Bits and pieces of memory spark inside my head like fireflies on a humid Ontario evening. The thoughts drift by, harmless and content, fluttering against the dark backdrop. The bioluminescent twinkles in the darkness show me innocent flashes of random moments: ironing my best friend’s hair on her bedroom floor before school, skidding down a hill on my bare knees while roller-skating in the parking lot of our apartment, and endless hours burning marshmallows around campfires.
Past Christmases and Halloweens blend together, years and ages are vague, but these events, now meaningless, swirl together as one and it’s difficult to know when one memory begins and another one ends. Sometimes, though, when I am quiet and able to breathe deep, the brighter, more significant memories that I would rather forget begin to fly around me like gnats. Pesky memories that challenge my mindfulness dodge in and out of my headspace, pining for my attention. If I swat at them, they will only fight harder, so I close my eyes, retreat into myself, and allow them to fly about as they please.
One particular moment is more aggressive and shines brighter than the others. It’s the mosquito that is attracted to the inside of my ear, the bee that stings my lip as I sip lemonade in the summer sun. Its incessant buzz attracts a swarm of thoughts that I’d rather not be forced to experience over, and over, and over again.
It must have been summertime, because I remember it was quite late and the sun could still be seen peeking through the dark clouds that still lingered after a downpour. My teenage self had just been dropped off in my boyfriend’s red Ford pickup truck, and I noticed the house was blanketed in an eerie stillness. The damp air left dew on my skin, and the steam rising from the pavement that had been cooled by the rain didn’t smell fresh; it smelled thick and toxic, as most Ontario evenings do.
I looked up and saw my little sister, still too young to be out alone, clunking back to the house in my mother’s oversized rubber boots. The hem of her fleece nightgown, covered in what I think was pictures of little sheep, was dripping and muddy, even though the rain boots reached the middle of her thighs. Her head sulked forward as she dragged her feet, and a fire smouldered in my stomach and burned its way up my throat when I heard her whimper to herself.
I called out her name, and when she looked up and saw me through her tears, her blue eyes opened as wide as the ocean and swallowed me whole. She tried to run towards me, but the boots were so big that it was hard for her to bend her knees. I sprinted towards her and lifted her up into my arms as if the earth was crumbling from underneath her. She sobbed into my shoulder harder than I had ever seen her cry with my mother. I carried her fragile frame back to the house and told her that everything would be okay, even though I didn’t know for sure.
I didn’t know what had happened. I don’t think I wanted to know. All I remember is wanting to get her home to bed. When we walked into the house, our mom sat by herself on the tattered blue sofa that she tried to make presentable with a crochet blanket draped over top. Her feet were propped up on the sage green chest that she has repainted as many times as she has been left by a man. It’s as if a new coat of semi-gloss might help mask her feelings of worthlessness. She just stared at the empty space in front of her, while the cigarette between her fingers left still eddies of smoke floating throughout the room. She was either too embarrassed or unwilling to admit that yet another man had torn through our lives once again. She didn’t even look at us, and that was fine with me.
I’m not sure if my sister told me that night, or if it’s something that she confessed when she got older, but I know somehow that she was looking for me that evening. I had told her I would be at my friend’s house down the street, but it was common for me to lie about where I was so I could get stoned and hang out with boys. She said she remembers wandering up the road, but she could not remember what house it was. She was tired of listening to our mother be called a cunt while being poked in the chest and wanted me to come home. I don’t know how long she was walking up and down that street, but nobody had noticed she was gone. She was scared and needed me to protect her and I wasn’t there.
Mom’s boyfriend at the time was not as loud when I was around. He learned that I was strong when I stood up to him, close enough to smell the beer on his breath, and told him to shut the fuck up because we had school in the morning. I was tired. I was angry that my sister had to crawl into my bed in the middle of the night to feel safe. He ran over my bike the next day with his truck, but I knew that was only because he felt threatened. I smiled inside, knowing that I had gotten under his skin.
My mom had not dated that much while I was growing up. I almost wish she had. I think it would have been easier to watch men come and go quickly, instead of staying around for years, just long enough for me to love them before they got bored. My own biological father didn’t even give me a chance. He left before I was able to call him Dad, and for that I am almost thankful. The stories I’ve been told about him leave the taste of battery acid on my tongue, but the desire for acknowledgement and the feelings of abandonment still linger. I suppose I owe him for my blue-green eyes and defensive stubbornness, but that’s about it.
Years before my sister was even thought of, when I was around four, my mom met a man who was willing to love me in return. We laid together on our sofa in the evenings reading Dr. Seuss books, our feet resting on Mom’s travelling chest, then painted a rich burgundy. One summer, he spent every possible moment in the lake with me, holding me gently under my stomach at the water’s surface determined to teach me to swim. I remember him encouraging me to kick, kick, kick harder, and as I floated off on my own I could hear him cheering behind me.
Now that I am older, I’ve been told that he had his demons. If he liked to drink too much, it had never affected my perception of the strength and safety he provided me. I was devastated when he left. I remember clawing at the back of his work boots after he kissed the top of my head and walked to the door with an overstuffed army duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Now that I am older, I can see how he had to leave due to something greater than myself, but back then, as a young girl already doubting her place in this world, I was sure it was something I had done. Now that I am older, I know people sometimes have to make difficult, life-changing decisions and don’t always know which path to choose.
He moved to San Diego and I never saw him again. He would write to me, describing his new house and telling me how much he missed our quiet moments. He would beg my mom to let me visit him, and for her own reasons she did not think that was a good idea, so I daydreamed of us fishing as I stared at the map he had sent me with the red line he had made in marker, connecting our two cities.
One morning, after a couple years had passed, my mom snuck into my bedroom and crawled in between my pink Barbie sheets. As I stirred, I could feel the tension in her bones. She tucked my hair behind my ear and told me that there had been an accident. She has never been one for subtleties; he was gone. He had wrapped his car around a telephone pole and did not survive. I lay still, unable to breathe. I don’t remember crying either. I think I just stared at the ceiling wondering what I’d make at school on Father’s Day now that he was dead.
I wore my favourite purple polka-dot dress with white frills around the collar to his funeral, but we never made it. Our car broke down on the way, and as I bobbed on my mom’s lap in the cab of the tow truck I remember telling myself that it wasn’t over, I would not forget him. I was told that he had a diary, and within it was pages upon pages of thoughts and dreams for my future. That’s how I know he really loved me. I have learned throughout the years that when my family shifts and changes, I can decide who remains at the core of who I am, and to not dwell on who is not. We make our own family, and he will always be the one I call Dad.
I also later learned that there was never a car accident.
Secrets have a way of being manipulated into truths the longer that they are held. I have never gotten the full story of what happened. He must have had demons living inside him, as I later found out that he had hanged himself; at least that is what I’m told. He had killed himself. He had killed himself never knowing how much he had shaped my childhood. Ten years later, the wounds still raw and throbbing, I got a permanent reminder of him in a tattoo of elephants around my wrist, just like the one I would see as he turned the pages of my first book.
Memories all intertwined burn through my head like an unruly forest fire that was started by that one tiny spark of vision: my sister swaddling through the puddles, frantic and desperately trying to reach me, but being dragged down by the weight of the rain boots on her feet. She still wears those boots, the weight of them holding her back. Her memories are different than mine, but they shape us in the same way. No matter how hard you try, some events are so unique to you that they are part of your skin and bones. You can learn how to adapt, how to live with the thick residue of what remains. But what is left moulds and influences any decisions you make, whether you know it or not.
My story isn’t a tragic one. I have never gone to bed hungry. I knew I was loved and did well in school. I grew up to be determined, and self-sufficient, and, most importantly, happy. But this story is mine. It is individual to me and has helped create the foundation of who I am today.
My mother has found her own happiness, and after we almost lost her last year, I see how strong she is. She was only searching for what we all search for: love. And due to her own fireflies from the past fighting for her attention, she was distracted. She has since learned, as I have, how to live with them, and has found her purpose as a mother, and a friend, and is by my sister’s side as she grows into a smart, strong young woman who can stand up for herself without me.