I thought I was dreaming. I opened my eyes and saw my step-mother sitting at the foot of my bed. I closed my eyes and reopened them, only to see her still sitting there, but this time she reached out and touched me. It was still dark, probably about six in the morning. I was in my bedroom that I shared with Ike. He was still sound asleep.
How did she get in without waking my other three roommates and the dog?
I knew something was either terribly wrong or I was hallucinating. I had a few drinks the night before but nothing too crazy. Just the typical summer night in a college town. School was about to start up again and everyone was getting in the last few nights of debauchery before fall.
"Are you awake?" she said as I sat up in bed.
"What are you doing here?" I whispered as my mind raced. Did she drive? Fly? Why hadn't she called first? Is she on drugs again?
This wasn't my step-mom's first time visiting me in Santa Barbara, but it was her first time to this house. I'd never even told her the address. The summer of 95' I shared a house with four guys. A first (and last) for me.
Ike and I each had a twin bed that was separated by a constant pile of dirty laundry. Our other housemates were not exactly tidy either. One was a skater with a mohawk who let his pit bull pee all over the house. (He also happened to be my Statistics 101 tutor.) The other two were surfers who subsisted on nothing but Top Ramen, Pabst Blue Ribbon beer and the occasional burrito. I loved them all but the house was in a constant state of chaos. The dishes were never done unless I broke down and put on the hazmat suit, only to have another sink full three days later. The house was vacuumed once in three months, and that was also done by yours truly, while the dog growled and barked at me because she was frightened of the noise.
This was not the house to bring parents to. This was the house where we had kegs all summer long, drinking what was left over from a party in the morning. This was the house my roommates made it their goal to drink enough "twelvers" of Pabst to cover the entire front lawn in cans. A sort of punk rock 90s art installation. This was the house with an upside down canoe in the front yard that was used for extra seating to watch the daily horseshoe tournament. This was the house that had an American Flag waving in front and Black Flag blasting from within. This house was 21 and under.
"What are you doing here?" I said again, looking over to make sure Ike was still asleep.
"Your father is dead" she said followed by a long pause. It was as if she knew what I was thinking so she said it again.
"Your father passed away. He's dead." And then she started to cry.
Even though she had said the words, I still wasn't sure I heard her right. So I said the next thing that came to mind.
"How???"
"He killed himself..." she said and I waited for further explanation. Those words just hung in the dark room for a while. I couldn't say how long. Long enough for them to rattle my ears and jolt me awake but not long enough for them to make a bit of sense. Then I said the most ridiculous thing anyone could say in a situation such as this.
"Are you serious?"
When you're twenty years old and you're woken up at dawn by your crazy step-mother who doesn't even live in the same state as you, I suppose it's any one's guess as to what would have been the appropriate thing to say. I really did mean what I said though.
Killed himself? My dad killed himself? My dad who I just talked to the week before, killed himself?!?!
"How?" I said again and realized Ike was starting to stir.
"He shot himself.." she said and stopped crying. I just remember her looking at me in the dark, waiting for my response. I had no idea what to say or how to react. I was confused and still somehow convinced she wasn't serious. Or this was some sort of mistake.
He. Shot. Himself.
It sounded so foreign. It sounded absurd. It sounded unthinkable.
Ike woke up and must have overheard what was going on. He just left the room without a word. The dialogue gets a little fuzzy here but I do remember asking her when they found him, (the day before) how she got here, (drove) how she found me, (called my friend Lisa) and who else knew, (only a few people.)
I only started to cry after she had told me every last detail. It was as if I was quizzing her to make sure this was really happening.
When I did start to cry, she said "just take your time," and hugged me. She began to cry again and all I could feel was discomfort. Just general malaise coupled with the awkwardness of seeing her. We had a very tenuous relationship, (at best) and I felt like I had to give her the show she was looking for.
She wanted to be the arms to hold me and comfort me. She wanted to be the star of this twisted show. She wanted me to need her. She wanted to be the adult in a situation for once.
I got up and went over to the stereo. I put on Long Long Long from the Beatles White Album, not knowing I would never be able to hear that song again without thinking of this moment. As it played I thought about my dad, who was a huge Beatles fan, and wondered if he loved this song as much as I did.
Then I cried. And cried. And cried.
The rest of the day is spotty. I know I called my best friend and she came over through the alley that divided our houses. I remember us hugging in the front yard and feeling safe that she was there with me. I didn't want to be alone with my step-mom any longer and needed a friend who I could trust. She stayed all morning while I sorted through things.
I remember trying act cool in front of my four roommates while I was packing, so as not to make them feel uncomfortable. I didn't want them to think I was the girl with the crazy father who would now be a loose cannon. That's pretty typical ME stuff. I worry about what other people think when I'm in the midst of a crisis. God forbid I should show an ounce of weakness. God forbid I should look vulnerable. God forbid I should let myself feel frightened.
It was a dark, dark day.
