Raising the dead. Again.
This has been an odd couple of days. On one hand, it was a very relaxing weekend. My deck got finished (mostly) on Saturday morning so I spent a few hours soaking up the sunshine out there, napping on the warm wood while the wind in the sycamore trees hushed my busy mind. (The trees in my back yard are so old they stretch waaaaaay up into the sky. The leaves are always rustling up there even when there isn’t any wind down where I am). I had two things I wanted to do on Sunday. One was message my friend Drew who was celebrating a birthday and the other was spend some time (electronic time, because we’re too far apart) with my friend Pen. She’s been having a really hard time lately and I wanted to ease that some, if I was able. Plus, I miss her….we go too long between chats. Regardless of my intentions though, my brain went a little haywire and I lost focus early on in the day. Truth be told, I don’t remember anything after noonish at all. I have a vague sense of being woken up on the couch and I must have moved to bed at some point because I woke up there the next day, but I remember nothing else.
Monday, I woke up like a zombie. My head was full of cotton fluff and angry bees and I couldn’t hear around the noise. My focus was limited to images as they flicked by on my phone, picture, picture, picture….I don’t even remember what I was looking at, but it was, quite suddenly late in the day. I had to stay home in the morning for Colt because the sitter was away and Dayne couldn’t take one more minute off work without getting fired (although he blatantly told me he was leaving early just because he didn’t want them to put him in a bad mood the Friday previous). I took Colt to work with me in the late afternoon and he was a dream child…sat quietly in my office and played on his ipad while I got some work done. Dayne picked him up on the way by and I followed them many hours later; tired but feeling a bit more connected after drowning in paperwork for a few hours. I fell asleep pretty much the moment I got home.
Today the fog was worse, not better. I kept drifting away in the shower and that familiar exhaustion that threatens to crumple me into a heap of bones on the floor was washing over me before I was even fully awake. The morning was difficult to focus through and I barely made it….but, eventually started to fire off some intelligent thoughts when my phone rang. I glanced over at it, glared, really as it was breaking my hard earned concentration and there he was again; my father. My dead father calling me from beyond the grave. Fuck. I had hoped this was going to just all blow over. I froze, which is what I always did and do when faced with having to deal with him (or his bitch of a wife) and didn’t answer. Moments later he called again and then again. I was about to throw up on my desk and then the phone in the front area started to ring. He called reception several times, all of which he was transferred back to my voice mail. I jumped up and went out to them so I could let them know who was calling and why I wasn’t answering and, in all honesty, I thought it would have been the wife.
“Oh no! Was that him? Your dad? The man I just spoke to with the British accent?” the receptionist asked. (I’m pretty close to these lovely ladies who have taken me under their wings. One calls me her daughter when talking to patients).
Well. He’s not dead…that’s all I know for sure.
*Time passes. Meetings, work and a bit of OT later…..* Fuckkkk he’s still calling. He knows I’m here and it seems that he has suddenly decided he is going to nag me into answering. This was always his way. He’d call and send me on a guilt trip over something stupid like me not ‘thanking him enough’ for something he had done for me. I’m not joking either…I had to thank him in the moment, again a few moments later, again before he left, again on the phone that night, again the next time I saw him…. It never seemed to end. Once he was just furious with me because I “didn’t sound excited enough” when I was told my brother was coming home for a visit. I was plenty excited but he caught me asleep on the couch when he called. That hissy fit lasted weeks… and this is the good side of my father. Anyway, he’d call, I’d not answer the phone. I might be taking a shit or in the middle of getting laid or making dinner or at work….it didn’t matter why I didn’t answer, he’d just hang up and call right back. Ring four times, hang up. Ring four times, hang up. Ring four times, hang up. Ring four times, hang up. I would eventually unplug the phone from the wall so I’m not sure how long he would go on with it but I’ll bet it was at least an hour.
I thought it was over for today, at least, when the receptionist out front answered one of his calls and told him I was out of the office for a week…she was trying to give me time to think…plan…decide. I mean he was DEAD not four weeks ago. All of a sudden I have to start dealing with this shit again?? Out of the blue?? Who does this happen to?? Is there a protocol I should be following?
Then Dayne started. He knows my dad. Really knows him….and he also knows the stories of my childhood. My father would brag about many of them to anyone who would listen years ago, before Colt was born. Dayne nearly killed him once in the middle of one of these stories…well, more than once, but because he loved me and I would BEG and plead for him not to do anything drastic, he tolerated it somehow. Needless to say, we didn’t visit often and the guilt trips were hellish for it. Dayne found out from a family friend that my father was planning to sneak attack me at my old place, one night after the trip to Mexico, which many of my more recent readers will not know about. I’ll recap it later this week but it was, in itself, the implosion of all things family in my life. My father, his wife, my mother (his ex wife) my sister and brother and Dayne, Colt and I all went to Mexico for my sister’s wedding. My father arrived first and was drunk before I even arrived….he was primed for a fight and he got one. He was removed from the resort and the last I ever saw of him was him gunning me off and flipping me the bird while he wavered on drunken feet, a blurry eyed old man. Gah. Anyway – he was really mad about that all being my fault so, upon returning to Canada, he was plotting to go to my house while I was at work so he could hide and was then going to jump out and beat me to death in the front yard. His plan was to make sure he caught me with Colt (he was just a toddler then) so I’d be unprepared and would be more focused on defending my child than myself. He seriously wanted to beat me to death in front of my toddler aged, autistic son. His grandson. Needless to say, Dayne is a small bit worried about my safety right about now.
He knows I’m here. He’s calling and calling even though he was told I won’t be in this week. He’s got my extension, my email … he won’t call and leave a message though, nor will he email me. He’ll keep this up until I get mad enough to answer. Worse, he’ll show up here mid-day so I won’t be able to do anything.
It’s 5:30 in the evening and I’m afraid to walk to my car.
I feel so stupid. Lost. Confused. Like I’m 13 and he just caught me sneaking a phone call into my best friend after curfew. I don’t even want to let my mind wander to the next thought.
He’s supposed to be gone. I was supposed to be safe. Why did they all tell me he died??? And, if it seemed a great idea then, why is he coming back now? What does he want? I really don’t want to fucking know…. I just want to change my hair, change my name and vanish into the walls like I do in my dreams.
About GrainneMy name is Grainne. This blog has been with me for years now and has served as a journal, a confessional, an outlet and a place for me to create and express my love of life. Thank you for stopping by and for becoming a part of this life long journey of mine. I appreciate every single one of you who takes the time to do so. :)
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