Skip,
I always feared my mom left you because of me. Maybe not. Maybe you just took care of her in the wake of the divorce, and she wasn't in love with you. Maybe my dad's accusations of what you did to your daughter bore too heavily on her conscious. I don't know. I can't ask her. Like you, she's been dead these long years. I remember loving you. I also remember being mean to you. Maybe it was because no one was good enough for my mom. Maybe it was something else. I remember sitting on your lap. I also remember that mom didn't like it. Maybe it was because she was raped at nine, but maybe it was something else. When grown-ups tell children to tell if someone touches you in a way you don't like, or touches your private parts, they don't mention the hand on your hip. Not your privates. They don't mention that you might like it. That it makes you feel special and safe. That it's wrong. And that the liking it, mixed with the shame of liking something wrong also might thrill you in a way you are ashamed of. Shame is a hard emotion for kids to identify, let alone deal with. Maybe you put on my sunscreen with my shirt off. I didn't have boobs yet. Maybe it didn't register as a sexual act. It definitely didn't, or wouldn't, as I don't know if I am remembering correctly. Memories are lies, anyway. We don't remember events; we remember the stories we tell ourselves about the events. I know you didn't rape me, put anything inside me, or stick your tongue down my throat. I would have recognized that as wrong, as an episode of Donahue. But maybe your love for me was wrong, in a way I didn't know. I'll never know. Maybe you are the reason I used to like older men. Maybe you are the reason I love to curl up in my lover's lap like a little girl. Maybe I am fucked up, and maybe you are the reason, but maybe it doesn't matter. I'm old enough to own my issues, whatever the source. I've dealt with my issues long enough that they know their place. So maybe it doesn't matter. Memories are a magician's stage. The smoke obscures the vision, directs the eye away from the shadow near the curtain, the false bottom in the box. Even if I paid a hypnotist to retrieve those memories, would they be real? More importantly, would they matter? I'd rather remember you on a ladder, creating perfect archs in the ceiling of the princess bedroom you gave me. I'd rather remember that you made perfect eggs and adored my mom. After all, it's my story.
Chuck,
You were the love of my mom's life. I'd never seen her in love before or since. That's why I forgive you for turning my bike into a guitar. You taught me how to live. To see things as they could be. To make your own happy. Maybe my mom was afraid you didn't love her as much as she loved you. Maybe she was just afraid of how much she loved you. Maybe she didn't want you to resent her, as a life with her would be childless. I wished I was enough for you. I would've loved for you to be my stepdad. I could've used you to guide me through my teen years. I hope you found a woman who gave you a baby. I hope you know how much we both loved you.
P.S.
Thanks for teaching me to condition before I shampoo. You're a genius!
Jim,
I don't have much to say to you. Or maybe I have too much to say, and that's why I hid in the kitchen when you were at my restaurant all those years ago. You exited my life as quickly as you entered it. That's a blessing. You were the first mean person I ever really got to know. Despite that, despite how you saw my mom as a meal ticket, or tricked me into eating moose meat, you made me laugh. I'm more comfortable around different people because of you. And, you taught me how to drive. You were grumpy, but navigating your moods taught me how to survive explosive tempers. I guess I am at peace with the good and bad you brought my life. Also, thanks to you, I know how to marinate chicken and pour a mean rum and coke.
Rest easy,
Love,
Dana
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