The Other Terry
A story about loss and distruction of a young girls self-esteem.
I stood at the open door, whaling ear-piercing screams towards the empty driveway, “Daddy!”
My face dropped my sorrow onto my pinafore. My plastic doll lay askew on the pink carpet, hair all ripped out because that’s how I’d handled them fighting. I’d plucked her bald that summer.
He was gone. He drove away in the 1954 Pontiac that I was conceived in four years prior.
Mom was on the couch handling the prospect of being a single mom with a single malt scotch and a Pall Mall. My sister shook the bars of her playpen—the jail she was regulated to for most days.
I sobbed by the door until I heard my mother drop her glass. Ice cubes tinkled on the ripped linoleum floor. She was sideways on the couch. I knew it was my turn to put my baby sister to bed.
A week later, we were at our grandmother’s house. His mother’s house. Plastic covers on flower couches and tea cup collection on the wood paneling. It smelled like moth balls and butterscotch. It was a surprise visit. The surprise did not amuse Granny and the other over-stuffed and nearly dead family.
I saw him. He ran out the back door. He bent over with a dirty ball cap covering his face as if that made him invisible. I ran after him, but his betrayal was as swift as his escape.
The whaling started anew. Upsetting everyone’s tea cup. My Granny tried to convince me that I was wrong. That she’d not seen him since his betrayal.
The hate and insecurity took root in my soul that day and grew like a banana tree.
The following week, spurred by unknown sources, Daddy came to collect us at my grandfather’s house. We’d taken residency up there while mom worked at Montgomery Wards and combed the bars at night looking for a new Daddy.
He was on foot. His black Pontiac turned into the plane ticket to Hawaii for his final act of betrayal. He wanted to take us to ice cream. It was a mile away. Being 41/2, I had no idea how far a mile was. I wanted Rocky Road ice cream almost as much as I wanted my daddy. He placed the baby on his shoulders, and I walked. He talked about the magical place we would all join him called Honolulu. It was fun to say. “Honolulu. Honolulu. Honolulu. Daddy, my feet hurt.”
“We are almost there! Be strong.”
“My feet aren’t strong. Hold me, please!?!”
“You are a big girl now, Toksy. You need to walk.”
I whimpered as my feet bled in my Mary Janes but marched on. I remember counting the houses. Trying to read the street signs, noting where the turns were, and trying to remember every detail of the walk in case he left us and I had to get my sister back.
He paid for our ice cream with changes from his pocket. The man behind us gave him a handful of coins to help pay. I ate all the frozen treats while staring at his face, mapping it like I did the walk. We followed him to a toy store. He handed me a new doll that he swore would save me. I knew she was just molded plastic- not a savior. He handed my sister a stuffed sea turtle, claiming we could see them in Honolulu. Now, the baby piped in, “Honolulu. Honolulu.” We never went to the counter and left by the back door.
The walk back was misery. The baby now walked because he said his neck hurt. I put her on my back. He walked faster than us and, at times, seemed a distant spot on the horizon. I wanted my Papa and his blue Mustang. He returned us to our Grandparent’s house. He left us at the front door, didn’t knock, just walked away.
Papa removed my black mary-janes and said bad words about my red-soaked socks.
Papa put my sister down for her nap in the crib and comforted her with a bottle even though she was too old. He filled the tub with salt and warm water for me to soak in. I loved my papa. He was the bravest, kindness man in the world.
When mom came home that night after her search for a new daddy for us at midnight, the yelling started again, and my new doll became bald.