2002, Bothell, Washington

By Marie Gartland

For only the second time in my life, my dad cries, in front of me. But this time is different – I am causing these unabashed tears.

It is a sunny day in June 2002, the last in a long string of my high school glory days. I sit in a dimly-lit gymnasium at my senior slideshow, watching sets of pictures fade into the next as sappy, nostalgic one-hit-wonders from the last decade fill the room. Across the gymnasium, my dad watches the same pictures without a flicker of recognition, for he didn’t know many of these moments existed until this day.

We watch together, yet separately – he from the bleachers and me from my hard aluminum chair on center floor – as the slideshow whittles my school days down to this emotionally charged morning.

Afterward, my father climbs down from the bleachers, reaches into the sea of students, and pulls me into his strong arms for a tight embrace. Tears fall from his small hazel eyes, eyes that I have inherited from him. In between his sobs and hiccups, he tells me that he is sorry for being a bad father, sorry for missing so much of my life because of the divorce. He keeps repeating these words into my shoulder like a broken record I don’t want to hear.

I can’t help but be the perpetual pessimist. This is the way we work: My dad makes mistakes and I repair my disappointed heart in the wake of a tactless remark, a missed event, or in the biggest letdown, his love affair with an insensitive redhead from Great Falls, Montana.

When I am 3 years old, our worlds are closely intertwined. Though my workaholic father is consumed with the complexity, travel, and time commitment of his job as an athletic trainer with the Seattle Mariners, he uses the off-season to make memories together. We connect by cleaning dead ducks that my dad brings back from his yearly hunting trips. I am not bothered by the dead bodies or the blood; I am merely enchanted by the silky, iridescent feathers, and I am supremely happy because my dad is home and wants me by his side, cleaning the ducks.

Most days, I stand in the chilly garage air, pick the birds up by their thick necks, and deliver them to my newly bearded father. When the winter sun peeks through the gray Seattle sky we move outside, where I march around, jumping two and fro on the cold mossy bricks of the backyard patio. My dad sits near me and repeats the duck names until I can point out the greenheads, pintails, teals, wood ducks, widgeons, and canvasbacks. When he starts traveling again, he leaves me a thin paper book about ducks to read in his absence.

My feet are now a size 4 and encased in narrow pink ballet slippers. They carry me in a diagonal line of leaps and dainty pirouettes across the sleek dance floor and anchor me during a series of deep plies at the bar. For most of the year, I dance without a male audience of my own as the studio door creaks open and shut for the dads of my fellow ballerinas. The same ones come every week, forming a one-man fan club for their favorite preteen dancer.

On rare occasions, my dad drives me to class in his Ford F-150 and sits on the side of the classroom in his Wrangler jeans and Nike cross trainers. I watch him out of the corner of my eye. My cheeks are flushed with a mixture of excitement and embarrassment to know he’s watching me preen and practice my dances, even though he’d be more comfortable on the dugout bench at a baseball game. When class ends, I wrap a thick wool ballet sweater around my bony torso, and we walk to the car. We drive home in awkward silence, and I think he should have had a boy.

Just before elementary school ends, I trade my worn ballet slippers for stiff, black baseball cleats and join a softball team – partly out of my own curiosity about sports and partly because I think becoming a jock will win me some attention from my baseball-obsessed father.

The cleats blister my feet as I run fiercely around the baseball diamond, my elbows swinging as I sprint to the next base. I wear the mitt my dad bought me and play vigorous games of catch with my neighbors until the gold branding on the mitt starts to fade. I pull the hem of my baggy, red baseball pants up around my knees like the Boys of Summer and collect Mariner baseball cards in tiny organized binders.

Every morning at breakfast, I tune in to Sports center and scan the newspaper for breaking baseball news. I watch every televised Mariner game and memorize all of the team stats, but my dad doesn’t come to my games or remember the names of my teammates. Our sole connection comes when we talk on the phone, trading facts about ERAs and RBIs like they were top-notch baseball cards.

At 15, our relationship becomes more challenging after my dad moves out during my parents’ messy divorce. I join the YMCA to prepare for basketball season and call my dad to ask for his training advice. He says he will help because he knows I need to get bigger and better and faster and fitter if I want to make the varsity team.

On his next day off, we sit in a vast weight room surrounded by heavy free weights and circuit machines. My dad scribbles sets and repetitions on an official weight-training card. He carefully details every aspect of the program; his notes will instruct me when he’s gone. I sit next to him on the cold vinyl bench, feeling out of place on so many levels. Eventually, we begin and get into a rhythm with my new, intensely laborious routine. The conversation between the sets is stilted and impersonal. When my dad hoists a much-too-heavy 15-pound weight up into my arms, I struggle to complete a single curl. I am ashamed that I am not good enough and quickly glance around to make sure no saw my defeat.

The next year, I stand upstairs watching my driveway, waiting for my homecoming date to arrive. I am dressed in a silky pink skirt, sequined top, and sparkly black shoes that my grandma bought me. My dad has not purchased anything I am wearing tonight, and he won’t be dropping by. He has a game. My mother calls me down to take pictures in our living room. I raise the hem of my skirt to expose my fancy shoes, but I can’t expose my angry thoughts toward my father with such ease; I don’t think he cares about me enough to hear my complaints. Still, I hope he’ll ask to see the pictures my mother will take, and secretly wish that he will make it to next year’s homecoming festivities.

He doesn’t. That next fall, I am named junior class princess. I take my place on the country club dance floor for the official royalty dance and I beam broadly over my prince’s shoulder at my mom and new step dad. Later that week, my dad tells me he’s proud of me. But I hold a grudge against him for forgetting how important it is to just be there.

It’s my senior year, just a month before graduation and the big slideshow. I tug on my tiny tracksuit and fight nerves as I wait for the 1600-meter race to start. I want to break the 6:30-minute barrier, but it’s a tall order because I’ve yet to break 6:45. My dad stands on the fence, waiting to cheer me to victory. This is his first time watching me race this year, though I’ve competed in a long string of meets.

My teammates and I take our positions in one of eight narrow lanes and wait for the sound of the gun to puncture the air. Seconds after the race begins, I find myself on the rough ground; another runner accidentally tripped me. I stand and focus my attention on the tops of my sneakers and will my feet to avoid catastrophe again as we head back to the starting line. I try not to think about my dad’s eyes on my back and successfully make it through the first lap without falling.

I swing my arms and quicken my steps into a rhythmic stride, but my heartbeat doesn’t find a steady rhythm because he is watching. Each lap, I hear his voice telling me to focus on my mechanics, to pace myself, to sprint during the home stretch. His advice gets increasingly louder until, four laps later, my race is over. I missed my goal by six seconds. As I wander off the field, my eyes brim with tears, and every ounce of my beat-up body fills with disappointment. My dad wraps his arms around me and says good job. Though he can’t resist throwing in a few untimely, unwanted critiques of my race, I need him there because I can tell he cares.

Now I stand here holding my crying father, discouraged as ever. In the past 18 years, he has only attended a handful of my big life moments. I am irritated that he is robbing me of my celebration until I realize that this seemingly strong, impenetrable man has always been caught between a rock and a hard place, not knowing if it was better to provide for his kids financially or emotionally. He never realized that what I needed was not what he gave me. But I never told him what I wanted, either.

I have two choices. I can walk away and get a subtle revenge; I would finally have the chance to show my dad how much he’s hurt me by leaving him and our unstable relationship behind. Or, I can take this rare opportunity to return his embrace and tell him that I forgive him.

I choose the middle ground and I slide my arms under his. I tell him that for today, we’re OK because I know he tried.

A week later, I sit in the crowded center of a large auditorium, adjusting my cap and tassel to mimic my fellow graduating seniors. My dad sits three rows up to my left. Today the Mariners are playing a game – in Baltimore – but he’s missing it. He gives me a little wave, the kind that’s so small only he and I see our private exchange. Each time I look up during the four-hour ceremony, my dad is watching intently, and I am somehow comforted to see him there. After the caps are thrown up, I run up the stairs to greet my family. This time there are no tears, just my father giving me a gentle hug and saying, “I’m so proud of you, Marie.”

Marie Gartland is a Portland-based freelancer writer whose relationship with her father has continued to grow and improve. She is using a pseudonym.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Monday, February 19th, 2007 | Email This Post

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