Tessie

“Oh, geez, dad! Can I please just have a little privacy? Like, knock or something before you come barging into my room?”

My dad stood in the hallway after hastily slamming my bedroom door shut. The look on his face had been mortified embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Tessie, I wasn’t thinking. But it’s too late now.” he sighed, “ Hurry and get dressed. I’ll be waiting in the kitchen.”

I hobbled over to the door, my bedsheet wrapped haphazardly around my naked body, and turned the lock on the knob.

I dropped the sheet and stood in front of the full length mirror hanging on the wall. The scars that ran down the left side of my body glared back at me, their bumpy, ridged lines, a pale contrast to my deeply summer tanned skin. I ran my finger along the biggest that ran from just under my breast down over my hip. My therapist told me that I needed to learn to love my wounds, to accept their place on my body and then I would forget they were there.

Learn to love these things? Learn that they belonged on my body? I fired him.

I forced myself to stare them down at least once a week, to interact and make sure that these marks on my body knew that I was the strong one, that this was MY body and that I chose who ran the thoughts in my head. If I accidentally brushed one while putting on my jeans or caught a glimpse in the mirror when getting out of the shower, they pulled my mind into a place I didn’t want to be. A world of despair and regret. So I made sure that these little things knew who was boss.

My daddy sat at the kitchen table reading the morning newspaper. Who read those anymore? A barely used laptop sat on the built in desk. I had made several attempts to show him that he could read the news on there, from several different papers or news stations and avoid the stacked fire hazard that built up in the garage until I forced him to set them out for recycling.

Every time I brought it up I got a lecture, similar to the one he was giving me now. “I have no desire to glean all my information from a machine. There is a personal relationship between a person and a newspaper. The feel of the paper in your hands like you are holding the knowledge of this town, the ink bleeding into your skin, when you read of the ills in the world, the crackle as you snap the pages open is like the voice of the article subject.  Sitting in front of a humming machine or holding one of those smart phones clutched in your hand, does not give you the same feeling of being a part of the happenings in your community.”

The smell of coffee permeated the air, making my salivary glands dance.  I padded across the kitchen and filled my favorite coffee mug. I leaned my hip on the counter and watched my father. His wispy hair shot every which way, having not tamed it down with a comb yet this morning. His brown eyes danced left to right behind his half glasses perched on the end of his long narrow  nose. His broad shoulders were slumped under his flannel shirt and shortened his tall lanky frame. Ah, I loved that guy. He was definitely the best dad on the planet, hands down. I know you think yours is, but seriously, mines better.

“What’s your plan for the day Pop?” I asked inhaling the steam from my cup.

Without looking up from the paper, he answered “I have a daughter to take to task this morning, then I’m headed to the town social. What’s yours? Sit here and brood?”

Ah, so the taking me to task has already started. Not even a full cup of coffee down. “Hmm, that does sound appealing.” I tilted my head sideways, and gave him a rueful smile. “ But I thought I might run down to the river today. The weather is supposed to be gorgeous and with the social going on, there won’t be hardly anyone there.”

He closed his paper and commenced to folding it into a neat little rectangle that would fit in his back pocket. We carry smart phones there, and he carries the paper. What’s weird about that?

“How about today…. you come into town with me. We can see how it goes and make a decision once we get there.”

“I don’t know, Pop. There is gonna be an awful lot of people there. People that love you, and want to talk to you. And then there’s the women! How many of those bawdy broads are gonna be hanging off your arm begging for a dance? I don’t want to get in the middle of your social life. I’d just hold you back.” I smiled at him.

His deep scowl had me both wanting to laugh and run away scared at the same time. When I was a teenager, that scowl got me to do exactly as I was told. “Young lady!” Oh, boy, he brought out the young lady. “You need to get back out in the real world. You cannot go on the way you are. And honestly, if you want to stop blocking my social life, you’ll move the heck back out of my house! You have been with me for almost a full year. I love you, girl. But you need a life. Your own life, outside of these walls and outside of your head.”

My stomach clenched  and my lungs grew tight. I knew that this was coming. That Pop would get tired of me hanging around. I had tried and tried to get back out there but every time I opened the door with the intention of going into town or even down the road to the neighbors, my palms started sweating and my heart would pound so loud that I couldn’t even hear my own ragged breathing. Doc Mickelson said it was mild panic induced agoraphobia. I said I was chicken shit.  My daddy had been patient with me, and I knew that i was pushing my luck staying as long as I had. But I still wasn’t ready to hear him tell me it was time to go.

He got up from the table and rushed across the kitchen to me. He grabbed my face in his hands and stared into my eyes. “Breathe girl. Slow in, slow out. Nobody is kicking you out on the street. You’re safe here. Just breathe.”

As my breathing regulated I wiped the tears from my cheeks and dropped my head. “I’m so sorry daddy. I wish I could stop it. I’m so sorry.”

He wrapped me up in his arms and pushed my head to his chest. “It’s alright girl. It’s not your fault. But you need to try. I can’t sit by here and watch you waste your life by not trying.”

I nodded into the damp flannel of his shirt. “I’ll try. I’ll go to town with you today. I’ll try.”
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I stepped out onto the front porch and edged my way to the top step. Most days, leaving the house wasn’t too hard. I could cross the yard and enter the woods, make my way to the river or cross to the old Sears and Roebuck barn behind the house. I ran to the end of the ½ mile driveway and gathered and put out the mail. But on days that I knew I was leaving the haven of my childhood home, I could barely manage stepping off the porch. My dad came up beside me and gently grabbed my elbow. He was well practiced in guiding me, having been stuck taking me to therapy and doctor’s appointments, and he knew that once I was in the confines of the passenger seat of his truck I’d be able to control myself a little better.

As my ability to speak came back to me, pops steered the lumbering old ford down the driveway and onto the tree lined county highway. I glanced over at him and saw the worried expression on his face. “It will be different this time, Dad. I got a feeling. I know I’m stronger than this.”

He just nodded his head with his mouth set in a grim line. “The first step is the hardest, you know that babe.”