For You, Dad

A Father’s Day “card” from my heart.

Dad, you’ve been gone five years now. That’s a long time. Especially, when you consider that an equal number of Father’s Days have passed, without your kids being able to “express their feelings.”

I’ve always been skeptical of what we refer to as “Hallmark Holidays,” as I believe it’s odd that we need a special day to tell our nearest and dearest that we love and cherish them. That said, Dad, I do know Father’s Day was important to you.

And the cards. Shit, Dad. It took me forever to find the right Father’s Day card for you because there wasn’t a one that had anything to do with us. You and I. Our relationship.

So, I confess that I would choose the card that was the least offensive and had the prettiest pictures.

It was hard for me to say “I love you,” so, I guess I needed that card. The eight-dollar one. But, Dad, I hope you know that I did love you and still do. In spite of all our issues — a hell of a lot of them — you were always there when I needed you. A Dad a kid could count on. And, since I was hell-bent on fucking up for much of my adolescence and beyond, that was no small thing.

The beginning. Remember, Dad? You used to tell me about it all the time. How, even as a baby, I treated you like the “bad guy.”

When you and Mom got married, you were kids for fuck’s sake! I can’t even imagine. And then Mom got pregnant and you were sent to Korea. A kid sent to serve his country. And, you did.

Mom moved us out of your apartment and into her family home, where I was spoiled rotten by her folks and siblings — three sisters and a brother. I don’t know how a baby can experience memory, but I do, Dad. And it’s both weird and wonderful.

You told me over and over again how, when you came back home, I shunned you. Never wanted to be alone with you. Whenever you wanted to take me somewhere, I would cry and shriek, “Mommy too! Mommy too!” That hurt you. I know it. But, Dad, I didn’t recognize you. I was a baby. I was born when you were in Japan. I couldn’t help but think Papa was my Daddy.

I know you tried to get Mom over there so that you — my father — could be present at my birth. It’s not your fault the request was denied.

I’m so sorry that I hurt you. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time, though, right, Dad? Later, as an adult, I said some things to my sister — your youngest, your baby — that cut you like a knife. Because she told you all the horrible things I said. About all the horrible deeds I witnessed as a child, like the vicious fights between you and Mom. She was far too young to remember any of it, and I’ll never understand why she told you, but that’s water under the bridge. I hope.

You may remember that I didn’t talk to her for a long time, after. But, Dad, I know you’ll be happy to hear that she and I are now thick as thieves. As close as two sisters can be.

Your middle child. Our brother. That’s another story altogether. We haven’t spoken to him in four years. After the funerals, there was no reason to. Not after the way he behaved. As if he would “catch cancer” from being around us. Your and Mom’s lung cancer and my breast cancer. This is the reason I tell myself, anyway. Maybe, at the end of the day, he just didn’t give a shit about us.

He’s your only son, Dad, and I know you loved him, but you always knew he could be a selfish S.O.B. I’m sorry that you didn’t have the relationship that you deserved to have, with your boy. It wasn’t your fault.

So many things to be sorry about.

Dad, I said you were always there for me. You have no idea what that meant. To know that, however, I fucked up, and I did, frequently, you would be there to save me. More on that in a minute, but, before the thought flies out of my head, I have to bring up Skokie.

Skokie, Illinois. Remember when we first moved there, Dad? It was a Jewish enclave. Now, it’s pretty much a melting pot, but, back then, it was all Blooms and Rosenburgs and Feinsteins and, well…Jews. That’s probably why we moved there. You’re being Jewish and all.

Having a Jewish father and an Italian mother branded us kids as “exotic.” I remember my school mates couldn’t wrap their pre-pubescent heads around it. “So, you’re half-Jewish?” they would ask.

If I said “yes,” there was always that one smart ass who would remind me that “You’re not really Jewish unless your mother is.” Kids.

Dad, I think you always felt bad that you weren’t a practicing Jew. Mom used to let the digs fly by saying, “Your father thinks he’s a Jew because he eats brisket on Rosh Hashanah.” You gotta admit: That was pretty funny.

Oh, Mom. She’s another story, entirely.

There was no reason to feel bad about that, Dad. You were just being “you.” And you needn’t have felt bad about the fact that being Jewish, you bought into the cliche that you should have been a doctor or a lawyer.

That’s bullshit, Dad, and you know it. We never wanted for anything, and that’s because you were a hustler. And a damned good one. A salesman who did whatever he had to do. For his family.

The drinking. I realize now, that your lack of self-worth made you uncomfortable around your more successful friends. Or, what you considered “successful.” AKA, their ability to rake in the bigger bucks.

You drank to self-soothe. As I have and do. But, it turned you into a monster. As it has me. We won’t get into that, now. Except to say that our similarities resulted in lots of head-butting over the years.

Here comes another apology: I wish that I had told you how grateful I was for everything you did for me and my siblings. So grateful.

Can you hear me, Dad? Can you see this? Feel how I’m feeling right now?

I know I’m jumping all over the place but I’m smiling, thinking about “Larry the mad bomber.” Remember? That’s what we called you when you’d come out to my Rogers Park apartment, every two weeks, to bomb the hell out of it, and then bring me back home until the poisonous fog subsided.

Those fucking roaches came out of nowhere, Dad. As my apartment was beyond OCD-clean, I was beyond panicked. I grew up in Skokie, Illinois for God’s sake! Jews didn’t have cockroaches. Not in Skokie, anyway.

But you were there. Every two weeks without fail.

I was a handful as a kid. Finally, I get it. Hindsight and all that.

For a smart kid, I wasn’t lacking in my share of stupidity:

Driving, with my equally underaged buds over the border to Kenosha Wisconsin, so we could get hammered.

Abandoning my car in the middle of a parking lot where someone broke off the windshield wipers. The cops called you on that one, remember, Dad?

And then there was the old guy. A man, older than you, who I was having a “relationship” with. Having sex with.

I’m sorry you saw us in that bar together. How stupid of me to consent to going to a place that was mere minutes from your house.

Do you know that I would have given anything to take that back? Or, at the very least, have had a black hole open up and suck me in?

I cringe now, at the thought. But, I really liked the guy, Dad. And he was Jewish! Even better: A New York Jew.

Dad, there are so many things I would tell you if I could turn back the clock. Way back. Back before you and Mom got sick. Back before you stopped speaking in that hospice room you both shared.

I wish I could dispel the memory of you, lying in that bed, not speaking, not responding in any way. And the thousand-yard stare. It’s burning a hole in my heart, as I write this.

What did you see, Dad? Something, I think. Your parents? Your brother? The abyss? Tell me, Dad, please. I want so badly to know.

Maybe, one day.

I don’t want to think of that, now. I’ll remember you this way, instead:

Tending your bountiful vegetable garden. You were so proud of it. And the tomatoes that went into Mom’s pasta sauce.

Holding an umbrella while grilling steaks in the rain! You loved that grill, Dad and we loved the fruits of your labors, dampened, or not.

Splashing around in our backyard, above-ground pool. So many happy times in that pool. You would always turn red as a beet from the sun, while Mom nurtured a Mediterranean glow. Her body long and lean stretched out on a lounge chair. Sunblock be damned!

Before I go, Dad, I have one more apology to make: I’m sorry I haven’t been to the cemetery, but I just can’t stand to think of you and Mom in a box, under the earth.

Anyway, I’d rather believe you’re not there. Not in that endless dark. Instead, you’re all around me. And, inside me. Your writer’s spirit — and you were a writer at heart — bolsters me. Fuels my insatiable drive to make something of myself. To be worthy.

I hope you would be proud of me, Dad. As I was of you. And, still, am.

I’ll let you rest now. One last thing: Would you tell Mom I love her?

Happy Father’s Day, Dad. I love you.

“Your Eldest.”

Sherry McGuinn is a slightly-twisted, longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. Her work has appeared in The Chicago Tribune, Chicago Sun-Times, and numerous other publications. Sherry’s manager is currently pitching her newest screenplay, a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story.

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