives.’
I held her tight and grunted out, ‘There’s one thing you should know,
Cecilia—’
Janie whimpered.
‘You flattened Momma, you screwed all of us
up—’
Cecilia continued on her enraged tirade until it was cut short by Henry’s sweet, innocent voice.
‘Hiya, sisters! Hiya!’
Our heads whipped around, but I did not release the struggling Cecilia.
‘I been petting the dogs,’ Henry said. He was wearing a brown T-shirt with a fluffy white dog on the front of it. It said, ‘Bark!’ He likes to wear dog or cat shirts when he works at the shelter.
‘I pet Al. His name Al.’ Henry grinned. ‘He a big black dog. No biting, Al! And I pets Sherman. A dog named Sherman!’ He snickered. ‘He a white little dog. He sat in my lap. He sleepy. And I pets Emily.’
What to do?
How should we tell Henry? Should we tell him? Did he need to know? How long was Dad going to stay around, anyhow? Wouldn’t it be more devastating for Henry to meet his dad and lose him again when Dad took off?
How would Dad treat Henry? I remembered Dad dancing around with Henry on his shoulders, laughing, but would Henry make him uncomfortable now? So many people were.
But the decision to tell or not tell Henry was taken clean out of our hands.
Henry tipped his head to the left side, then the right as he stared at Dad. He smiled in wonder.
‘I think that my dad,’ he said, leaning forward at the waist. He circled his hands and put them up to his eyes, like glasses. ‘Yep. I think that my dad. I got a picture of Dad in my Bible, You my dad, right? You my dad. Hi to my dad.’
The three of us sisters stood there, like Silly Putty, stunned. We had all seen Henry staring at Dad’s photo. He had always told us that Dad would come back.
‘Hi to my dad!’ Henry smiled. ‘Hey! Hi to my dad!’
This was too much for Dad. One kid, finally, being kind to him.
Henry put his arms out. ‘I give my dad a hug. I glad to see my dad.’
‘I’m glad to see you, too, Henry,’ Dad said, his shoulders slumping, face reddening. ‘I am so glad to see you.’ He hugged him. It was a long, long hug. Dad’s tears ran right down those cheeks, right down that scar.
Janie made a sound like this, ‘Ohhhh. Isn’t that sweet?’
Cecilia said, ‘Shit. Hell and shit.’
When they pulled away, Henry said, ‘Now I got my dad. I been wanting my dad back. Hey, Cecilia and Isabelle and Janie. Dad back.’ He grinned. ‘Dad back.’
It was Henry who had all of us outside on the porch eating cupcakes and drinking grape juice minutes later.
‘We go and have treat!’ Henry announced. He grabbed Dad, an arm slung around his shoulders. ‘You sit by me. You my dad. Two guys. We sit together.’
‘I think Daaaad’ – Cecilia dragged out the word – ‘has to go, Henry. He has things to do.’
Dad stood there, dignified, quiet. I am not a beast and I knew he was hurting, too. Hurting all over.
‘No!’ Henry shrieked. ‘No!’ He put another arm around Dad. ‘He no go. He stay and visit. Dad’s back. Dad, you stay!’
Dad turned and hugged him again, wiped his eyes. ‘I’d like to visit with you all, Henry. I’d like that.’
‘Good!’ Henry clapped his hands together. ‘Good.’ He ran into the kitchen, and I knew he was getting the Bommarito’s Heavenly Cupcakes I’d brought home earlier.
‘You’re going to hurt him again,’ Cecilia spat out. ‘He’s had your picture forever. Now you’re here and he doesn’t get what’s going on. He probably thinks you’re moving back in. He has a dad, the dad’s back. What’ll we tell him when you leave again?’ Cecilia burst into tears, then bit her lip.
‘How dare you hurt Henry again? We can take it, but he’s…
he’s Henry
,’ I said. ‘When you go, it will be months before he’s the same. When you left the first time he stopped talking and had to start wearing diapers at night.’
Henry had thrown fits and thrown things and thrown Momma for a loop. Henry’s reaction was pure Bommarito – we don’t know how to feel things halfway, and his grief was insidious and long-lasting.
I ran my hands through my shortened hair, exhausted. Drained. Blown away.
Henry darted in and yelled with great joy, ‘I come one minute! I be there one minute say hi Dad.’ He clapped his hands and ran back into the kitchen. ‘Hi to my dad!’
‘You’re in his life and you
leave—’
‘Cecilia, I’m not leaving this time,’ Dad said. ‘I’m not leaving.’
‘Yes, you are. You will.’
‘I have a job at TechEx, the new plant being built in Dulles, down the road. I’ve come here a few times in the last months and I’ve bought a home. I’m staying.’
Silence.
He was staying?
Henry burst into a song about a bear in the kitchen. He made the growling sounds.
‘What?’ Janie said. ‘I don’t get it. You’re moving to Trillium River?’
‘I’ve moved to Trillium River,’ he said, ‘from Los Angeles.’
‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Why?’
‘Because of you all,’ he said, his voice breaking. ‘Never in my life will I be able to make up to you what I did. Never. I can tell you that I have always loved you. Not a day, not an hour, has gone by when I haven’t loved you all and thought of you. Not a day has gone by that I didn’t regret…’ He stopped, gathered up those rampaging, raw emotions. ‘That I didn’t regret my actions, what’s happened. I thought about staying away…’
‘You should have!’ Cecilia assured him. ‘You should have.’
‘I struggled with that, Cecilia. I did. My selfishness told me to come back, to be with you all. The other side of me said that I would be an intrusion, that coming back would hurt you all over again, cause you upheaval and
pain—’
‘Our dad left years ago,’ Cecilia said. ‘We don’t have one. We don’t need one.’
‘Don’t be so mean, Cecilia,’ Janie whispered.
‘Ha!’ Henry darted back in. ‘Ha! My dad here! I knew it!’ He clapped his hands, then ran back to the kitchen.
‘I don’t want to cause you any more pain than I have,’ Dad said again. ‘I have no right to come back. I have no right to think of myself as your dad. I have not earned it, and I can never tell you how sorry I am for what I did.’ He teared up, coughed. ‘I am sorry beyond sorry. To the depths of my soul, I am sorry.’
Cecilia’s mouth dropped open. I leant against a wall. Janie sank into a chair.
‘Please, I’m asking only for a chance,’ our dad said. ‘One chance to get to know you, to help you in any way that I
can—’
‘No, God, no,’ Cecilia said, emphatic.
‘A chance?’ Janie asked, hope in her voice.
‘We needed help when we were kids, Dad—’ I said.
‘OK sisters and my dad! I got the cupcakes. I make grape juice,’ Henry announced. ‘Dad back! Dad back! I sit by Dad. Two guys. Me and my dad.’