So I have this weird story about the way my dad died, and how it affects my life even now. But it starts before he died, and less than the 40something years ago when he was born.
My dad's part of the story background (roughly highlighted): My parents divorced when I was 11 (in 1989ish). It was messy. He was an ass. My mom lost it. I lost the big chunks of familiarity and safety I'd had (imagine being a single sliver of cheese tossed in a fallen Tupperware bowl, and then the lid being popped off). It was better for all involved. No. Really.
Not too long after that, he found someone else who was by far the most stable lover he'd ever had. He called me the day he married her, roughly 5 years later. I told him my brother was with me, so if I came to the wedding, so would he. My dad didn't see any reason for that to happen. I said, 'if you can't admit that you have two kids, I don't see any reason for you to have any.' He agreed with that statement. I hung up. He disappeared until he died.
My part of the story background: My friend, Jan, recommended a book in May 2006 called, "Blue Like Jazz." We read it, and I had an insta-crush on the writer, Donald Miller. Here, in a book, was everything I'd thought or felt or just needed words for; why I was a Christian; why I was a liberal and why the two mattered, even though there were times they were more vicious than ex-lovers in a fight over the kids (aka my soul). I still lack words for the doors that book opened.
So, there I was, a girl with a book. Fast forward on the Life TiVo, and Miller released more books; Jan and I read them. One weekend, there was a book convention here in town. I'd borrowed a book from Jan, and kept it long enough it could've been called mine. To thank her for being a cool hippie chick that didn't grieve me for keeping it, I took the book to be signed by Miller.
There I was in line, a person away, all jangled nerves and golly-Mr.-Miller's-gonna-sign-my-book. I was 16 all over again, but gawdier and painfuly twitterpated. He asked for my name, and I blanked. (Yeah. I know. Shut up.) I said, Amber? And that was the name that went into my friend Jan's book. (Score.) Thankfully, there was a stack of the same book within grabbing distance, so I did.
Jan got a book, a story, and a laugh.
My dad did whatever he did that was his life.
Then, one morning about a year ago, I was on the train going into work, reading Father Fiction, a re-released/updated version of another of Miller's books. I got into work, and there was an e-mail in my work e-mail from my mom with the subject line 'Call me.' That's weird, I thought, I live with her; it couldn't wait? I called on a break, and roughly the time I'd plugged solidly into Miller's world of uncertainty, my dad's motorcycle had plunged into gridlocked car on one of the major highways in Dallas.
Three days later, I went to the funeral for a man I wouldn't have claimed to have known otherwise.
Now, a year later. My stepmother grieved, still does. She and I have gotten quite a bit closer than we were. It's good, but still very new and... sensitive for both of us.
So... here's the weird part.
The lawyers and the insurance have settled, and my brother and I are due some money that my stepmother was kind enough to let us know about and pass along, too. It's enough that I could give a chunk of change to my church, another chunk to a worthy charity, go to Portland, OR for a week, attend an annual writers' conference faciliated by Miller, and spoil myself rotten in a city full of hippies 'n' foodies.... and still have enough to give to my mom to pay off a debt.
So, in other words, in death, my dad will take care of the son he didn't want to admit was his - for life. And I, the daughter who never really could be the engineer he'd hoped she would be, can go meet one of the people who could show her how to be better writer.
But Jan can't go. Ironically, the person who was the reason Miller and I met at all has so much life stuff happening, she can't get away. Last time, she got a new book, a story, and a laugh; I can only imagine what she might get this time.
My dad's part of the story background (roughly highlighted): My parents divorced when I was 11 (in 1989ish). It was messy. He was an ass. My mom lost it. I lost the big chunks of familiarity and safety I'd had (imagine being a single sliver of cheese tossed in a fallen Tupperware bowl, and then the lid being popped off). It was better for all involved. No. Really.
Not too long after that, he found someone else who was by far the most stable lover he'd ever had. He called me the day he married her, roughly 5 years later. I told him my brother was with me, so if I came to the wedding, so would he. My dad didn't see any reason for that to happen. I said, 'if you can't admit that you have two kids, I don't see any reason for you to have any.' He agreed with that statement. I hung up. He disappeared until he died.
My part of the story background: My friend, Jan, recommended a book in May 2006 called, "Blue Like Jazz." We read it, and I had an insta-crush on the writer, Donald Miller. Here, in a book, was everything I'd thought or felt or just needed words for; why I was a Christian; why I was a liberal and why the two mattered, even though there were times they were more vicious than ex-lovers in a fight over the kids (aka my soul). I still lack words for the doors that book opened.
So, there I was, a girl with a book. Fast forward on the Life TiVo, and Miller released more books; Jan and I read them. One weekend, there was a book convention here in town. I'd borrowed a book from Jan, and kept it long enough it could've been called mine. To thank her for being a cool hippie chick that didn't grieve me for keeping it, I took the book to be signed by Miller.
There I was in line, a person away, all jangled nerves and golly-Mr.-Miller's-gonna-sign-my-book. I was 16 all over again, but gawdier and painfuly twitterpated. He asked for my name, and I blanked. (Yeah. I know. Shut up.) I said, Amber? And that was the name that went into my friend Jan's book. (Score.) Thankfully, there was a stack of the same book within grabbing distance, so I did.
Jan got a book, a story, and a laugh.
My dad did whatever he did that was his life.
Then, one morning about a year ago, I was on the train going into work, reading Father Fiction, a re-released/updated version of another of Miller's books. I got into work, and there was an e-mail in my work e-mail from my mom with the subject line 'Call me.' That's weird, I thought, I live with her; it couldn't wait? I called on a break, and roughly the time I'd plugged solidly into Miller's world of uncertainty, my dad's motorcycle had plunged into gridlocked car on one of the major highways in Dallas.
Three days later, I went to the funeral for a man I wouldn't have claimed to have known otherwise.
Now, a year later. My stepmother grieved, still does. She and I have gotten quite a bit closer than we were. It's good, but still very new and... sensitive for both of us.
So... here's the weird part.
The lawyers and the insurance have settled, and my brother and I are due some money that my stepmother was kind enough to let us know about and pass along, too. It's enough that I could give a chunk of change to my church, another chunk to a worthy charity, go to Portland, OR for a week, attend an annual writers' conference faciliated by Miller, and spoil myself rotten in a city full of hippies 'n' foodies.... and still have enough to give to my mom to pay off a debt.
So, in other words, in death, my dad will take care of the son he didn't want to admit was his - for life. And I, the daughter who never really could be the engineer he'd hoped she would be, can go meet one of the people who could show her how to be better writer.
But Jan can't go. Ironically, the person who was the reason Miller and I met at all has so much life stuff happening, she can't get away. Last time, she got a new book, a story, and a laugh; I can only imagine what she might get this time.
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