My father insisted on undertaking the entirety of the project, as he is apt to do if ever a household project comes up. Unfortunately, he isn’t terribly experienced or, even, talented, when it comes to such things as rounding edges and handling glue. I commend his desire to prove himself in the handyman arena, but at the time, I wished that he wasn’t practicing on my little bathroom. It was to be my sanctuary. My temple of (undiscovered) beauty. The globs of glue left untrimmed, the crooked drawers, and the uncovered sheetrock killed the vibe. As an effort to prevent any more damages than necessary, I took to shadowing my father while he worked. He gave me little jobs to make me feel useful. I watched his movements hawk-like for any carelessness or discrepancy.
When my time came to prevent error however, I somehow found it difficult. I suddenly understood why he was allowed free reign over the house from basement to dome. (Actually, we didn’t have a dome. There was a skylight in the attic though, and I’m sure if it went faulty, my father would by right up there, attempting to re-seam the glass.) He had a king-like air, very intimidating, that allowed for no questions in his practice. I watched him measure one wall, noting that he’d missed the ugly lip of the tub, which I was sure we’d want covered along with the rest of the wall. Shouldn’t I say something? Shouldn’t I say, “Re-measure so that the marble will cover that little fold of metal?” Instead, I made excuses for his oversight: “He’s measuring so sure and confidently. He must have meant to miss the lip. Maybe he knows something that I don’t. Maybe I just won’t say anything.”
When the marble came in and it was an inch short, I learned two things: 1) I should never second-guess my gut and 2) My father is not all-knowing. I began to notice how easily he’d forget, make a mistake, lose his temper. I fought every day to mold myself into his opposite. Our relationship during my teenage years were strained, and at times, explosive. Sometimes he would frighten me so badly, that every atom in my body would shake. It took every bit of will power I possessed to stand my ground and reply calmly, serenely (as I imagined Roald Dahl’s Matilda, my childhood heroine, would):
“You forgot that for five years of your life you ate your cold cereal with water before mom started bringing soy milk home, so forgive me if I don’t take you seriously. A woman isn’t a creature bred to obey. I am allowed to disagree with you. You’re going to have to learn how to take it without yelling and straining our relationship further.”
That was the spirit of any particular answer anyway. The arguments are too numerous to recall clearly. After each episode, I would go for a long walk, sometimes to the other end of town until my blood stopped boiling and my heart returned to my chest. Sometimes I would visit my grandmother, but more often, I would just walk and walk feverishly.
One evening my freshman year in high school, we had an argument to end all arguments (although it didn’t.). I found myself wishing that he would just haul out and knock me to the floor so I wouldn’t have to worry about that anymore. At it’s climax, all I could manage was, “You’re wrong,” before I left the house as quickly as I could.
I started running. A drag shut couldn’t slow me down. The town flew by in a flash and I found myself in the desert. I bounded over the brush and cacti like a rabbit. Dust caught every footfall and the sky had reddish-brown streaks above the mountains; like blood spreading and curling in shallow water. I found a dirt road and ran a good five miles before I stopped. I wasn’t angry. The old, furious adrenaline had left me a good two miles back.
I actually felt powerful. I ran home. It was dark when I got there.
He was about to ask where I’ve been. I could see him opening his mouth to say the words. He didn’t say them. My skin was emitting enough heat to make the mirrors and windows sweat. I was glistening like a marathon runner. I sent him a glance that said many things, but louder than the rest: “Don’t ever fucking underestimate me again.”
I knew two things that day. 1) I would never shake in his presence again. 2) I am stronger than I thought.
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