TheBanyanTree: The Christmas Payoff

[pat.martin]

The Christmas Payoff
 

             While growing up, I often thought of Dad as the invisible man.  We spent seventeen years in the same home, but I hardly knew him and he didn't know me at all.  I recall talking to dad at the dinner table.  He would not hear me.  When he didn't answer my questions, Mom shouted at him.

"Herb!  Patsy's trying to talk to you!" 

After awhile I quit trying, and Dad didn't seem to notice.  He dutifully drove me wherever I wanted to go, in silence.  Our family lived in a nice, new home Dad built.  He landscaped the yard, planted laurel hedges and built a double garage.  Our car sat on one side and he built a speedboat that sat on the other.  When Dad was at home, he was there physically but removed on an emotional level.  Nevertheless, he had and still has many good qualities.  A soft-spoken, passive-natured man, he is a good provider, honest, and hardworking.  

He loves babies, but as they grow, something happens and he distances himself.  He doesn't know how to interact once those babies become little people.  While growing up, I had no choice but to accept Dad's limitations.  I grew up without a dad.

Later, when I married and had a child of my own, Michelle, I found Dad's indifference toward her harder to understand.  In Michelle's first years, Dad paid her some attention; he bounced her on his knee and spoke to her.  As she grew from a toddler to school age, though, his interest waned.  

Although Michelle's grandparents lived in the same town, not once did they invite Michelle to visit.  Not once did Dad or my stepmother, Phyllis, baby sit.  Not once did they telephone to speak with her, except on her birthday.  Dad treated Michelle as he had treated me while growing up-as if she didn't exist.

Just after Michelle turned seven, the local Legal Aid office offered me a great job.  My only concern in accepting it was my need for someone to care for Michelle if she became ill on a workday.  Who could I ask to help?  No one came to mind.  I toyed with the idea of my Dad and Phyllis.  I knew they likely wouldn't want to help yet I had no one else to turn to.  I decided I needed to offer them money and lots of it to motivate them to agree.  In 1991, $50.00 was a considerable sum for one day of daycare (about double the going rate).  When I called, Phyllis answered.  I told her about my problem.  "I'll pay $50 a day if you or Dad can help," I said.  "I don't know who else to ask."

"Oh no.  We couldn't do that," Phyllis answered.  "We might catch whatever Michelle has."

At the end of the call, I said a friendly goodbye.  I didn't let on how hurt and disappointed I felt.  I accepted the job anyway, and was pleased to discover the office policy allowed several sick days to care for dependent children.

When Michelle was ten, we moved several hundred miles away, and Michelle's scant contact with her grandparents dwindled further.  

In June 2002, Michelle graduated high school, the recipient of several awards and scholarships for academic achievement.  In the fall, she moved to Victoria to attend university.  One day I received a telephone call from Dad who said he was going to Victoria to visit some friends.  These friends have a little girl who has adopted him as her Grandpa.  Several times in the past years, Dad has talked about this little girl with such fondness that I couldn't help but feel resentful.  Why, I wondered, doesn't he see what a wonderful girl Michelle is?

"I'm not sure if I'll have time to see Michelle," he told me, "but I'll take her phone number just in case."

When the call was finished, I shook my head in bewilderment.  Dad was putting this other family and their little girl above Michelle.  

So, in 2003, two weeks before Christmas while talking long distance with him, I decided to talk to him about his relationship (or lack of) with Michelle.  I spoke matter-of-factly in a non-accusatory way.

            "Dad," I said, "Michelle told me this summer that she doesn't even feel like she has grandparents."  I paused.  "You don't even know her."

Dad's voice sounded bitter.  "What do expect from me?  I visit when I can."

"You could phone her once in awhile," I suggested.  "Get to know her."

"She doesn't phone me," he responded.

"She tried to call you on your birthday but you weren't home."

"Do you expect me to stay home all the time?"  His tone was nasty.

"I don't want to argue with you, Dad.  I just thought you should know."

On Christmas Day, Michelle tore open the envelope addressed to her in my father's handwriting.  When she opened her Christmas card, I saw a folded piece of paper fall onto her lap.  She read the card first, then picked up the cheque, unfolded it and stared at it without speaking.  Turning toward me she said, "Grandpa sent me a cheque for a hundred dollars, Mom."  Her eyebrows knit and she looked at the cheque again.  "I feel guilty. Grandpa and Grandma don't have a lot of money."

When I heard the amount, I immediately knew why Dad had doubled his usual Christmas gift amount.  I gave Michelle a smile and said with forced cheer, "I think it's okay to accept it.  Don't feel guilty."  

            Later, when I was alone, I allowed my tears to flow.  A profound sadness washed over me; I felt pity, forgiveness, and acceptance.  Dad was trying in the only way he knew how.  And that, to me, is a tragedy.