My Adventures With Igor The Bear

            by Merav Walklet

 

            At the Fir Tree, there are a million stars. There’s a valley of lush, green foliage that dips and rolls along under the back windows where I used to sleep. Dew is always clinging to the delicate flowers that tickle the edges of the path leading to the front door, and the air is always heavy with gray mist. Classical music and Jackson Browne are always humming in the walls; the tall arched wooden walls that lock in heat and leak in the chilly, fresh air.
            When I was three my dad moved away, and I didn’t notice. Perhaps it’s because my memories only start from that very moment - like my life started from that very moment. I don’t remember family dinners or trips or interactions before that. A fractured family is a complete family, as I know it. My dad moved to Boston and I’m not sure he said goodbye, but maybe he was ashamed. He took with him a business coat and left behind his hiking boots and I think he forgot me too. Maybe he forgot about me when he was packing, because I was so brand new it was hard to remember I was ever there. But he forgot Lara and Benji, too, so he must have forgot us on purpose because they had been around for a long time.
            He moved into a brick apartment in downtown Boston with Judy, who had pretty brown hair and always smelled like Sung and she wore gold jewelry. When I first met her, I told her that she made my mommy cry, and I asked her why she did that. She turned pink, and squatted down to look at me and I don’t remember what she said but I know she made it clear how sorry she was. And I thought that was very nice of her, so I told my mom how nice and sorry Judy was. To me, that was enough. I always liked her.
            On the sidewalks where he lived, there were always helicopter leaves and bumpy stones and it was brisk and brown. We used to go to the Boston Commons and I’d stand by duck pond and for some reason the droopy willow trees were very magical to me. And I’d sit on the mama duck and she wouldn’t budge. The water was low enough to see pebbles and smashed leaves on the bed of the pond. Once we went an a Duck boat ride, and I got to drive, but I didn’t want to, and I just couldn’t figure out how that duck could drive and also swim! We went to the museum of science a lot. I’d jump up the keyboard stairs and plug my ears at the lightening tests. There was a dinosaur and a space ship, and TT would buy us French fries. I loved the echo of the linoleum and marble in the main hall.
            We’d go home to the bumpy brick street and the back alleyway would be leaky with melted, black snow. I bounced my silly puddy around the uneven pavement and watched it zoom off in a million directions. There were two lights in the front hall that were big clear globes. One was green, and one was red. I always wanted to turn them on, because it was a contest to see who could get to them first, but sometimes those lights were broken.
            My dad didn’t like staying far away all the time, he didn’t like us visiting only twice a year. So he decided he’d visit us more. He found a house in Inverness, the Fir Tree, that was a rental but he could own it for 2 years because the lady who rented it out was his friend. It was a cozy place, and an improvement too, because before he had a house in Albany for a month where I slept on a mattress on the floor. I didn’t like it there.
            The trip to Inverness is long. At the beginning, on one side of the road there are infinite yellow hills that are shaped like waves, and I thought there was a witch that ran along the top of the hills, chasing me. On the other side there are deer and turkey vultures and grass fields that stretch up vertically with wet trees and crunchy leaves. Next, there’s a forest that’s always dark, even when the sun is penetrating against the canopy of splintered branches. There are wood houses that are pumping out smoke from their chimneys, and there’s a giant carved Bear that I would always anticipate with my face plastered against the window. There’s a church and there’s a schoolhouse, and even a llama along the way. There’s a horse ranch and a big rock, but they cleaned up the words scribbled all over it. There’s a purple bridge, but before that is a big reservoir that sits at the foot of Elephant mountain, but I named it Elephant mountain, so don’t take my word. And even on rainy days that water is glinting with a fantastic charm as if its saying “don’t worry.” Right before Point Reyes Station, there’s a little barn with two horses hugging, and then the car goes down a dip and dives into the peaceful little nook that is main street, only street. Where there are always wet pebbles and there are always quiet people with coffee and it smells like sweet dirt. And I would sit on my Dad’s lap and say over and over “you’re my daddy, nobody else’s,” and I’d rest my head against his large chest and I’d sink into his huge lap and he’d smile and not say a word, I believe, silently agreeing. And He’d take us on hikes and to beaches, and one time I found a dinosaur rock but Benji said he found it first (maybe he did) and we fought about it for hours. Another time, at night on the beach when it was cold and breezy, I found a rainbow shell. And one time we found the most amazing fort where there was a bottle with messages in it, and we spread out on the blanket with fuzzies on it and ate sandy sandwiches.
            My Dad moved to a different house, in Sudbury, MA. It was the biggest house I could have ever imagined, it had a barn, and it had four acres of land behind it. There was a secret staircase, a green house, and a sun room. The fire place could fit 100 people in it, and it had bread slots that went back so far you couldn’t reach the end, and one time Molly, our cat, got stuck in one. I remember when we rescued Molly from the shelter and she was so tiny and we bought her a bunch of pretty food dishes but then we forgot to close the car door and they all shattered on the ground. We also had two other cats, Ally and Moo Moo, and Ally purred like a motor boat and loved being held like a baby. He got hit by a car.
            The dining room was merged with the living room and it went on for what seemed like a mile. By this time, he and Judy had gotten married in Nantucket. I was a flower girl, I got to wear pearls and black velvet and had my hair French braided. Benji rang the church bells. Lara made a speech, and cried in the middle of it. I made sure Miles knew I was one whole year older than him. Judy told him. I made sure.
            Judy had a baby named Johanna who I dropped in her baby jogger once and I think she hit her head. I felt bad, but I think I meant to do it, I didn’t like her very much. I didn’t like it when my daddy would hold her and sing to her when she cried.
In Inverness it got colder and rainier and my dad would tell us stories about Igor the bear. How Igor, Lara, Benji, and Merav would go on adventures to solve mysteries. Stella, the dog from across the street, would come bounding up to our porch and one time we fed her a hot dog and she swallowed it in one gulp. There was a lonely horse up the street that we would go feed carrots to. One time, we built a little sail boat out of a match box and tinfoil, and we sent it out on Paper Mill Creek where we would also skip rocks and go on hikes. And once on a hike there we saw a fox sitting on a bench, with her tail curled around her body and her head turned around to look at us. We found an old moldy, wet tree house in the thick, green back yard of the Fir Tree, through the nettle brush, but I was too little to climb it, so my Dad held me in one arm while he climbed up the rope with his other arm. His grip was tight but not secure, and I was sure that I would fall. On the way back, I got stung by two nettles and cried and cried. Lara made Benji and I buy journals and start writing in them. I couldn’t write, so I dictated to Lara who wrote for me. I told her to write about how we went to the school yard and I went onto the troll bridge and daddy ran under it, and I got so excited I was sure he was a troll! And it began to rain.
            We would sit and drink hot chocolate and play with toys from a black garbage bag that made me think of memories I didn’t have and of places I thought I’d been. At night, my dad would sit and read us stories from old dusty books on the saggy shelves, and I’d fall asleep in his bed and one time I thought there was a green goblin (in the crack between the bed and the wall) and it scared me forever after. I would wake up and it would be dark and smell like black coffee. I’d climb down the stairs and sit on my daddy’s lap, behind the newspaper, glossy-eyed and warm. And he would always warn me - “watch it, I’ve got hot coffee” but it never spilled. The sound of the car wheels crunching over the gray pebbles of the driveway rings in my ears. Banana slugs and blackberries are embroidered in my memories.
            My dad missed us too much, so he decided to move back to California when I was 8. He moved into a fancy house that was peach-colored and had lots of rooms and a big fig tree in the back yard. The floor was shiny and the walls were white, and the doorknobs were crystal. My room was surrounded by windows and when I looked out I saw the yellow leaves on the tops of trees. One time I made a basket with a string attached and was able to pull trinkets up and drop toys down the skinny of the staircase.
            I’d sit on the black & white tiled basement floor and stare up at the big printed pictures bordering the walls. My dad loved to do nothing else as much as take pictures, millions of pictures, everywhere he went, of everyone he loved. And he’d hang those pictures high or display those pictures low, and he kept boxes and books full of photos. I decided that’s the way my dad loves, by capturing the face of someone special and putting it in a frame; untouched, unattended, perfect in its emptiness. Those pictures are the people.
            There was a new picture up of Sophia, who was born after Johanna. And Johanna looked so confused in the picture, and for a while she cried and screamed every night at the dinner table and she loved butter.
            The first time Daddy brought Johanna, Sophia, and Judy to Inverness, I ran around the house grabbing things, touching things, making it clear they were all mine. Johanna couldn’t sleep in my bed. She couldn’t play with my Janga set (it was purple, we had colored them with Bingo Blotters). I sat on the staircase with the candle holder and pretended to be a pauper, pretended to be lost and stranded. Glared down at Johanna. Make Sophia stop crying. Get out of my home. My spot is in front of the stove fireplace. You may not feed Stella a hot dog.
            Inverness began to disappear, my dad didn’t need to go there to see us anymore. It didn’t belong to him anymore, but I insisted it still belonged to me. We stopped going, and instead I went to his house every other weekend. This developed into more of a hassle than fun. He was never there anyways, always working, always in his business suit. All I did was spend time with Johanna and Sophia, whom I really didn’t like. I’d sit in the car and sneakily pinch Johanna, and she would cry but couldn’t say it was me.
            They didn’t stay in that peach house for more than a year. It was a big, empty, cold mess. Instead they found a new house, a few blocks away, in Rockridge at Chabot and Ross. This house was perfect for us. The doors were rusty and the floor was dirty. There were so many rooms, so many floors, so many sneaky places to go. A big back yard with a broken hot tub that always had dead caterpillars in it. We’d swim in it’s cold water when it got hot. There were never any cars, so we’d bike around the blocks, hundreds of times, then run up the stairs and stare out the castle window. I still didn’t like Johanna or Sophia, but I was always around them, and I’d tell them bedtime stories every night. I’d wake up to hearing them trample across the ceiling of my room, and storm up the stairs to yell at them and make them shut up. I don’t even know where my dad was. But I didn’t like going there, because my dad never let me have play dates because he wanted all the time he could get with me. “But you don’t even spend time with me! I’m here for two days!” But he didn’t say much. My dad never says much. Then we started to go to breakfast every Sunday, just the two of us, spending time together. I was getting older, or at least I felt older, and we never went to Inverness. For a few years, I even forgot about Inverness. Except on the occasional Saturday afternoon when we’d go for a day trip to the beach, but even then it wasn’t special because Johanna and Sophia were there.
            In seventh grade, my dad and Judy both lost their jobs, during the time when many businesses were collapsing in San Francisco. Their companies failed, but they stayed in business suits, and my dad was around the house now but he never sat still. He’d undertake huge cleaning projects and wake up early with his newspaper and hot coffee. I’d try to fit in his lap, it was getting harder, and one time Johanna was in his lap and I was so furious I tried to push her out. Instead I just ended up crying because my spot was invaded. Because daddy didn’t even care that I cared.
            “We’re moving to Providence” he told me one day, in a matter-of-fact tone. I thought it was exciting, so I got on the bus and told all my friends. They had found the house in Providence while back east for a wedding. And they could find work back East, unlike in the expensive Bay Area. A month later, he was gone, he had really moved to Providence, and he forgot to say goodbye. My favorite house, the one that really fit all of us, was sold and empty. And I didn’t live at Ross & Chabot anymore, after years of getting used to the broken basement where there were trinkets and treasures buried in the smelly mess. Where there were spiders and big arched walls and where every Friday night (and some Saturdays too) I’d make up a “show” with Johanna and Sophia and we’d perform it after dinner. Where Johanna and I battled Benji and Sophia in epic water fights, spraying the hose in the house, climbing through windows from the balcony, avoiding the hornets nest. He took my dogs with him, Jasper and Callie, who were more important to me that words can describe. Maybe that’s silly, and maybe I’m too old to say that. But I can’t help how I feel.
            They moved into a big yellow-brick house, at 22 Arnold Street, with 5 stories sand a ghost who lived in the attic. It’s very cold in Providence and one winter when I was visiting I read a sad book and listened to a sad song and now I can‘t ever listen to that song without remembering how it felt to wake up to snow. And the staircase creaked and the windows were wavy. It terrified me, with all its corners and old creepy heavy secrets. Even before I knew about the ghost.
            They only stayed there 2 years, during which I visited a handful of times. I didn’t realize it until they were gone, but I missed Johanna and Sophia. When my dad left this time, I was aware of it. I wasn’t okay with it. This time, it became clear to me he would never settle down, he would never be satisfied. I got angry at him. And Lara had always been mad at him so she cried and yelled on the phone to him “it’s like you chose Judy over us. Like you preferred them. And you just left us, picking them” and I felt that way too. How dare he. I hated him. I hate you daddy. You left me and you don’t love me. You left me not once but twice. You made mommy cry on the porch.
            I stopped talking to him on the phone as much, and he didn’t visit once. Inverness was a fond memory, but I had almost forgotten. After two years in Providence, they packed up and moved closer to Judy’s parents in Concord, MA. Two miles from Sudbury, they had made a complete circle. This new house was unlike any of the others they had lived in. Small, cold, unimpressive. I stopped putting my dad’s name on school forms, I didn’t even know his phone number or address. Instead I always put my step dad’s name, who, like Judy, was only ever wonderful to me. Although I could never call him dad to his face, I never hesitate to identify him as that role on paper. What was initially uncomfortable became standard, and I accepted that my dad’s role in my life was far from active.
            At this point, I was entering my Sophomore year in high school. I tried to get closer to my mom, who encouraged my new hate for my dad. Parents always look for ways to get back at each other, and I know my mom was deeply hurt by my dad leaving. And sometimes it scares me, like I wonder if that could happen to me. She can’t help being mad, and hoping I’m on her side. My dad says she’s like a broken bird, a hurt soul. Well dad, it didn’t help that you cheated on her and left us. But I forgive you.
            I had never had a boyfriend, and when Tom pursued me I initially accepted, but then found myself running in the other direction when I realized he was serious. Commit? Promise? These were concepts that had been skewed in my mind, through my abnormal experience. I assumed he would abandon me. I assumed it was nothing to be sure of. I didn’t want to love him. We fought, I yelled, we cried, it escalated. Then, in a fit of anger, Tom yelled at me, shattering my excuses, fed up with my resistance, angered by my immaturity, “IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT THEN? TO BE LIKE YOUR MEAN OLD DAD AND NOT LOVE ANYONE WHO CARES ABOUT YOU? AND SHUT OUT THE WORLD? IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT?!” How could I respond to that? How could I possibly argue anymore? After sobbing and screaming and growing angry, he had now pinned me in the spot light and made me face the truth. I was becoming what I feared, what I hated. I was letting my own anger at my dad be an excuse to hide from commitment. Unfortunately, becoming aware of your flaws is only the first step, and I didn’t make the choice to change for a long time. Instead I broke Tom down. He brought me roses, I never thanked him. He bought me a ring, took it out, fiddled with it, and I got scared, blurted out “So where’d you get that, in a vending machine?” He looked down, shook his head no and got quiet. Once I told him I was dying. He called me sobbing outside my house and I refused to comfort him. I wanted him to hate me and to blame me for my mistakes, I deserved that much for my behavior. Unfortunately, even if he did hate me, he also forgave me when I’d come begging back, which I always did.
            And in the midst of my dysfunctional relationship with Tom, I started to fight with my mom more. I began to realize, I wanted my own relationship with my dad, not hers. I wanted to forgive him. Because I began to get so scared that I would never see him again. He could die in a split second, and I wouldn’t have gotten a chance to say goodbye, to tell him I loved him in the morning before leaving for school. In one fight, I had to run out of the house sobbing and barefoot, running nowhere and anywhere to get away from my confusion. By making my relationship with my mom worse, I wasn’t making my relationship with my dad better. In many ways I just used her as an outlet, because I knew one thing for sure, and it was that she would never leave me. No matter how bad things got. I also fought with my sister, who tried to make my relationship with my dad the same as hers. What she didn’t realize is that my experience was different. I understood her pain, but refused to be brainwashed by it. And when I told her I wanted to go live with him, she would just reassure me that he didn’t want me, and if he did he would be around to prove it.
            When I visited my dad, I smothered him with questions about his health, for my anxiety over his well-being was always increasing. Made him promise he’d be careful. Because one time he was trying to fix the garage door, and he was standing on an ancient rotten Doghouse that was at the entrance of the garage. His head was strategically wedged between the ceiling and the retracted garage door, along with his hands which were fumbling with the various gears and gadgets.
            “Daddy…what are you doing…?” I asked, skeptically. He didn’t exactly respond, just a few grunts and irritated mumbles. “Dad, that’s really not very safe. You should be careful, that doghouse is probably older than you….”
            “Would you get outta here? Come on, I’m busy…” he snapped with muffled frustration from the crack where his head was awkwardly placed.
            “Okay then…” I said, slowly beginning to walk away. He emerged from the very dangerous position and jumped down to test the door. I stopped walking, and looked over as he pressed the button, and the door made a few restrained sounds, before one side fell down faster than the other, and the glass windows shattered out of their frame. I tried to stifle my laugh as best I could. My dad just stood there, not saying a word. It was this kind of careless “mr. fix-it” behavior that made me worry about my dad.
            When I visited, we’d drive around, he’d talk to me about life, about his life, there was so much I didn’t know about him. As if we met for the first time. He told me how he built a raft with his friends and drifted down the Mississippi, inspired by Huck Finn. He told me about how when he was a teenager he’d drive around with his friends, pull over near strangers, and make barfing noises will dumping oatmeal out the window to disgust them. I saw pictures of his hippy days, when he had a scruffy beard and was lounging in a sail boat in black and white. I began to value his non-judgmental, logical way of thinking. I began to miss him more at home, and got very sad very fast. Spilled all my sadness onto Tom’s shoulders and pushed him away with greater force than ever.
            My dad came to visit for the first time in years, March of my Sophomore year. That month it rained every day. That month I was the saddest I‘ve ever been. I gave up Tom for good, and this time he would not forgive me. Having my dad come visit for a weekend was like an escape from my tormented reality. We drove out to Inverness for the first time in years. The ride was silent, he looked tired, and I was trapped in thought. I popped in a Jackson Browne CD with our song on it, The Barricades of Heaven. It had been our song since I first heard it on a ride up to Inverness and dubbed it ours. And I’d listen to it when I missed him, but only when I was alone, because every time it made me cry. And I wondered if he ever cried when he missed me. Because he used to put my hair in pony tails that were sloppy and matted, and I didn’t mind. And I was such a happy little girl and he’d let me sit on his shoulders. And he’d hum me a song when I’d sit on his lap, he’d hum the tune, then the words, you’re my baby, and I’m your daddy, I love you I love you I love you I love you…. And at my soccer games he’d be sitting quietly by himself at the corner of the field, unlike the other obnoxious parents. But then, when I’d get the ball, I’d break away and run down the field hearing him yell “Go Ravi! Put on the Jets!”
            But this time when the song was playing, I kept my eyes out on the reservoir with Elephant Mountain behind it, and the sun splintering light speckles through each little ripple of water. And Jackson would sing:

All the world was shining from those hills
The stars above and the lights below
Among those there to test their fortunes and their wills
I lost track of the score long ago
Childhood comes for me at night
Voices of my friends
Your face bathing me in light
Hope that never ends
Pages turning
Pages torn and pages burning
Faded pages, open in the sun
Better bring your own redemption when you come
To the barricades of heaven where I’m from.

            I wanted to be emotionally strong like he was, like I wanted him to think I was. Silently, I let the tears stumble down my cheeks and tried my best to wipe them away in a sneaky fashion that wouldn’t catch his attention. We got to the beach and started walking down the trail to the lagoon. We don’t need to say a word around each other, we both prefer silence. But he talked about all the sounds and colors of Inverness, and I saw it in his eyes that that was the place he loved most.
“If you’re lucky,” he says, “you find one home in your life. You can travel forever, and I’ve been everywhere, but I only consider maybe 2 places my home. And Inverness is one of them.”
            But at this point his Blackberry vibrated in his pocket and he had to take an important business call. If he’s not answering the phone, he’s checking his email, preoccupied with work. It makes me furious, but I never say anything. One time we were vacationing in Maine at a tiny beach house by the water, and the whole time we were there he was working, conference calls every hour, leaving to go talk in the car. I got into a huge fight with Johanna, got furious, didn’t want to be there, my dad was nowhere in sight, and I stormed out to the beach where I saw him sitting in the car on the phone. I angrily gave him a look like he had done something terribly wrong. He shooed me away. That’s it. And I ran down over the giant boulders of the beach, unable to stop running and stumbling, wanted to get away. See if he cares! Make him pay. And I just kept going, for so long, for miles. I sat on a rock out of sight and after about an hour, I saw him coming down over the boulders, walking patiently, not even seeming concerned that he was looking for me (which I know he was). So I kept running down the beach and hiding, hoping to make him worried. If he was worried, I’ll never know, because its impossible to read it on his face. But I eventually showed myself, dressed in anger. I tried to tell him why I was upset. He tried to calm me down with his sensible logic, and I felt like a dramatic fool.
            That summer I went to stay with my dad for three weeks in Concord. That’s the longest amount of time I’ve spent with him in my life (or at least, since my conscious memory begins, which is my life). I used it as a therapeutic vacation, rehabilitation, correction of everything that was bothering me, Tom in particular. One night at the dinner table, Judy started talking about Vermont and Sweden and about buying a little Inn in Sweden. She looked at my dad, waiting for his approval.
            “We’re not moving to Sweden,” he said bitterly. Tired.
            “Well what? Do you want to spend the rest of your life in Concord, Massachusetts!” Judy said, almost laughing, but slightly aggressively. He didn’t respond, but sat there, as if exhausted. I jumped in.
            “I know where you’d want to spend the rest of your life.” Smiling.
            “Where? Inverness? I couldn’t do that. Too many hippies,” Judy interrupted, getting up to clear the dishes. I knew Judy couldn’t help it, and I wasn’t angry at her at all. Judy had never been anything but wonderful to me; nice, generous, open. I couldn’t have been luckier to have her. But she’s ADD and such a business woman. Always working, always looking for what’s next. Never settling down, can’t even watch a movie. She tries to please everyone. She and my dad have never really been around the house much, so my little sisters have always had Au Pairs over the years, taking care of them, raising them. For a long time I was jealous that Johanna and Sophia got what I didn’t growing up; our dad present. But with time I realized they had really not gotten him much either. I had become closer to them, despite our occasional squabbles, especially Johanna. She was growing up, and I could talk to her about anything, and we were so alike in a lot of quirky ways.
            Later that night, my dad and I were driving back from a movie, and I brought up the conversation at the dinner table. He sighed, trying to explain. “She’s moved me all over the place, we’re always looking for the next place. The only reason we’re here is because she wants to be close to her parents.”
            “Dad, it’s just weird to me, that she would marry you and yet be uncomfortable with hippies.”
            “She doesn’t know me as that person. She knows me as the business person, because that’s how we met.”
            In September, my dad called to tell me that my dog Jasper had been hit by a car.
            My mom had to come hold me as I shook and screamed on the coach, rattled into the chambers of my heart like I had never experienced before in my life. And while Judy and Johanna stood stunned, Sophia ran up and picked him up, and he died in her arms. I know I would have done what Sophia did. I was so grateful that she did what they were afraid to do. My little tough sister, who with the simplest action, touched my broken heart. But in that instant, I feared the death of my father so much more, because I wouldn’t be there to hold him, to pick him up and say goodbye. I’m always 5 hours away, hundreds of miles away, the last to know. And I can’t protect him. And he doesn’t protect himself.
            I know Inverness is always my daddy’s home. It’s the only place that’s really home to me too. Because it’s the only place where everything is beautiful and peaceful and business suits aren’t for sale. Because my dad’s moved 8 times back and forth across the country, but he settles down and I have him all to myself when we’re in Inverness. When we’re watching Homeward Bound while the fire is crackling and the rain is falling at the Fir Tree. When we’re going on hikes and patrolling the beaches and counting all the animals we see along the way. Because I can keep an eye on him and he can put his arm around me and we can go to The Pinecone Diner and order grilled cheese’s. I forgive you daddy, everyone makes mistakes, I know I made them. You’re only human, and you’re my daddy, and I’m your baby, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you….