My Daddy - My Father

Christina Guarin

My favorite story my mom tells me happened when she was pregnant with me. At the time we had one of those phones that was attached to the wall and had a long cord. She had already had two baby boys (my older brothers) and was now expecting her third child. Daddy asked what the gender was of the baby and the world lit up for him when they told him that they were expecting a baby girl. He screamed and ran into the room where my mom was, still holding on to the phone by his ear. He had broken the phone off the wall in excitement; all that was left was the cord hanging from his ear. Whenever I talk to my mom, she tells me that same story. I always ask to hear it. I like to be reminded of how much my father had loved me.          

I lived in New Rochelle for a little more than half my life. To many, it was a cozy home, but my eyes saw all the troubles that would seep into the walls. My parents always fought. From what I remember, my mom always yelled at my dad. He would just stand back and listen to her screams. He never fought against her. She had reasons, he was irresponsible, my mommy wasn’t; he lied, cheated and seemed to never move forward. I started sleeping in Mommy’s bed with her and Daddy started sleeping in my room. I couldn’t remember the last time I saw them kiss. 

But my daddy loved me with all his heart. He fed my two-year-old self, kissed my four- year-old self, hugged my six-year-old self, and he could combat the goblins that haunted the space under my eight- year -old bed. He was the only one who could do my ponytails for me with such precision, he was the only one who pushed me on the swings, and he was the only one who could make my favorite shrimp with spaghetti. We could talk about anything; he understood me and I always wanted to be with him. We did laundry together and had lunch together. I was never happier than when I was with my daddy. He made me laugh, he was always so proud of me; whatever I did he was supportive and came to school events and games. He gave me everything I wanted. I was his princess. 

One time when I was about seven years old, Mommy wasn’t home and so Daddy decided to take my brothers and me to the park. It was not just any park; it was the same park he took us to every time we went out. It is in Larchmont, bordering New Rochelle. It had tennis courts, a pavilion, basketball courts, a soccer field, a sandbox and my favorite: the massive playground. My brothers would go to the basketball courts and I would go straight to the bright red and yellow swings. Daddy always kept an eye out for me to make sure I didn’t get hurt. 

“Pa! Can you come push me on the swing?”

“You can push yourself!” he giggled, speaking in his usual sarcastic tone. 

“Pleaseeeeee, I like when you do it!” I always smiled exposing my two missing front teeth. My walnut colored eyes glowed and the ponytails my dad did for me earlier hung graciously with such precision on both sides of my head. Daddy never said no to me. He couldn’t. He wanted to see me happy. He would push me really high on the swing, and I never wanted to get off. I wanted to be at the park all the time. 

He was not the disciplinary sort, very passive, which aggravated my mom. The summer I turned eleven, Mommy left my daddy. Everything packed up in brown boxes stacked on top of each other, the princess left her castle and moved to White Plains. My parents were separated, but that didn’t mean the problems were. It seemed like the more they were apart, the more the fighting absorbed the both of them. But I didn’t like being with my mommy, I wanted to be with my daddy. 

“I’ll talk to your mom, why don’t you stay with her, I’m sure you can work things out.”

“No Pa, I don’t want to, why can’t I live with you, you’re my dad?” I would hug him and snug my head into his shoulder when I said this. I hoped that maybe he would feel a little bit bad for me.

“I’m busy right now, you need your mother.”

I never asked to go live with him again. 

Daddy is short, chubby, has a birthmark above his lip that my two brothers and I all inherited, deep brown eyes just like mine. We have similar noses and the same bold, infamous Guarin eyebrows that arch when we raise them up and down. My dad was a workaholic. He worked as a supervisor at Morgan Stanley in Purchase, New York. However, no matter how much he worked, it always seemed like he still never had enough money. He didn’t know how to spend it. It wasn’t on gifts. I don’t remember the last time my dad bought me something. He has been wearing the same clothing for the last few years and has not bought anything new in a very long time, wears the same blue shorts with white T-shirt, and since the separation he has lived in four different homes. Sometimes he would ask to borrow some money, $50, $100, $200. Reluctantly, we lent him the money. Years later, he still owes us money and we have no idea where it goes. 

Every other weekend we’re supposed to spend with my dad, but as time passed it seemed we saw less and less of him. Weeks and months would pass and we wouldn’t see him. 

“Carlos, why don’t you take the kids for the weekend” my mom would ask.

“Umm, I will let you know, Tina. I’ll call you back,” he would respond with a stutter and a pause between every other word.

No call back. He would disappear for days not answering my mom’s phone calls or texts.

In eighth grade I wanted him to come to my soccer game.

“Pa, I have a game next Wednesday, will you come, it’s at 4:00?” 

“Sure, I think I can make it, I will see you there,” he replied.

A grin broke out across my face, “Great! See you then.” 

I looked out at the benches waiting to see the man I hadn’t seen in weeks. No signs of him.  Maybe he was running late. Still no sign. I hope nothing is wrong. Maybe he got caught up in work. Game over. I check my phone two messages, one missed call. 

First Message from Ali: good luck at your game girly!

Second message from Jhon: let me know when you’re coming home.

Missed call: it was only Hope.

I checked for something from my dad, No messages. 

I called my mom. She came to pick me up, the grin had disappeared from my face and my eyes watered. He never came. My mom didn’t ask questions, it was a bad game. Again, we didn’t hear from him for days. The cycle never ends. 

*** 

I caught a cold, my mom was out and I had to stay in bed. She told me to call my father and ask him to bring me some soup, maybe ginger ale. I call, no answer. He calls me back.

“Hey sweetheart.”

“Hi Pa.”

“Your mother told me you were sick, is everything okay?”

“I’m not feeling well, and Mami isn’t home, do you think I can stay with you?”

Silence “I would, Darling really, but I have to work tonight and I’m really busy.”

“Okay,” I answer slowly.

“But if you want I could bring some soup?”

“It’s fine, thanks anyway.” I bite down hard and cringe.

“Okay well, feel better. I love you.”

End call.

I stopped visiting my father. He didn’t seem to mind, he didn’t try to see us. He never called. Maybe the occasional “good morning I miss you” texts, but I usually didn’t respond. 

When I see him, we run out of things to talk about, hugs are awkward, and if I do something bad and he tries to reassert his authority, I simply answer, “Now, since when does that matter to you?” I roll my eyes.

Months pass. 

My mother asks me, “Have you spoken to your father?”

“No,” I answer coldly.

“Why don’t you call him or something?”

“Why should I call him?! It doesn’t seem like he wants to talk to me! He should call me!” I yell. I begin to tremble and I leave the room. Silence. 

I sit in my room, in the park, at school, during practice. Does he really miss me? I ask myself. I can never find the answer. 

***

I’m about to turn eighteen, getting ready to go to college, application season, most important time in my life. It’s the start of the beginning of a new life. I apply to a lot of schools, some on the east coast, some on the west coast. I want to get out of here. My first choice is University of California Santa Barbara. The deadline is coming up and I am almost ready to submit. I go to school, sit down with my college counselor. We look over everything and within minutes, I’m looking at the confirmation page for my applications. I have officially applied. I text my friends, my brothers, my mom. 

“Congrats chica! I am so proud of you!” my friends send.

“That’s awesome sis!” my brother responds. 

“That’s so exciting, I feel old now,” my other brother replies.

A blessing from my mom.

I forgot about my father, I text him: “Paa I applied to college! The applications were $270 for the California schools.” I wait, no response.

The following day he responds. Excited, I quickly open, I read: “Ok…and”

I stare at my phone for a moment, I get goosebumps, I hang my head down, I feel my shoulders tighten and my eyes are glossy as I want to cry. I stop myself. I sit down and just lock my phone. Silence.

I grew out of my 2,4,6,8,11 year old self. My father still seems to be stuck there. My parents still fight, but my mother gave up on him. We all did. I stopped missing him, but it never stopped hurting. I grew up, but seven years later the goblins still haunt me, not the same ones under my bed, but the memories of what my father and I used to have. My daddy can love, he loved my mother, he loved me, he just doesn’t know how to love, and he doesn’t know what it means to love. But for some reason I still sit in my room, in the park, at school, during practice. Why doesn’t he love me anymore? I ask myself, “How could he hurt me like this?” and still, I can never find the answer.