Chapter 12
PART III
12
Rachel
Ihave a lot of memories of my father.
When I was 3 or 4, he would put me on his lap and move his knees up and down like I was riding a horse. He would chant,
Little girl, little girl,
Goin’ downtown…
Take care of little girl,
Don’t you fall down.
Boogedy-boogedy-boogedy-boogedy-BOO!
On ‘Boo,’ he would part his legs – and I would fall through to the floor, giggling and screaming with both fright and joy.
He would usually say ‘boogedy-boogedy’ for at least five seconds.
But sometimes it was only one or two seconds, and you fell before you even knew what was happening.
Once in a while, the chanting would go on for half a minute. The entire time, you waited and waited, knowing what was coming, the dread building the longer it went on –
But either way, your world always dropped out from under you.
Always.
I have other memories of my father. Some of them good… others not so good.
I remember he was handsome. I thought he looked like a movie star.
I remember that I hated the way his whiskers felt when he didn’t shave and he kissed me. So every time he shaved, he would take my hand, put it on his cheek, and say, “Just for you, Rachel. Just for you p>
I remember the way he ran hot and cold. Sometimes he was affectionate and would hug and kiss me… then the next day he would act distracted when he came home from work, barely bothering to pat me on the head. And when he was in a bad mood, he would yell at me to be quiet.
I remember that he drank a lot in the evenings. I actually liked it when he drank because he smelled like vanilla – the scent of his expensive whiskey. He laughed more when he drank, and he would play Little Girl, Little Girl whenever I asked.
I remember that there was a lot of shouting and screaming between my father and mother. Usually not when he was drinking, funnily enough. It was when he was sober and moody that the fighting would start.
I remember hiding in my room under the covers when it got particularly bad.
I hid a lot as a child.
There are the things you remember, and there are the things you know because someone else told you about them.
Here’s what my mother told me.
They met while he was on vacation in Italy. He was from London; she was born and raised in a beach resort town named Pescara. She was very beautiful and worked at a hotel as a waitress from the time she turned 18.
A few months after she turned 20, she served drinks to a funny, handsome Englishman while he was lounging by the pool. She knew a little English, he knew a little Italian, and combined, it was enough for him to flirt with her and make her laugh. She finally agreed to go dancing with him that night – which began a passionate fling that ended when he left to go back to London.
He gave her his phone number, though. Mama said that they talked every day at first… then every other day… and finally once a week, if that. My father told her he was busy with work.
About a month after he left, my mother found out she was pregnant. When she told my father over the phone, he tried to convince her to get an abortion. When she refused, he flew her to London and eventually married her.
At least he tried to do the right thing. I have to give him credit for that.
But there were many times I wished he hadn’t, and that Mama had stayed in Pescara.
Because the single most powerful memory I have of my father…
Is of the day he was no longer there.