Werners. It was actually one of the more interesting parts of the curriculum.
Yvonne tools down Lyndale Avenue, elbow out the window, cigarette dangling between her fingers. We’re going to Bachman’s, the high-end nursery where Yvonne gets all her houseplants. She’s got a thing for plants, and at least once a week we’re scoping out some new philodendron or other. In fact, our trips to Bachman’s are almost as much fun as our outings to Lake Calhoun. It’s how we’re bonding.
“My dad was German,” she says. There’s a hint of something in her voice. Sadness, maybe? No. It’s more than that. Hurt, anger, and something else I can’t really put my finger on. After a long pause, she adds, “I only met him once.”
“Really?” Even at my age, I know the start of a good story when I hear one. “What happened?”
“He went to the war,” she says matter-of-factly. “And he never came back.”
Yvonne looks at me like Did you get that? He never came back. I get it, of course I get it. I had a couple of people never come back on me, too.
“Did he die?”
“Nope.”
“How do you know?”
“Because one day, I was playing on my front steps and a man came walking up. He was tall and had blue eyes like mine. He looked at me and said, ‘You’re mine all right.’ Then he went inside, talked to my mom for a few minutes, and left. I never saw him again.”
I am comforted by hearing this, and though I don’t have words for it yet, I know why. Because Yvonne is telling my story. She and I feel the same pain. I know exactly what it feels like to be a little girl wondering if she’s ever going to see her dad again. What’s even more interesting is that we’re working it out with the same man ! My dad. Okay, so Freddie is her boyfriend, and he’s my father, but here we are, two chicks in the same car, living in the same house, dealing with the same lack of control over a man who can’t or won’t stop doing things we know will cause him to leave us. Again.
The only thing is…if we’re both little girls who miss Daddy, which one of us is going to be the grown-up?
A COUPLE OF HOURS AFTER I get to work, Paul phones again. This makes me terribly happy. Not just because I really like him, but because it means I don’t have to endure an excruciatingly long period of time not knowing if he’s ever going to call me again. And by “excruciatingly long,” I mean anything over two or three hours. I’m enough of an armchair marriage and family therapist to know that this is a classic sign of an attachment wound, but that doesn’t make the fear that the other person will simply disappear any less real. Kind of like how statistics about the relative danger of automobiles have never kept me from hyperventilating on a plane.
“Hello, hello!” he crows.
“Hi!” I’m hoping I sound saucy.
“How’s work?”
“Great!” Was that chipper? Casual? Fun?
“When are you done?”
Oh my god, I’m so glad you asked.
Casually: “Ten.”
“You want to come over?”
“Sure.”
“Doo-doo-dooooo!” He says it like the Imperial Margarine hat just popped onto the top of his head. “I can’t wait.”
“Me neither.”
“When will you be here?”
“About ten twenty.” News people can be excruciatingly exact about times. At least I didn’t say 10:23.
“Perfect.”
“Perfect.”
“Oh,” he says. “One last thing.”
“What?” I say.
“Bring your toothbrush.”
Ooooooh.
BETSY AND I ARE IN THE LIVING ROOM when the Yvonne school honeymoon ends. We’re playing our homemade version of The Price Is Right —we’ve got “prizes” displayed left and right, and I’m pulling double duty as both Bob Barker and the legendary spokesmodel Janice. Betsy is the contestant—bidding on a glass and stainless-steel floor lamp. I know that without a proper look at the lamp Betsy’s bid is going to suck, so I drag it a couple of feet across the hardwood floor to give her a better look. What I
Yvonne tools down Lyndale Avenue, elbow out the window, cigarette dangling between her fingers. We’re going to Bachman’s, the high-end nursery where Yvonne gets all her houseplants. She’s got a thing for plants, and at least once a week we’re scoping out some new philodendron or other. In fact, our trips to Bachman’s are almost as much fun as our outings to Lake Calhoun. It’s how we’re bonding.
“My dad was German,” she says. There’s a hint of something in her voice. Sadness, maybe? No. It’s more than that. Hurt, anger, and something else I can’t really put my finger on. After a long pause, she adds, “I only met him once.”
“Really?” Even at my age, I know the start of a good story when I hear one. “What happened?”
“He went to the war,” she says matter-of-factly. “And he never came back.”
Yvonne looks at me like Did you get that? He never came back. I get it, of course I get it. I had a couple of people never come back on me, too.
“Did he die?”
“Nope.”
“How do you know?”
“Because one day, I was playing on my front steps and a man came walking up. He was tall and had blue eyes like mine. He looked at me and said, ‘You’re mine all right.’ Then he went inside, talked to my mom for a few minutes, and left. I never saw him again.”
I am comforted by hearing this, and though I don’t have words for it yet, I know why. Because Yvonne is telling my story. She and I feel the same pain. I know exactly what it feels like to be a little girl wondering if she’s ever going to see her dad again. What’s even more interesting is that we’re working it out with the same man ! My dad. Okay, so Freddie is her boyfriend, and he’s my father, but here we are, two chicks in the same car, living in the same house, dealing with the same lack of control over a man who can’t or won’t stop doing things we know will cause him to leave us. Again.
The only thing is…if we’re both little girls who miss Daddy, which one of us is going to be the grown-up?
A COUPLE OF HOURS AFTER I get to work, Paul phones again. This makes me terribly happy. Not just because I really like him, but because it means I don’t have to endure an excruciatingly long period of time not knowing if he’s ever going to call me again. And by “excruciatingly long,” I mean anything over two or three hours. I’m enough of an armchair marriage and family therapist to know that this is a classic sign of an attachment wound, but that doesn’t make the fear that the other person will simply disappear any less real. Kind of like how statistics about the relative danger of automobiles have never kept me from hyperventilating on a plane.
“Hello, hello!” he crows.
“Hi!” I’m hoping I sound saucy.
“How’s work?”
“Great!” Was that chipper? Casual? Fun?
“When are you done?”
Oh my god, I’m so glad you asked.
Casually: “Ten.”
“You want to come over?”
“Sure.”
“Doo-doo-dooooo!” He says it like the Imperial Margarine hat just popped onto the top of his head. “I can’t wait.”
“Me neither.”
“When will you be here?”
“About ten twenty.” News people can be excruciatingly exact about times. At least I didn’t say 10:23.
“Perfect.”
“Perfect.”
“Oh,” he says. “One last thing.”
“What?” I say.
“Bring your toothbrush.”
Ooooooh.
BETSY AND I ARE IN THE LIVING ROOM when the Yvonne school honeymoon ends. We’re playing our homemade version of The Price Is Right —we’ve got “prizes” displayed left and right, and I’m pulling double duty as both Bob Barker and the legendary spokesmodel Janice. Betsy is the contestant—bidding on a glass and stainless-steel floor lamp. I know that without a proper look at the lamp Betsy’s bid is going to suck, so I drag it a couple of feet across the hardwood floor to give her a better look. What I
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