Waiting

            by Amber Hogue

 

Every muscle in my body quivered as I forced myself up those brick stairs that somehow seemed so familiar. The back of my neck was sweating and my hands were trembling uncontrollably. I couldn’t believe I was standing in front of the house where my father grew up. As I made my way up the stairs to the big wooden door I remembered all the events that helped me to find my family.

¨

I was at the neighborhood park playing “Airplane” with my dad or the man I thought to be my dad at the time. The park was set high up on a cliff overlooking the blue ocean and was surrounded by miles upon miles of ice plants. I distributed my weight evenly among my dad’s hands and feet. He lifted me up into the air and I felt as if I were superwoman. I was flying. I swayed back and forth pretending I was a big airplane soaring through the downy soft clouds. It didn’t last long before I began to lose my balance and fell into the plush grass giggling, lost in excitement.

“One more time dad, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE!” I cried.

“Just one more, okay Amber.” He said, staring intently at my face, so I wouldn’t ask again. I was up in the clouds for a second time, swooshing and dashing through the air. I fell to the ground, overwhelmed with joy. My dad gathered me into a big, warm hug and squeezed my tiny body with his monstrous arms.

“I want to tell you something and it might be hard to hear.”

I looked into my dad’s piercing eyes, earnest to hear what he had to say. His face looked sad, the wrinkles of his worn skin and the small gray hairs in his mustache more prominent than I remembered.

He wearily opened his mouth and said, “I’m not your father Amber”

“I know, you’re my daddy.” I answered.

He shook his head, I wasn’t getting it.

“I know I’m your daddy, but you have another daddy too.”

Another dad I thought. Where? Why? How? I’d never heard of anyone having two fathers before. I didn’t quite understand. It was far too much for my five-year-old mind to handle. I don’t remember caring about this other “Dad” at the time; I was already a part of the perfect daddy-daughter duo.

¨

            My fairy tale life was quickly torn apart. Within the next year, my mom and dad started to fight a lot. I would sit in my room to stay clear of the battlefield my living room had become.  I whispered stories to my baby sister, Jenny to protect her from the violence down the hall. My dad disappeared from and my mom couldn’t handle the stress of being a single mom with a toddler and a six year old. At the age of six I went to live with my godmother, Lisa who my mom had met when she first moved to San Francisco in her early twenties. I loved Lisa, I saw her almost every weekend for years. Jenny stayed with my mom but I would often visit them on the weekends. I didn't know why I went to live with Lisa at the time, but I started to forget about my once flawless family and molded myself into Lisa's life.

            I was off to a fresh new start with Lisa and began to wonder if I would ever meet this other “Dad” I supposedly had. Who is he? Where is he? Do I look like him?

Does he love me? I constantly asked myself these questions.

 

¨

One day when I was in the car with my mom, on my home to Lisa’s from a weekend with her and Jenny I peeked out of the dusty car window, my eyes just able see the horizon. We were waiting in traffic to pay the bridge toll and my eyes wandered from car to car. I peered into them, watching strangers sing along to music and pick their noses as if no one could see them. Passing time for the traffic to cease. Then it dawned on me. My real dad could be one of these strangers. I might have walked past him millions of times and not noticed. I never thought that my mom would have recognized him. She wasn’t important. I was lost in a world where only my father and I existed. I poked my head between the two front seats and began my first interrogation.

“Mom!” I said suddenly. “I want to know about my dad, about my family! Do I have aunts, uncles, and cousins? What are they like? What are there names? Where do they live?”

My mom sighed heavily, then rolled her eyes as if she'd been trying to avoid this conversation, but knew it was inevitable.

“Amber, of course you have uncles, aunts, and cousins. I don't want to talk about it; that was a long time ago. Its not my life anymore.”

I pressed her for more answers, but in return, all she did was take out her unopened pack of Marlboro Reds, unwrap the package and place a cigarette in her mouth. Then she quickly took out a lighter and lit the end of it; red embers glowed from the tip of her cigarette. She inhaled deeply and closed her eyes for a moment, as if the surge of nicotine had calmed all her troubles. I forcefully pushed myself back against the seat to show the frustration she had caused. She had shot me down so fast that I tried to hold back my questions for a while. It didn’t work; I was interested and wanted answers.

 

¨

            On a Friday before gymnastics class, I sat on the front porch in my silver and black sparkly leotard, waiting for my mom to come over. She never came over on Fridays, so I was thrilled to see her. I got tired of waiting, so I went inside to play dress up with my dog, Mequeda. First, I placed mounds of costume jewelry on my bed; right next to pile of shoes and nightgowns I had already pulled out of the closet. I bribed her into my room by promising her thousands of tasty treats. Finally, she was trapped in my room. She was mine and I began her transformation. My mom walked in just before I could place strands upon strands of pearls and beads around Mequeda’s neck. I ran to my mom, forgetting all about the dog and squeezed her tightly in my nine-year-old arms. Mequeda was saved; she bolted from my sight to the safety and comfort of Lisa’s room.

            I sat in the living room with my mom and Lisa, waiting to hear what they had planned out for my weekend. I lay on the floor, rolling around in circles, waiting for them to speak. They kept looking into each other’s eyes; I could tell they were withholding information.

Finally someone spoke.

“Amber, we have something to tell you and you might not understand at first.” Lisa said with a heavy breath. “We just found out that your birth father, your real father died not to long ago. We don’t know when or how, but we’re really sorry.”

I was silent. I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t grasp on to what they were trying to tell me. I just didn’t get it; I was like a blank canvas. I didn't feel sad, only confused. Why did they tell me about this now? My mom left shortly after and I went to my gymnastics class to see my friends and to practice flipping into the huge, cushioned foam pit.

¨

            My dad’s death didn’t really change my life at first; I didn’t know him, so I didn’t care. In fact, I seemed to forget that I had ever even heard about him because he was a complete stranger to me; not even a stranger but someone I imagined in my head. I had no idea who he was. When I saw my mom, I didn’t even bother asking questions about him. One weekend when I was with her, we went to see Jenny’s grandparents, who I had once considered to be mine as well. Jenny stayed in the living room while I followed my mom to the kitchen, mimicking every move she made. When she stopped to look in the mirror, I stopped as well. When she bent down to tie her shoe, I knelt down to tighten the straps on my super cool purple jelly sandals. We entered the kitchen, the smell of fresh baked cookies wafted into my nose and I ran over to the oven waiting for the buzz of the timer. My mom opened the oven to check on the chocolate chip cookies, which I had already begun begging for. They weren’t ready yet, but I could see the chocolates melting and golden dough rising.

“Mom, do I have any other brothers and sisters?” I asked, disregarding the thought that my father might have any other children before me.

“Yeah, Amber. You have an older sister.” she replied nonchalantly.

“What’s her name?” I said without hesitation.

“Your dad had another baby before you and I don't remember her name. She wasn't around when we were married.”

“What else do you know about her?”

“Buzzzzzzz!!!!!” The timer went off, the cookies were finally done. My mom rushed around the kitchen searching for my grandparents' oven mits. She found them hidden away in the back of a drawer, then took the hot baking sheet filled with delicious goodness and placed it on the stove. I immediately took a dive for the cookies but was stopped by the firm grip of my mother's hand.

“Be careful,” she said. “You don't want to burn yourself.”

I shrugged my shoulders and sluggishly moved my body to the nearest chair. Just before I was going to pull a big emotional episode, I remembered my older, unknown sister from our previous conversation. Where was she? How old was she? Did she know about me? Why hadn’t anyone told me? I kept these thoughts to myself for the moment; I would have to wait for the perfect time to bring her up again. A glass of ice, cold milk was placed in front of me, right next to a napkin containing one chocolate chip cookie that I had waited for all afternoon. My mom sat down across from me, we talked and laughed, not mentioning anything about my older sister.

¨

            At eleven years old I thought I was mature enough and grown up enough to meet my dad’s family. My curiosity had grown; like a disease it spread quickly and soon consumed my entire being. My interrogations began once more.

            “Mom, when can I meet them? What are they like? What are their names? Where do they live?”

I would ask these questions every chance I had. When my mom was cooking, driving, cleaning, or even if I was just on the phone with her. These questions became so insistent; they were a daily drill. I pressed her for details and the hidden truth. Why had we left so long ago? Why did she deprive me of my family? What else was she hiding? For an entire year, my questions were never ending.  My mom once told me, “Sometimes I don’t like being alone with you, you corner me with questions.”

My only reply was, “Its all your fault I’m curious, you took me away from them.”

That was the first time I had ever shown any anger towards my mom. A few times in the past I had showed frustration or annoyance but never anger. My insides started to overflow with this emotion, like a boiling kettle whistling and ready to explode. I had never allowed myself to really hate her before. I needed her. She was alive and not imaginary like my father. Soon I was so full of resent for my mom that I couldn’t keep my mouth shut any longer. I knew I had to tell her exactly how I felt.

¨

I was staying at my mom’s for a while because Lisa went out of town and they didn’t trust a twelve-year-old to watch over the house. I knew these two weeks were going to suck. This wasn’t my home, sure I was with my mom but I didn’t belong here. I had to share a room with my little sister. She was so annoying; she always went through my stuff and jumped on my perfectly made bed. The tightly tucked sheets were torn from the corners of the bed and the paisley duvet almost always ended up on the toy filled floor.  She tried on my lip-gloss and made herself look like a clown or worse one of those awful drawings that I had done when I was in kindergarten. My mom still kept some of those drawings on the fridge. I knew that these two weeks would be hard but I decided this was the perfect time to tell her how I truly felt. I sat on the edge of my mom’s bed, digging my toes into the carpet, gathering the courage to begin my accusations, instead of my usual questioning.

“Its so unfair that I don’t know my family! You got to know yours!”

“Amber, I wish I hadn’t known my family.”

“But Mom, I’m not you!”

“I know honey, but this is for the best.”

“Maybe it’s the best for you, but not for me.”

“Am I not enough for you?”

“No Mom! Your not enough!”

Tears sprang to her eyes. Shit. What had I done? I wanted to take back everything I just said, but I knew that would get me nowhere. She was just guilt tripping me; that was her defense mechanism. It was her only weapon against me; I hated it when she cried. So I took a deep breath in and closed my eyes for a second.

            “Mom, don’t cry! I’m the one that should be crying. You took away my family.”

She looked up at me, her makeup smeared from the tears I had caused. She didn’t have anything to say. She was in shock. What the hell?! I stomped into the other room to call my friends and tell them how much I hated my mom and how staying with her was complete torture. I didn’t speak to my mom for the next few days.

¨

            I was sitting at the ancient dining room table doing homework when my mom called out, “Amber! What are you doing? Come here!”

She always did this when she knew I was home and didn’t want to get out of bed. She’s so lazy and so annoying. I indolently dragged myself to her room, making it obvious that I didn’t want to be there. There she was, watching TV, lounging in her mess of a bed. What did she want? I didn’t want to talk to her! I was still mad!

            “Hey sweetie how was your day? What are you doing?”

            “I’m doing homework Mom.”

            “What did you do today?”

            “ I went to school? Duh.

            “What did you do at school?”

            “Learned.”

I marched out of her room and made it back to my homework that was waiting for me like a patient Labrador retriever. I felt bad for being so curt with my mom, but I wasn’t interested in talking to her. After a few more days I could have talked to her, but I wasn’t ready yet. I wasn’t going to cave; she needed to know I was still mad. I was going to ask about my family again, but I would have to come up with a new technique. I had to try once more. But this was it.

            A few days past and I had my plan ready to go. I almost ran home from school, dragging Jenny along behind me. When we got home she went into our room; saying she was going to play with her Barbies but I knew she was going to play with my lip-gloss and tear through my stuff. That didn’t matter now; I had more important matters at hand. I waited by the door for my mom to come home, checking the clock and staring out the window ever few seconds. Finally after an hour of waiting, I saw my mom’s bright red sports car pull into the driveway. I let her come in, put her stuff down and change her clothes. I wanted her full attention so I waited for her to come into her room. Standing at the very end of her bed I said calmly, “Mom, I know you wish that you didn’t know your family, but I really need to know mine.”

She tried to say something but I didn’t give her enough time to speak. I cut her off with a moan and fresh tears. My newest strategy; crying. I forced tears out of my eyes, blinking as hard and as fast as I could manage, so they would pour down my freckled face.

            I wailed, “Mahommm, III juussstt neeeeed too knoowww myyy fffaaaaaammmmiillllyyyy!!!”

I crawled into bed and snuggled up against her body, wanting her to feel my pain. My fake tears soon transformed into real ones and I couldn’t stop them from leaving my eyes any longer. I had lost control. I wasn’t putting on an act anymore. My mom looked into my eyes for a minute, while stroking my hair. She then said, “Okay Amber, I’ll call them soon and you can meet your aunts, uncles, and grandma.”

I couldn’t believe it! My mom just said yes!    My plan worked. How was that so easy? Everyday for the next two weeks I would ask my mom if she’s called them yet. She kept saying, “No, not yet,” so I began to lose hope. She lied, I thought. She lied. She lied. She lied.

¨

She came over on her birthday, knocked on the door and I ran to give her presents and hugs. Lisa told me to be patient, to put everything down and that she would open her presents later. My mom came inside, something was different, and there was a gleam in her eye. She hugged me, knelt down and said, “Amber I have some very important news for you.” 

My eyes grew to the size of saucers, what did she have to tell me? What kind of news?

            “ I called your family today and if you still want to we can go have dinner at your grandmother’s house and meet your family.”

I was speechless, all I could do was hug her and shake my head up and down as if saying, “Yes Mom! Thank you Mom! I love you Mom!” over and over again.          

About a week later my mom, Lisa, Jenny, and I piled into Lisa’s light blue car that had been broken into like a kajillion times. . I sat silently in the back seat with Jenny, while Lisa and my mom chatted incessantly. So many thoughts ran through my head. “Would my family like me? What if they didn’t want me in their lives? What if they wanted to take me away from Lisa? I ran through every scenario I thought possible. We made our way over the crowded bridge and zigzagged through the congested streets of San Francisco. We came to Hazelwood Drive; Lisa parked the car, making sure to turn the wheels in the correct direction when facing uphill. I unbuckled my seatbelt and pushed open the car door. The crisp winter air triggered goose bumps and rosy cheeks.

Om Namah Shivaya.

 I repeated this Hindu prayer, that I had learned when I was six, in me head a few times before prying my body away from the comfort of the back seat. I was standing across the street from what my mom told me was my grandmother’s house; I shivered. A whole new wave of goose bumps ran down the back of my arms and legs. I didn’t know if they were from the bitter San Francisco air or if they derived from my nerves that had been building since I found out I was going to meet my family. I made my way up the stairs, to the door. I took a deep breath and knocked on the heavy wood, my knuckles penetrating with pain that flooded through the rest of my body. To wait, that was all I had to do.

Wait.