Instructions

–You’re giving her too many instructions at the same time. She can’t make heads from tails.
That was her mother. And she was right. She was mostly always right as a mother. And maybe not so much as a wife. I told her that. Throughout the years. But not in so many nice words. Back when there were fights and silent quarrels. Those were awful. The silent ones. Seething and boiling, not wanting to act up in front of the baby. The baby. Everything for the baby. Hide everything from the baby. Don’t let the baby know. Don’t let her see. Just smile. Eating away at night, in the daytime, and everything in between. Lying in separate beds, awake through the night, replaying what I might have said. Should have said. Should have done. Anyway, she was right. I was awful with that. The commands. The instructions. One on top of another on top of another. Poor kid. She’d try to do it, try to keep up, but things inside my head were too disorganized to be a proper parent, and most of the time I ended up just barking out instructions for her. Corrections to corrections. Her first three years were spent listening to an old dog of a father barking senselessly at a full moon. She was right, her mum.

–Dad?
–Yes, love.
–I don’t know how to stop.

And that’s how I failed her. Way back then. I couldn’t help her because I didn’t know how to stop either. It was like stepping back and watching two separate runaway trains heading away from one another on flawed tracks. That’s where I failed her fundamentally. My beautiful baby girl. And it came to me then, in that awful room, staring at my shoes. That repellent ICU room that reeked of piss and bleach. That offensive scene of gauze and still-wet blood and three immigrant women cleaning it all up. It came then, as I watched her ration her last few breaths through a plastic tube in her throat, before they took her down to the basement. To the drawer.
–Dad?
It came in a place where we only say goodbye. Where there’s never comfort, just nervous pacing and waiting. Waiting for bad news. Waiting for doctors. Waiting for nurses. Interns. Men and women in white. White is never comforting.
–Dad?
It came: every stupid plan we make, every dream, every promise and resolution, is just a tiny prayer thrown out to Father Time. Blindly. Without any rationale. Just lousy mysticism.
–Dad?
–Yes, love. Livy.
–I don’t know how to stop. …Dad?

It’s a Princess’ Life

Bermondsey.
I love the name of that city. I don’t know if it’s real. I read it in a book my dad gave me when I was just out of college. Bermondsey. It could’ve been the name of our city. The Great City. It’s a game Dad and I used to play when I was little. Maybe four or five. No, three. He’d lie down on the couch and I’d ride on his back to The Great City. He was the ship and I was the captain. I’d sail like that and he’d fall asleep for a few minutes. He’d give me hard candy when he’d wake up. Say he’d bought it from the gypsy vendors selling in the outdoor market on the docks of The Great City.
Moo-eats. It’s how I used to say “minutes” when I was little. Dad told me. I don’t remember.
Could’ve been Bermondsey, The Great City. I liked the book and later I saw the movie. “Last Orders.” I liked the title, too. It had Michael Caine and Bob Hoskins and Helen Mirren in it. I saw the film at CrossRoads Cinema on a date. With my dad. He’d take me out on Saturdays. When I could get out of bed. He was a good dad. I never told him that. He was always there. Always. It was his turn, though. After all those years, it was his turn. But he was there. He did it. Always, he was there for me. I never told him.
Bermondsey.
It was just stuck in my head all those years. It sounded nice and English. So proper. It sounded like somewhere where I belonged. In some other time, maybe. With Michael Caine and Helen Mirren. In a pub. Fish and chips. And a warm fireplace on a dreary day. Maybe.
We had our rows, though. Dad and I. The night I came in after I broke my finger. I was living with him then. The night I came in, then, when he took the bottle. That was our biggest row. He grabbed just below the twisty top and pulled it out of my hands. He was too strong. And I was trashed. My skin was itchy and blotchy around the neck. The drink always did that. I had eczema when I was little. Or psoriasis or something. He took the bottle to the sink and emptied it. All of it. Perfectly good bottle of vodka. I had just bought it. Sixteen dollars. Sixteen dollars is a lot of money. All of it down the drain. He just dumped it like that. He had no right. He didn’t. Not him. Bloody fucking hypocrite. That’s what I thought then. The rage came up from my belly. I grabbed his hair and pulled so hard, blood came out of his scalp. When it ripped it sounded like Velcro. There was blood trickling down his nose, into his mouth. It was awful. It was awful what I’d done. But I didn’t care then. He dumped a full bottle of vodka down the drain. That was more important. Then.
When I’d had my accident, he was there. Dad.
Daddy.
Da’.
I used to call him that, and he loved it. I used to do it in an Irish accent. Da’. He loved it.
After I drove the Rabbit into the telephone pole. He was there. I broke my knee and my foot. Entire leg, I guess. After the impact, I ended up in the passenger seat. The police found me and for a while they thought I was the passenger and the driver had bailed. It’s what I told them.
–I feel sorry for the guy driving, is what I’d said. Slurred, more like it.
And they went looking for a drunk driver on foot. They went looking for a man who’d fled the scene. Only, I honestly didn’t remember I was the driver. It’s how soused I was.

–Dad?
I didn’t hear him on the other end. He must’ve just picked up and listened.
–Dad? Daddy?
–Yes, love.
–Da’
I didn’t hear him. The room was too loud.
–Yes, love. I’m here. Livy. I’m here.
–Where?
–I’m here. Coming to get you. Coming to get you?
He’d said it twice, I thought. It sounded funny.
–Livy?
–What?
–Livy. Where are you, love? Livy? Let me come get you.
–Bermondsey.

It was the only thing I could think of. It was stupid. It’s where I wanted to be, though. The Great City. Our city.
I had no idea where I was. I had cut my hand on something. Fuck. Broken glass.
I don’t know how he found me. How he came there.
I vomited off the patio into the weeds. And then I fell in it.
He was always there for me. I just never told him. I should have. I loved him.
My Da’.