This phrase kept going through my head during my last visit to see my father. The house always smells of cigars, not a scent I particularly relish, and it's dirty as an older person's house is. And yet, I found myself breathe a sigh of relief or resignation or both upon arriving at his brick townhouse in Washington DC. My relationship with him is complicated to say the least, but for a long time I've called where my parents live "home". I sat on the patio our first night there and read my murder mystery by P.D. James, watching the swallows chase each other in the stormy, late-Spring, DC sky. It was humid and clouds roiled above, threatening rain, but never delivering. It was gusty, cool, humid, and completely unlike NYC.
My father would come upstairs occasionally to refill his drink and rustle around in the kitchen for a few moments. I was so still on the patio, watching his cat "Mittens" walk in and out of the house, perfectly content to come and go as many times as her little fickle, cat-heart wanted. My husband was asleep upstairs in what we refer to as my room. Mittens is, in fact, not Mittens. The real Mittens died a couple of years after my mother passed away and Dad didn't want another cat. My brothers and I schemed on how to get one into the house without my father being able to veto it immediately. He hates any kind of change, no matter how small or large. Then one pre-Christmas day my oldest brother, Byron, and I were walking with family in Alexandria, VA and saw a sign for shelter adoption. Byron in his funny and wise way said, "Ho hooo!" and pointed to the sign.
An hour later we brought home "Faith" - a white and black cat that is as luscious as a cat is allowed to be. She is calm, self-assured, flirty, and knows what she wants. She's smart, loyal, and has an air about her that lets one be who they are without worrying she will bite or run away. My father eventually informed all of us that he would call her Mittens as well, as he couldn't "learn a new name". After four years of stubbornness, I finally have agreed to call her "Mitzy" despite my gritted teeth when I do so. I was very close to the original Mitzy, you see, and this cat, whom I adore, is not her. After many years of referring to her as Faith or "Not-Mitts" I feel it is time to embrace what is and stop obsessing on what was - advice I have given my father many times which he has not taken.
My father was a minister for many years, so it's funny to me that he rejects the name Faith for Mittens (a name I bestowed upon our loving, wonderful family cat of 20-years at the age of 8). But that is a small gesture which demonstrates where he is in his life. (I just noticed that 'demon' is part of 'demonstrate'.)
I don't believe in demons. I don't really care about them as a concept. I am far more afraid of the living than the dead. I watch my father struggle with his life, his loss, his anger at the world that betrayed what he and my mother believed existed. They lived their lives in a certain way in order to be something, to get something ultimately that neither of them have gotten. My mother wanted years to herself to do what she wanted after years of doing what was expected of her for my father's career, and to enjoy watching her little girl (me) grow up into a woman, marry, and have children. She referred to my cat, Remmy, who has lived with me for 12 years as her "little grand-kitty". She did not survive long enough to do much of that.
So visiting my father's house, particularly on Mother's Day weekend, was a difficult thing to do. It was filled with joyous visits with friends and family and painful sad moments of dealing with my father when he can barely stand or when he is silent after I tell him of my recent modest achievements.
The silence of the house combined with the fact that NOTHING changes in between my visits makes it feel like a grandparents house - filled to the brim with memories hanging in the air with the cobwebs. You disturb things by your mere presence.
There is something comforting about being in a house where my mother has lived. A few years ago I was obsessed with getting my father to move out, into a smaller, more manageable place that doesn't have as many stairs or rooms to keep clean. He, in keeping with his character, when presented with this idea was horrified at the suggestion and proceeded to act like an abusive jerk for several days after we had a family pow-wow to discuss it. My brothers and I got the "FUCK NO" message and have backed off that idea for the past couple of years.
I still think there would be many pluses for my father moving out of his house, but this visit, almost 8 years after Mom passed away I began to realize, to allow myself to see, why he doesn't leave. She is there, in the shadows, in the living room having her Chardonnay and reading her book. And while we all know she in our hearts and is as much everywhere as in that living room where she spent so much time and ultimately died, it is easier to see her there with her delicate hands, the bow in her hair, throwing her mouth wide open when she really let out a belly laugh.
For the first time in 8 years I was able not to drink myself into oblivion just to deal with going to sleep there. A lot of credit I give to my husband, who is so supportive of me that when I burst into tears on the morning of Mother's Day in "my room" he simply held onto me and murmured in my ear as I sobbed.
I was the one who suggested we go down that weekend to plant flowers at Mom's grave as we haven't had time in several months. I know she is not located at that grave, that I could put out flowers anywhere in my apartment and tell her they are for her with the same amount of success in communicating as I would have in the cemetery. But I still drive 4 1/2 hours to get to her grave on a certain weekend.
I still long to go down to visit my father despite his difficult personality and place in life now. What is it that allows us to love our family as much as we do when they annoy the shit out of us? It's not just familiarity, let me tell you. There isn't enough familiarity in this world to put up with some of the stuff he's pulled, and yet I am pleased when he smiles for a few moments in between beats in a conversation with me and my husband. I am pleased when we arrive at the graveside and three lavender plants have survived the Winter and are beginning to grow and bloom.
As we planted a rose bush and African daisies and more lavender my husband and I dove into the task of "making things better". See? It's pretty, it smells good. I said as we were leaving, "It looks like somebody cares." And my husband quietly replied next to me, "Somebody does."
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