I, Anderson

A Story by Willcharmom

A first glance of a story I'm writing about a young girl's relationship with her father as he falls into the hell that is schizophrenia.

1

My father’s funeral is tomorrow. He was 79 so you’re probably thinking, “Hey, that’s pretty good… he lived a long life.” A long life… that connotes a good life doesn’t it?… well, it wasn’t. Matter of fact, I’m not going to be at that funeral tomorrow, that’s how badly he lived that life. The only person that I know will be there tomorrow is the person that arranged it, his brother. Some of you are thinkin’ Man, what a B***h. Yea, I’m just awful. And you’re probably thinkin’ whatever happened to me should be water under a bridge somewhere. A few of you though are waggin’ your heads… maybe even feelin’ a little emotional. Some of you are putting your arms around yourselves and holdin’ on tight, because some of you have walked miles in the same soleless shoes.

I got the call from my Uncle the day before yesterday. Now you need to know that my Uncle and my Dad are about a year apart in age and he knows about as much about what happened to me as you do right now. So, in other words, he loved his brother. He had to leave a message because I wasn’t home when he called. His message said that my father died in his sleep. Isn’t that a peaceful gift, to die in your sleep?. Funny, how that worked out that Karma decided he should be given a gift.

It didn’t start this way, my relationship with my dad started out really good. I remember 33 years ago riding bikes with my dad from our house in Oceana. We rode down Va.Beach Blvd. and went to the K-mart on First Colonial Rd. On Wednesday’s the diner at the K-mart had a special on fried clams, my dad’s favorite. Since they were my dad’s favorite, they were mine too. I remember him telling the lady with the k-mart apron how proud he was of his little girl and to get her a large Dr.Pepper cause she had to be thirsty after that big ride. I twirled around on the diner stool, so happily. I don’t have any pictures, snapshots, I can take out and hold of the few tender memories I have of my Dad..so I have to rely on those vivid memories and how special I felt to be his little girl.

We had a big fat beagle mix dog named Susie. My dad called her a Heinz 57 dog, ‘cause like the ketchup she had so many varieties mixed up in her. She was a great dog, though. I loved her. One warm Spring day my dad and I set off on one of our adventures. Dad had bought a little Styrofoam sailboat from K-mart. It sat 2 adults, or in our case 1 adult and one 10 year old kid. My dad, ever inventive, put a rope around his bike seat and tied it to the handle of our REO wagon. He put the little sailboat hull onto the wagon and tied it down. He folded the sail and laid it on top and tied it down for good measure. He grabbed one of his rowboat oars and held the bike handlebar as I climbed on. We set out for the little man- made sandpit down the street from our house. Fat Susie followed us, slow as she was, tongue hanging out, panting, foaming at the mouth. She was gross. It was a beautiful afternoon with a breeze that kicked up pollen dust devils. We made it to the lake and I hopped off and helped Dad untie the wagon. Dad kickstanded the bike and pulled the wagon down to the water. We kicked off our shoes and waded in. The water felt great. Dad had his swimming trunks on and I had worn my shorts and a t-shirt over my bathing suit. I threw my clothes up on the bank and Susie, who was just now getting there, laid down on top of them. I’d have to remember to shake them out good when we got back so I wouldn’t get any flea bites.

It took a few minutes for Dad to get the sail rigged so I just swam. Finally, he said, “ OK , let’s test her out.” I stood and walked over and sat where he told me to sit. We were just about to push away from shore when he said, “Wait. It’s bad luck to set out on an unnamed boat, what should we call her?” “Her?” I said.

“Boats are named after women, usually the woman the Captain dreams of coming home to.”

“Oh, ok, then we should call her, Marianna!”

“That’s a great name.”

And with one great push followed by my dad’s weight and momentum, we were sailing away from the shore on the boat named for the only woman I knew my Dad loved, my mom…

We weren’t big talkers, so it was real quiet. I remember the glistening sunshine on the water and how smooth the white Styrofoam boat glided on top of the water. The lake was huge. My dad told me that In the early 70’s the city of Virginia Beach excavated it for the sand to make concrete for the big road they built to carry people from the Navy’s Norfolk port to the beach for weekends of surf and sand. We were lucky, we got to live there every day of the week! We were halfway across the huge, deep pit when my dad said, “Coming about!” I knew that meant, “Watch your head, so you don’t get smacked.” I had to lean way over, ‘cause the sail was so low on the tiny boat. Daddy moved and we almost tipped over. The sail caught the wind and we were heading at an angle back to shore. That’s about when I caught sight of something big moving in the water toward our boat. I had to cup both my hands over my eyes to cut the glare. At first I thought it was a beaver. Then I realized it was fat Susie splashing doggie paddle crazy to swim toward our little boat. My dad moved the rutter and we began to speed in her direction. As we came up on her my dad said, “Hold this” as he handed me the sail line. My hero, my dad, jumped out of the boat, boosted that big fat wet dog into the boat in one smooth move. Susie’s unclipped claws dug in to the Styrofoam. Dad pulled himself up into the boat just as she shook off the water from the tip of her nose to the tip of her tail. She cuddled down next to my dad and looked up at him with her cute little Beagle eyes.

“I guess she’s a sailor too.” He laughed.