The Middle Time

There were six years between my mom, brother, and me leaving Bedell Place, and when she married John. We lived during that time with my grandmother, Corinne, who I sometimes took as being too strict at the time, but I very quickly came to know her as the most kind and loving person I have ever known. Coincidental to writing this, she passed away recently, which I'll give attention to separately when I can stand to think through the details again.

My brother and I shared a little room on the second floor of my grandmother's house on Mayfair Drive. The house wasn't small or large. It was a typical north shore of Long Island three bedroom, two and a half bathroom home with a beautiful lower level, two fire places which were the joy of my existence, and a large, half-finished basement which my brother and I quickly took as our own. I remember during those years living on Mayfair Drive, despite the horrors of Bedell Place, wanting to go back there, to see my mother and father together again, but with the poison removed. 

I wanted to again ride in the way back of my dad's Nissan Z, or in the front seat of his gigantic blue station-wagon (the one I remember him drinking beer in while we drove, throwing the can out the window). I wanted to run through my back yard, a jungle of never-ending adventure, climb our cherry tree, to call "Hey!" to John Paul and slip through the small gate my father had put in the back corner of our fence, so I could get to his back yard, which adjoined ours, caddy-corner. I wanted to creep onto McGovern's farm at night with Joe, our next-door neighbor and my dad-by-proxy and by dream, and steal strawberries and tomatoes. I wanted to walk across the sod farm to my grandparent's house. 

During this Middle Time, I remember watching movies about families that split and came back together in some way: Mrs. Doubtfire, the Santa Claus. I dreamed of that happening, of my father proving himself in some way, and all of us returning to Bedell place the same way we had left: quietly, without announcement or fanfare. We would just be there when my dad got home from work. He would pick me up and spin me, just like he used to, kiss me with his scratchy beard, and we would sit at the large table adjacent to the kitchen and eat my mom's Lasagna. It would be Saturday morning, over and over without end, my dad would make magic eggs, my brother and I would watch cartoons on the little TV near the kitchen table, and we would go to Adventureland and I would dream about driving the bumper cars. My dad would stuff tissue paper in my shoes to help me get the last half inch I needed to slip past the teenage ticket-taker. We would get POP bracelets so we could ride as much as we wanted. When we got home, my dad would make tortellini and we would eat in the basement in front of the TV, we would pack the wood stove with newspaper, build a fire and melt snow on top when it got hot. On Saturdays it would either be sunny and warm, or snowing - nothing between. 

And my dad wouldn't drink. He wouldn't yell. He wouldn't hit my mom, or me, or my brother. He wouldn’t throw a two by four through the living room wall. He wouldn't come into the bathroom and vomit into the toilet while my brother and I were taking a bath. He would always come home at night. He wouldn't snap his belt to scare us into doing whatever it was he thought he wanted of his two little boys. He wouldn't pick the dog up, slam her down on the floor and kick her ribs in. He wouldn't drop a cigarette into my hair while standing in the kitchen. No, he would be like Robin Williams and prove that his weaknesses weren’t stronger than his willpower to treat us with love and care. His good nature and loving heart would prove stronger than his addictions, stronger than his anger and his rage, and he would love us, unconditionally and without wavering.

When someone you love dies, there are waves of feeling that start with grief and shock, and then move towards denial because, how could something which has always been all of a sudden be gone? But, when you finally comprehend that the absence is permanent, you settle and accept it. I don't know what a happy childhood feels like, but I feel nostalgia for it anyway. Like death, over the next few years of The Middle Time I settled into acceptance that a chapter in my life was ended permanently, never to be resurrected. The pain of the past was beginning to be buried in the depths of me, my hope for happy times sinking with it. Childhood was dead and gone and not coming back. Time to move on.

In this time, the future became my refuge. The present was never satisfactory. The present was a constant let down. The future, on the other hand, held promise. That’s not to say that I was at all a positive person, looking forward to a fulfilling future. On the contrary, I felt the hopelessness of someone who believes, day after day, that tomorrow holds the key to happiness, but that tomorrow never comes.