Just a note: "Sir" refers to my biological father. I never called him anything else.
Excerpt from: In My Father's House
Excerpt from: In My Father's House
Ten years after Sir's death marked the first gathering at Geoff's home
for Thanksgiving. As these things generally happen, the children
occupied themselves elsewhere and there was just the waiting to be done,
so we siblings found ourselves reminiscing about the past. Actually, it
was more like piecing together a puzzle. Have you ever desperately
tried to reconstruct something that had been torn or broken into tiny
pieces? Then you begin to understand what I mean.
Sir always kept our important papers in a metal file box, and when I was 17, I needed my birth certificate. He must have been preoccupied when he let me look for it; usually, he wouldn't let anyone touch that box. The first document I happened upon was our eldest brother Ricardo's birth certificate. To this day, I wonder why Sir kept it. He had always claimed that Mum's first husband was a fisherman who died in a monsoon, leaving her to raise their infant son alone. Why wouldn't we believe him? When he saw the look in my eyes, he knew I had discovered that Ricardo's last name was also her maiden name. He scowled at me.
"So, you had to be nosy, eh?"
"All these years! You owe us an explanation."
"I don't owe you anything."
"You lied to us. This is my brother and I want to know."
All he would tell me was that Mum wasn't married. I had to wait for years to find out the rest of the story; mostly from my mother's sister, who grew up with Ricardo at Grandfather's house in Catanduanes, an island province of the Philippines, in Luzon.
Since then, Sir's file box has been a lodestone for me. I seem to be the only one of the siblings who has any interest in our family history and I've tried to see what other clues were in the box, to no avail. The first question I asked when we began our discussion was, "Where's the box?" Geoff looked embarrassed as he explained that in the beginning of their "drug life", he and Ron deserted their apartment -- with most of Sir's possessions (and theirs) remaining behind. Lost! My heart sank. All he had left, Geoff told us, was one 8mm reel of Mum's last visit to our home before moving into hospice, our parents' wedding photo and "a note".
"I saved it because it mystified me," he said. "It looks like a suicide note." I asked to see it. As I began reading, a memory sparked and then grew. I was a child again:
It was winter 1964, exactly one year after my mother's death. Sir kept me home from school that day -- I don't remember why. He'd been crying all morning and I had never before seen anyone cry so quietly. Every now and then a loud sniff punctuated the air; otherwise he was eerily silent. It made me nervous so I compensated by chattering like a magpie. I was six and a half years old.
Sir went outside and I heard the sound of a car engine turning over. Massachusetts winters are sub-zero and it was necessary to start the car now and then to keep it from "freezing over". When he came in the house, he told me to get "dressed up special" and be ready to go somewhere. I rushed to put on a nice dress and don my favorite parka. I remember it vividly. The woven fabric was royal blue; the zipper was flanked with a strip of Native design on both sides. The pointed hood was missing its little white pom-pom and the hood, hem and sleeves were ringed with soft blue "fur". Sir helped me put on my boots and snapped the buckles. He didn't speak to me again; his face was like stone. Just before we reached the door, he tossed something on the kitchen table.
The bitterly cold wind slapped my face as we walked across the yard. I was happy when we reached the detached garage; the glare from the snow pierced my eyes like needles and the flying ice crystals bit into my skin. Sir let me in on the passenger's side of the car and pushed the lock button down before slamming the door. He made his way to the driver's side and slid in behind the wheel, closing the heavy door quickly. When I turned to watch us back out, I noticed that one of the back windows was open a bit but I didn't say anything because I thought he'd blame it on me.
I waited but Sir just sat there, staring blankly ahead. I expected him to look over his shoulder and start driving, but he didn't move. It was then that I realized the garage door was still closed. I was confused about it but said nothing; I was too afraid to. My throat began to hurt and I started coughing. After what seemed an eternity, he laid his head on the wheel and out of him came the most heart-wrenching sobs I've ever heard. It terrified me. I sat, immobilized, until he quieted and then I whispered, "Sir, my head hurts." He raised his head and stared right through me. "Get out of the car," he said sternly. "Go back in the house."
Sir killed the engine, then hurried me out of the car and back into the cold. I whined as he half-dragged me back into the house, disappointed that he changed his mind about leaving. When we were inside, he just walked past me, and I stared as he snatched the envelope from the table, then walked into the living room. He sat in a heap on the sofa and silently stared at nothing. I hid in my bedroom at the far end of the house until the others came home from school. I didn't see or hear him again until dinnertime.
"It was a suicide note." I heard myself saying. "I guess he thought I wouldn't remember." The note slipped out of my hand and I watched it flutter down to the floor, landing next to the yellowed envelope. When I looked up, everyone was staring at me. At that moment, I understood our family dynamics: Geoff was Sir's oldest son and Rachel was his Golden Child; they led the most "special" lives in my father's house. Ron became the whipping boy when Mum was no longer there to protect him.
Sir always kept our important papers in a metal file box, and when I was 17, I needed my birth certificate. He must have been preoccupied when he let me look for it; usually, he wouldn't let anyone touch that box. The first document I happened upon was our eldest brother Ricardo's birth certificate. To this day, I wonder why Sir kept it. He had always claimed that Mum's first husband was a fisherman who died in a monsoon, leaving her to raise their infant son alone. Why wouldn't we believe him? When he saw the look in my eyes, he knew I had discovered that Ricardo's last name was also her maiden name. He scowled at me.
"So, you had to be nosy, eh?"
"All these years! You owe us an explanation."
"I don't owe you anything."
"You lied to us. This is my brother and I want to know."
All he would tell me was that Mum wasn't married. I had to wait for years to find out the rest of the story; mostly from my mother's sister, who grew up with Ricardo at Grandfather's house in Catanduanes, an island province of the Philippines, in Luzon.
Since then, Sir's file box has been a lodestone for me. I seem to be the only one of the siblings who has any interest in our family history and I've tried to see what other clues were in the box, to no avail. The first question I asked when we began our discussion was, "Where's the box?" Geoff looked embarrassed as he explained that in the beginning of their "drug life", he and Ron deserted their apartment -- with most of Sir's possessions (and theirs) remaining behind. Lost! My heart sank. All he had left, Geoff told us, was one 8mm reel of Mum's last visit to our home before moving into hospice, our parents' wedding photo and "a note".
"I saved it because it mystified me," he said. "It looks like a suicide note." I asked to see it. As I began reading, a memory sparked and then grew. I was a child again:
It was winter 1964, exactly one year after my mother's death. Sir kept me home from school that day -- I don't remember why. He'd been crying all morning and I had never before seen anyone cry so quietly. Every now and then a loud sniff punctuated the air; otherwise he was eerily silent. It made me nervous so I compensated by chattering like a magpie. I was six and a half years old.
Sir went outside and I heard the sound of a car engine turning over. Massachusetts winters are sub-zero and it was necessary to start the car now and then to keep it from "freezing over". When he came in the house, he told me to get "dressed up special" and be ready to go somewhere. I rushed to put on a nice dress and don my favorite parka. I remember it vividly. The woven fabric was royal blue; the zipper was flanked with a strip of Native design on both sides. The pointed hood was missing its little white pom-pom and the hood, hem and sleeves were ringed with soft blue "fur". Sir helped me put on my boots and snapped the buckles. He didn't speak to me again; his face was like stone. Just before we reached the door, he tossed something on the kitchen table.
The bitterly cold wind slapped my face as we walked across the yard. I was happy when we reached the detached garage; the glare from the snow pierced my eyes like needles and the flying ice crystals bit into my skin. Sir let me in on the passenger's side of the car and pushed the lock button down before slamming the door. He made his way to the driver's side and slid in behind the wheel, closing the heavy door quickly. When I turned to watch us back out, I noticed that one of the back windows was open a bit but I didn't say anything because I thought he'd blame it on me.
I waited but Sir just sat there, staring blankly ahead. I expected him to look over his shoulder and start driving, but he didn't move. It was then that I realized the garage door was still closed. I was confused about it but said nothing; I was too afraid to. My throat began to hurt and I started coughing. After what seemed an eternity, he laid his head on the wheel and out of him came the most heart-wrenching sobs I've ever heard. It terrified me. I sat, immobilized, until he quieted and then I whispered, "Sir, my head hurts." He raised his head and stared right through me. "Get out of the car," he said sternly. "Go back in the house."
Sir killed the engine, then hurried me out of the car and back into the cold. I whined as he half-dragged me back into the house, disappointed that he changed his mind about leaving. When we were inside, he just walked past me, and I stared as he snatched the envelope from the table, then walked into the living room. He sat in a heap on the sofa and silently stared at nothing. I hid in my bedroom at the far end of the house until the others came home from school. I didn't see or hear him again until dinnertime.
"It was a suicide note." I heard myself saying. "I guess he thought I wouldn't remember." The note slipped out of my hand and I watched it flutter down to the floor, landing next to the yellowed envelope. When I looked up, everyone was staring at me. At that moment, I understood our family dynamics: Geoff was Sir's oldest son and Rachel was his Golden Child; they led the most "special" lives in my father's house. Ron became the whipping boy when Mum was no longer there to protect him.
I was the fly on the wall.
Just then, the children returned from their play outside, causing quite a bit of noisy commotion. My sister and I rose to take care of our charges. It was time for Thanksgiving dinner. The moment was over.
Copyright© 2012 by Alyx T. Sandborg. All rights worldwide.
