My First, and Last, Night Alone With My Father- Podcast: Waking From The Fire, Ep 4

Dear Friend,

Have you ever wanted something so badly that you thought about it constantly, then when you got it, you couldn’t enjoy it? Or, whenever something good happens, you expect something bad to happen. Listen as I share why that happens for many of us. For me, it had to do with my first, and last, night alone with my father. I wrote about in in my upcoming memoir, Waking From The Fire. Excerpt below.

Excerpt below. But First

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Book Excerpt- Waking From The Fire

Chapter 28 

A Night Alone with My Father

It’s January, 1986. I turned 16 a few weeks ago. My father forgot. So did my mother. My brother or sister usually remind her, then she reminds my father. This year, she won’t have a chance to. 

I’m sitting on the couch watching TV, probably Brady Bunch reruns, eating a hamburger from whichever fast food chain my mother picked dinner up from that night. She gets home from working on a sewing machine in a factory too late to cook, and she knows her three kids will be starving by the time she walks through the door.  Enjoying my burger, I hear the phone ringing in the other room. My mother lifts the receiver off the wall, and every once in awhile says, in Greek, “Ναί… Ναί… Ναί…” [Yes… Yes… Yes…] then hangs up. She walks into the living room and says, “Your father wants you and your brother to sleep over his house. One of you one night, and the other the next night.” 

My brother, sister, and I spend Sundays with my father since my parents split for good when I was four or five, first at his one room apartment, then at his house. I’ve never spent the night with him, so I’m confused.

“Why do I have to go?” I ask my mother.

“He said something about in case the police come.”

“What?”

“In case the police come, he wants one of you to be there.”

“Why?”

“Den xéro” [I don’t know].

“Why would the police come?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why does he want Me there in case the police come?”

“I don’t know.”

“No, I’m not going.”

“Yes, you have to.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Ma, please.”

Silence.

I don’t understand about the police, but what makes my heart race more is, the two of us will be alone. We’re rarely alone. I make sure of it. Since I’m four years old, after the van, watermelon, knife, and other incidents, I won’t speak to him unless he asks me a question, answer him with one word while looking at the floor, then leave the room. Recently, I go to his house less and less on Sundays. I ask my mother to make up excuses about why I can’t go because he’s told me, “You’re not a good baseball player,” “I’ll kill you if you play football again,” and, “Only blacks play basketball,” so I don’t want him to know I can’t go because I’m playing sports.

After the fire, when I asked my brother about it, he said, “Daddy wanted us to sleep over because Brigitta (His second wife) wanted him out of the house. But he wouldn’t leave. Daddy said, ‘It’s my house, and if the police come and try to kick me out, I’ll blow it up so she can’t have it.’” My brother adds, “I didn’t believe him because, you know daddy, he was always bluffing.”

Because no one ever talked about it, any of it, it will be 32 years later, while doing research for this writing, reading newspaper articles about the fire, that I find out why the police were coming. The reporters wrote that Brigitta filed a restraining order against him, but he refused to leave the house. She and my half sister were staying with relatives nearby, the articles said. A few months after the funeral, standing over my father’s grave, Brigitta will tell me why she wanted him to leave- “Your father touched your little sister.” 

This is what I share with my brother and sister about my first, and last, sleepover with our father:

Daddy picks me up in the green Chevette he promised to give me when I got my license, but won’t have the chance to. It’s more awkward than usual in the car. I don’t know what to say because I only see him on Sundays and you guys are usually there with me. He asks, ”Are you hungry?” I nod.  He’s talking funny, slowly. Then he’s quiet. He doesn’t say why he wants me to sleep over. He doesn’t mention the police. I don’t ask. He drives, staring straight ahead, swerving at times, his brow wrinkled. I swear at times it seems he forgets I’m sitting next to him, he’s so intent on thinking about something. 

He looks different. Usually he’s dressed in a buttoned dress shirt and slacks, shiny shoes, hair neat, clean shaven, wearing cologne. At certain angles I think he looks like Elvis- handsome, cool, confident. Tonight, he’s wearing a white tank top, dress pants, and slippers, even though it’s winter. His hair is thick and wild. There’s several days of scruff on his face which I don’t remember ever seeing on him before. He smells like what he’s been drinking. 

We pull into the Burger King off of Route 46 and order food. When I think he’s done, he adds to the order. We grab the white sacks and get back into the car. I put them on the floor in front of me. Without speaking, he pulls into the White Castle parking lot down the highway then asks, “You like theez place?” in his Greek accent. I nod. He orders more sacks of food. There’s no more room in front so we put the sacks in the back seat.

I think we’re heading home but he makes one more stop at the Blimpies across the street for some warm parmesan sandwiches. Finally, we head to his house, silent. He parks in front. We grab the sacks with both hands, hugging the rest against our bodies, and walk in through the back door. We place them on the small wooden kitchen table. He takes the individually wrapped food out of the bags, spreads everything across the table, then sits. I sit on his left. His whiskey bottle, the large size with the handle, and a glass, are on his right. He fills the glass, takes a drink, and says, “Eat.”

The only sounds in the kitchen come from the paper wrappers and burger boxes being ripped open. Slowly, the White Castles, fish sandwiches, Whoppers, Italian heros, chicken parms, french fries, and onion rings start to disappear. I’m thankful for the distraction of eating but worry I’ll have to take a break soon. I eat as long as I can, keeping my mouth full. If I stay busy eating, and my mouth is full, he might not ask me a question. I don’t want to draw attention to myself by disturbing him from his trance. Like in the car, he’s staring straight ahead, as if he’s looking for something. When he remembers I’m there, he says, again, “Eat.”

I sip my soda through the straw, then try to eat more, prolonging whatever’s coming next. Out of the corners of my eyes I watch him. Keeping his forward stare, he takes several large bites of his burger, filling his mouth, then mops handfuls of french fries in ketchup and shoves them into his mouth with the burger. While chewing, he uses his finger to wipe the ketchup bottle, then licks his finger, never breaking his forward gaze. He swallows, then pauses. I think he’s done. Silence. Waking from his trance again, he scans the table. Seeing there’s food left, and that I’m still sitting there next to him, he says, again, “Eat.” 

I try hard but I can’t eat anymore. My stomach is full and is starting to hurt. I feel nauseous. Unsure what to do next, I don’t think to ask him a question or share anything with him. I never do. He doesn't ask me anything. I’m relieved when he says, “Why don’t you go watch TV? You can sleep on the couch tonight.” At the time I don’t think anything of it, but writing this, I realize, there were three bedrooms upstairs. Why did he tell me to sleep on the couch? Then, I remember. The couch is next to the front door. The door the police will bang on when they come. 

I stand, walk to the living room, sit on the couch, and click the television on with the remote. Luckily it’s one of the simple ones with just a few buttons. We rarely sit in the living room when we come on Sundays. Usually we lie on the couch in the basement watching TV all day, only getting up for the magnificent meals he prepares. He’s the best cook I know, bringing food to the table on fire.

He stays in the kitchen, seated at the table. I hear him screw the cap off the bottle, pour another glass of whiskey, then place the bottle back down onto the table. Silence. Then he places the glass back down, with a thud, “Ahhh.”

Trying to watch TV, I hear something else from the kitchen. He’s talking. Low at first, then louder. I ignore it, thinking he made a phone call. Maybe he called Greece, I think. He’s talking in Greek mixed with English. He speaks, there’s a pause, then he responds. I wonder, did someone come in through the back door and is sitting next to him at the table? I want to go look but don’t want him to remember I’m there. 

He sits there for hours, talking louder and louder into the night, slurring more now. I try to listen harder, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. Sleeping’s hard because eventually he’s having a full back and forth argument with someone. He gets frustrated, slams the table repeatedly, arguing, persuading, and finally, agreeing. It sounds like he’s come up with a plan.

I sit on the edge of the couch, confused, listening to him in the kitchen, eyeing the front door for the police. It’s hard to focus on what’s on the TV. I don't know what to do. I never think to ask him what’s going on. It’s before cell phones and texting- if I reach for the phone to call mommy he’ll hear. He’ll remember I’m there. I decide it’s best not to move. Not seeing any other choice, I wait for morning to come.

More hours go by. I never stay up this late at home. He’s still at the table, talking, arguing. I think it’s getting light outside.

I hope not, but I think I hear him calling me. I don’t want to disobey him so I have to go see. Slowly I rise from the couch and walk to the kitchen. He’s sitting with his elbows on the table, slumped- his white tank top ketchup stained, hair wilder, the bottle of whiskey on the table now empty. He’s not on the phone. There’s no one sitting next to him. He’s still staring straight ahead, talking, his hands moving as he tries to explain to no one. I stand at the doorway, unsure what to say or do. Should I move before he sees me? Too late. When he finally realizes I’ve been standing there, he looks at me then asks, calmly, “Did you hear me talking to someone?” 

“No,” I lie.

The last words I remember Daddy speaking to me are, “Don’t worry. I’m not crazy.” 

Two days later, he’ll light himself on fire. 

He’ll do it in the upstairs bedroom, above where I was sitting on the couch that night. He’ll stand in the window, and while the police, firemen, neighbors and reporters watch from outside, he’ll pour a can of gasoline over his head, then hold up matches. 

Was that what he was agreeing to at the table? I get a lump in my throat when I think, that was the best solution he could come up with. I wish I had known. Maybe I would have sat down at the table next to him that night and said, “Ba, please, don’t do it.” But I know that would never have happened. I was afraid of Daddy. Even though he was the first person I remember feeling loved by, he was also the first person I remember feeling terror from. 

The next time I see him, after that night at the table, is with you two at the hospital. The three of us are standing together, oldest to youngest, close enough to touch. He’s lying in front us. His skin and face are gone. He’s still alive. 

_______________________________

My father never laid a hand on me that night, like he had in the past. He didn’t tell me my mother was a whore, or curse God, Jesus, the Virgin Mary, or me, like he had in the past. He didn’t break furniture or beat anybody up, like he had in the past. He wasn’t taken away by the police, like he had been in the past. He didn’t threaten to kill my mother, my little league coach, the guy who cut him off on the highway, or me, like he had in the past. He didn’t say I was stupid, lazy, selfish, two-faced, fat, a liar, or a bad baseball player, like he had in the past. He never even looked me in the eyes. Nevertheless, that night affected me as if he had. It will take 32 years to realize, by then too late, the lessons deeply ingrained. That’s the insidiousness of childhood trauma. Just as much harm, and more, can be done with words, behaviors, and even silence, when compared with physical abuse. 

I can see now how much my father was suffering, but as a 16 year old, sitting next to him in the car, at the kitchen table, on the edge of the couch, I just wanted to escape him, and I was angry with my mother for making me go. After four years of therapy, 12 step work, journaling, and this writing, I forgive my father, and my mother. I have empathy for their struggles. I can see they did their best, but I hold them accountable because that helps me not to pass onto my children what my parents passed onto me. I thought there was something wrong with me. Now I know, it was family dysfunction being passed from one generation to another. The way to stop it is to sit queitly, feel the pain, then ask for help. That’s what helped me.

If this resonates with you, let’s connect so that together, we can help ourselves, and those we love and care about.. Leave a comment below or contact me.