Dad to the Rescue

I was never really close with my father. I always thought he favored my older sister. Growing up, I would catch him staring at me with confused fascination. It was almost like he was baffled by everything I did, like I was some sort of puzzle to figure out. It wasn’t until I got older that I realized the importance of our time together.

According to my sister, my parents fought constantly before I was born. They divorced when I was three years old. My earliest memory is my sister reading a book about sharks. I sit attentively on the floor in a beanbag chair while she lays on the bottom of our bunk beds. The book obscures her face and I’m thankful her fingers cover most of the gruesome shark on the cover. Whenever I mention this memory, my sister is quick to add that this was the last time we were together in the house. My mother would move into a mobile home and my father would live in a two-bedroom apartment. We shuffled evenly between the two, so that we saw them equally and they saw each other as little as possible.

My father was a very stoic and reserved person most of the time. He would chuckle while watching movies or if someone told a funny story. For the most part, you would find him quietly sitting on the couch with a fifth of Jack Daniels in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He rarely got upset or mad, but when he did it was explosive. I wouldn’t say he was ever abusive. He didn’t have to be. My father was 5 feet 10 inches tall and 200 pounds easy, but his voice was something akin to a giant grizzly bear’s roar. When my sister or I ever stepped out of line, a low bellow would sound through the house and shake the walls. That is how I thought of him most of my childhood, a sleeping giant brown bear that would rise and roar if I woke him.

There was one particular time, when I was a very young that I do remember my father being exceptionally gentle and nurturing. It was the time I shut my fingers in the front door of my father’s apartment.

It was a typical Saturday. My father picked us up early that morning after breakfast with mom. His fruitless pursuit of conversation began as soon as I opened the car door. “How were things at school yesterday?” He asked with excitement.

“Fine.” I would respond flatly while crawling into the back seat of his brown Cadillac.

“Fine.” My sister would echo from the front seat.

This was par for course and was an immediate disappointment for my father. He tried repeatedly over the next few hours, let alone the next few years, to talk to us. He would only to be met with the same four-letter response. My sister was six years older that I was, and this was one of the reasons I believe he showed more attention to her than to me. Older would normally be a sign of more sophisticated conversation, but my stubborn sister would be standoffish about the divorce well into adulthood.

Strike Two would happen on the drive to my father’s apartment. “How bout we stop at Rally’s and get burgers for lunch?” My father asked a little less enthusiastically.

“We just ate breakfast not too long ago.” My sister would snap back at him.

“Well…” my father forced through his clinched teeth before continuing. “I was thinking we could go to rent some videos and then to the grocery store and then hit Rally’s. Isn’t that movie Boo has been wanting to see out on new release? We can get that and then get snacks at Publix, maybe then you’ll be hungry for…”

“We watched it last night. Mom got it for us.” My sister interrupted him. “But we can go to Publix if there’s nothing to eat at your place.”

My dad let out a long sigh and then said, “Of course she did. Off to Publix then.” He shifted the gear and proceeded slowly out on to the dirt road toward town. The drive to the store was only 10 minutes away, but it was made considerably longer with no conversation.

My father would tap his thumb on the steering wheel to the tune of the oldies station playing on the radio. The thumb was the only finger completely intact after my dad’s accident. My father had injured his hand when he was working at a chicken processing plant years before. He had mishandled a machine that removed feathers from dead chickens. The wires wrapped around his fingers and pulled the skin from the bone. His fingers were broken and twisted around while also being pulled from the joints. The doctors said it was impossible to reattach them, so they cauterized the wound down to the knuckles. It never bothered me, and I held on to his thumb as we crossed the store parking lot, just like it was a normal hand.

There was little chit chat even in the store. My father tried again to engage my sister by asking her what she wanted for dinner. My sister never cared whether we had chicken or beef for the main course. She always would ask for specific vegetables like fried okra, green beans, and mash potatoes and gravy. My father grabbed everything, and we filled the cart with junk food. It took about an hour to get everything, pay, and move it to the car. By the time we were done, Rally’s sounded tempting.

It was drive thru burgers and then home to unload the car. When we finished eating, my sister asked if she could go roller skating with friends in another apartment. My dad agreed reluctantly, then started cleaning off the plates. My sister jumped up and bolted out the door with her roller skates in hand.

I didn’t really know how to skate, so I sat on the floor and started coloring my She-Ra Coloring book. My dad finished cleaning the table and started folding clothes while he watched tv. Occasionally, he would glance over at me, and I would look up at him to see if he needed me to do anything. There was little to no talking. Neither of us was all that interested in what the other was doing.

After a few hours, my dad sent me out to collect my sister. “Hey Boo, I’m starting the chicken and it won’t take long, so I need you to go get Cheryl. Tell her it is time to come in and get cleaned up for dinner.”

I dropped my crayons and leaped up. It was the best assignment for a little sister, the power to turn the tables and order my bossy older sister inside. However, the power high would be short lived.

To this day, I’m still not sure how I did it. I opened the door and was outside. I must have slid my hand from the doorknob on the inside, over the edge of the door, lingering just enough that it slammed shut on my middle finger. I didn’t even register the pain at first. I was still moving forward when I was pulled back by my hand. I looked at it for a second, before letting out a blood curdling scream heard by the entire apartment complex.

I stood there screaming until my dad opened the door. He knew exactly what had happened within seconds of seeing me and my bloody hand. He scooped me up with one arm and grabbed a clean kitchen towel with the other. He quickly moved past the dining room table, and we landed together on the living room floor.

He wrapped my hand in the white dish towel and began rocking me back and forth. I was hysterically crying by this point. My dad tucked me into his chest and rested his chin on the top of my head. “Shhhhhh, It’s alright. You’re going to be just fine.” He whispered.

Enter my sister, full of tact and sensitivity. “What did she do, now?” my sister asked, super annoyed. “I heard her scream all the way down the road. People are freaking out.”

“Your sister slammed her finger in the door.” He explained quickly. “Tell everyone she’s fine, please.”

My sister would disappear for the next few minutes, while my father tried to ease my sobbing. I would say that it took thirty minutes for my father to calm me down. He would continue to cradle me and rock me back and forth, even as my tears dissipated.

My sister reappeared just as I was close to being fully calm. She slumped down on her knees next to us and laid a first aid kit beside my father’s knee. She looked at my dad and asked, “Can I see it?”

If this were a movie, the audience would scream out, “Noooo, don’t do it.” But not my dad. He had to cater to my sister’s every whim and desire. God forbid, he took a second to consider what was bound to come flying out of her mouth the moment she saw my hand.

My sister crawled forward and hovered over my hand. My dad released his grip and began pulling the cloth away from my hand. The first thing to notice was the amount of blood that had accumulated from the wound. The white towel was now completely red on the inside of the wrap. It resembled a jelly donut. As the last piece of fabric was pulled away, it took my cracked fingernail with it.

Without any hesitation, my sister gasped at the sight and exclaimed, “Oh my god, they’re going to have to cut it off.”

Literally, the worst thing she could have said. I immediately start crying again. Long intense sobs with desperate pleads not to cut off my finger. It would take three times as long to quite me so we could have dinner.

My mother was not please when she saw it the next day. I spent the next week with my right hand wrapped up and unable to use it. It would take a month for my fingernail to grow back.

My father passed away almost 20 years ago. I was lucky to tell him I loved him the night before he died. I miss him every day. I miss him when I’m shopping at the grocery store. I miss him when I cook his recipes. I miss him the most when things are not going my way or seem out of control.

I don’t know if it was his time in the military or growing up on a farm. Maybe losing his fingers made him more experienced in dealing with trauma. It could have just been his nature, but my father was always calm in times of crisis. I was really blessed to have him when I was growing up. Several of my girlfriends, have told me over the years, how terrible their fathers were to them. I think it’s important for young children to have a mom around, but as an adult I really miss my dad. When things seem chaotic and depressing, it’s nice to have someone calm to remind you that it will all be ok in the end.