What I Told My Sick, Estranged Father
Reflecting on my complicated relationship with my dad
My father tugged my sister’s hair with his left hand while he pummeled her head with his right fist. My mother, five feet flat, inserted herself in between them in an effort to protect my sister, but caught stray hammer fists instead. I watched from the doorway of my sister’s bedroom. She was 18. I was 7.
Years later, my sister told me I was wailing at the door. I don’t remember that. I remember running outside, standing on the brick stoop of our little house in North Bergen, New Jersey, and thinking that if I ran away, they would forget about whatever had made them fight. They would set aside their differences to come look for me. But I was too scared to leave that stoop.
My sister eventually broke free of my father’s grip and fled to our next-door neighbor’s house. The next thing I remember is cops in our living room, milling about casually, as if they’d always been there. I’m sure they interviewed my dad, but I don’t have any recollection of that. I just remember him sitting on a chair in the living room, hunched over, head in hand, with a cloudy look in his eyes.
“Why did you have to do that?” I asked.
“If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all,” he barked.
