Assignment 1

There had been many nights of marathon yelling contests, so many in fact, that when I look back to this period in my life it is as if someone maliciously sucked the days out of my memories, leaving me with one elastic night that lords over my past like a thick, morning bayou mist.

 I think the bulk of this happened in 1999, though I can’t be sure; I was young and now I’m not really inclined to fact check. I didn’t know it then, or at least I never wanted to admit it, but my parents’ marriage was grasping for its last breaths.

Life before the fighting, as I remember it, was defined. Defined in that my mother was a stay-at-home mom from Nicaragua, my father was a corporate lawyer from upstate New York, my mother was married to my father, my parents had two children, we vacationed together and I was to attend catholic/private school followed by a prestigious college and finally University of Chicago Law school, just like my dad.

However, as I would soon come to learn swiftly and rather crudely, things change. Things change constantly and infinitely and most importantly, indefinably.

 As the hostile vocal exchanges continued with growing frequency, my household also became a hotbed for unidentified flying utensils activity with an assortment of spoons, spatulas, and tongs whizzing about at blurring speeds - don’t worry, no one ever got hit, I’m guessing it was just for dramatic effect.

I can remember only once, when things were getting pretty bad, that I seriously considered the possibility of my parents splitting up. It was only after a close friend at my school revealed that his parents were getting divorced – a revelation that quickly became the shocking topic du jour amongst the school community – and described to me what it was like over in his house that I accumulated enough doubt in my head to worry.

Realizing the frighteningly similar situations of my friend and mine, I decided to confront my mom.

The day was overcast, the ground was wet and the air was a crispness known only to a Westchester, New York fall. Winter coats were still in the closets, so I’ll put the day sometime in early October.  I had orchestrated for my mom to pick me up at school this day, thinking it would be the best time that allotted for the needed privacy of a matter of this severity. My mom pulled up in her cinnamon colored Ford Windstar minivan. (Don’t ask me why I remember the things I do, memories work in mysterious ways.)  She opened the rear-automated sliding door to let me in. She was all-smiles, hiding another night of agonizing frustration and naïve to the growing hurt I felt for all of us. I took my seat behind the driver side.

We would talk through the rearview mirror; I dared not to be in a position where the weight of direct eye contact could crush me.

“Mom.”

Our eyes met in the mirror.

“Yes?”

“You know Ryan? His parents are getting divorced…”

She showed no shift in comfort. She had still not caught on to the direction of my inquiry.

“Yes. I know his parents are getting divorced. I feel really bad for all of them. What about him?”

“Well, I’ve been talking to him a lot. And…are you and dad getting a divorce?”

I remember her suddenly braking in the school parking lot. I thought to myself, “I shouldn’t have asked.”  Her eyes darted for a second in the mirror, breaking our indirect eye contact. Her eyes met mine again, this time they were filled with guilt and sadness.

“Why would you think we are getting divorced?”

“You guys fight all the time. Just like Ryan says his parents do.”

“Yes, we do fight. But there are always fights in marriages. We just have been fighting a little more than usual lately but it happens. Divorce is a long way from this. You don’t need to worry.”

“Really? You sure? Would you tell me?”

“Yes I’m sure. I’m sorry all of our fighting has made you worry.”

I was relieved. I had nothing to worry about. This was just normal in all marriages. I continued to tell myself this long after my mother, brother and I moved to California without my dad. Denial is a timely seductress.

The thing about a “long time” is that it is relative. For my mother and father, it meant a few months after I asked my mom about a possible divorce. For me, I hoped it meant never.

Christmas came and went without bringing joy or the present of normalcy.  January was bitterly cold and in February my dad moved out.

It happened while I was at school so I can’t say I saw my dad moving out, moving out of my house and moving out of my life. When I got home, he was just moved out. My mother was in the kitchen, my kitchen table was not and soon thereafter, my brother came home as well. Having Down syndrome, the only way my brother found to express himself was to cry over the missing furniture and though he couldn’t say it, he knew much more was missing. 

I look back at this period and wonder what else besides furniture and my dad moved out.