Talking Walls

The rooms in my three story brick house, placed in a bubble of privilege called Rochester, where I spent all of my childhood, tell stories that shed light into the relationships that have been formed inside. The cherry red front door blocks outsiders from knowing all that occurs within, although these people share their opinions regardless. They see my dad as a hard worker, a provider, a caring man, and someone who could do no wrong. That front door is sturdy.

If my living room could talk, it would tell you about how cheap my dad is. One afternoon, my dad was slumped in our brown leather armchair that had scratches along the back from when my brothers and I were young, and a hole in the stitching on the right armrest revealing the white interior, which is typically covered by a draped blanket placed carefully by my embarrassed mom. My mom and I step inside, all bundled up to avoid the harsh chill of a winter storm. We had just returned from CVS to replenish our makeup stash which consisted solely of mascara, concealer, and chapstick. We hardly realize my dad is even present, due to his silence, which is broken by a sigh, then a question. “What the hell did you spend $20 on at CVS?” he asks, stressed and miserable. An argument broke out, and I went to my bedroom and played music - a tactic I learned at a young age to maintain sanity.

If my kitchen could talk, it would tell you about my dad’s unrealistic standards. When I was sixteen and could finally get a job, I did. My older brother had been getting praise from my dad for being an, ironically slow, delivery driver for Jimmy Johns, and I wanted to be congratulated by him for once. I would come home and plop down on our wood high top stools and cover the granite countertop of the island with crumpled dollar bills I accumulated from carryout tips during my hosting shifts at a trendy brunch restaurant. I had had the job for a matter of weeks, and being a teenager who just got her first job, I felt rich. I could always tell who was coming down the stairs by the sound and speed of the footsteps, so I rearranged the cash on the counter to clearly display how much I had made that day to show off to my dad. His feet, covered in his Sanuk slip ons drug across the floor and I prepared a bright smile that would express how proud of myself I was. He was frowning when he approached, but that didn’t dampen my excitement, because he was always frowning. After an uncomfortably long silence, which I’m certain he spent counting the sum of money on the table, he finally spoke. “You need to get a job that pays better.” My heart broke, yet I was still determined to make him proud of me.

If my dining room could talk, it would tell you about my dad’s selfishness. Neither of my brothers or I ever hung out with my dad unless it was forced upon us. We knew him as well as you might an uncle. He only wanted to spend time with us if it was off-roading in his Jeep Wrangler (which we always called his favorite child), fishing, or at the bar. On the other hand, we knew everything about my mom. We were told stories about her childhood in Waterford (also known as Watertucky) where she burnt down a field, found a drunk guy who puked on her new sweater in her basement, drunk drove to her boyfriends house to see him with another girl, was sexually assaulted by her professor, and was apparently “cool” at her high school, even with glasses and a back brace. My mom knew just as much about her kids, as we knew about her, and my dad knew just as much about his kids as we knew about him. It was never a priority of his. Christmas in 2017 was just like any other. As a family we always celebrated by opening presents on the morning of the 25th by the tree which filled the house with the fresh scent of pine. The youngest kid always went first, and we proceeded in age order. Our presents are covered in three different wrapping papers depending on who the gift is from, the kids, my parents, or “santa.” One by one, that wrapping paper is ripped off in excitement exposing new clothes, video games, books, and whatever else we put on our Christmas list that year. With only a few presents left unopened, I reached for one that was packaged in a cylinder container. I opened it with the same excitement as the rest, but when the red wrapping patterned with reindeer is removed, I look up in confusion. My mom was looking back at me, curious to see what it was, my brothers were preoccupied with their newest toys, and my dad looked pleased with himself. That’s when it clicked. The package wasn’t incorrectly labeled. The collection of screwdrivers and wrenches in this reused package really were for me. I forced a smile, hoping not to hurt his feelings with my disappointment in the gift and in how little he knows me.

If the stairs that lead upstairs could talk, they would tell you about my dad’s problem with alcohol. During my senior year of high school, I spent more time in my room than I ever had. It was the only place I could escape being involved in screaming matches between my parents. Most days were predictable: my dad would storm out of the house after an argument with my mom about something petty around 4pm, then return 10 hours, and a dozen beers, later. I would always know when he got home because I would no longer be able to sleep with the sound of his snoring shaking the house. The next morning my mom would be infuriated that he drove home drunk, rather than calling for a ride. I was too defeated to get frustrated. One afternoon, when I was waiting for an argument to subside and the front door to slam so I could go get a snack, I noticed that something felt off. Maybe their voices seemed louder than normal. Maybe the fight had lasted longer. Whatever it was, it was not a typical day, but I chose to ignore it. At least until the next morning. When I crawled out of bed and headed for the bathroom to do something about my bedhead, I almost had a heart attack when I saw someone asleep at the bottom of the stairs. It took a couple of seconds for me to realize it was my dad and not someone homeless. Apparently, he had been too drunk to walk up the stairs. But somehow not enough to drive home. That was the morning I realized just how pathetic he was. That I had wasted my entire life trying to make someone proud of me, who I wasn’t proud of. That was the morning I promised myself I would no longer kill myself trying to build a relationship with my father.