The Incident

It has been thirty one years since I have seen my father. I have missed him and longed for him and loved him and hated him and wondered how he could claim to love me so and then let his actions speak otherwise.

I can now almost define my memories and desires by the decade. They began with a feeling of loss. Deep, incredible, hole in my heart loss. I thought about him multiple times a day. Then weeks, then months and eventually he was an occasional thought when I felt like listening to music and crying my eyes out in private. I used to wonder if he was thinking of me at the same moments. Years later I would barely care.

He was diagnosed in prison as a ‘classic sociopath.’ It was explained to me by a psychiatrist that he does not know the difference between right and wrong and is absolutely incapable of love. I was twelve years old when this dodgy old man sat me in is dark office with only one small window to explain these things. I nodded but knew he was wrong. He was wrong! In my mind I worked it out like a math problem. If my dad was not capable of love then how could he love me and since he loved me then he could not be incapable of love and therefore not a sociopath. End of session.

My mom had insisted I see a therapist after my dad was arrested to make sure I did not have ‘the murder gene.’ Although I was not even a teenager I was pretty sure there was no such thing. I went. I was diagnosed as FINE along with maybe a little shocked and sad but that seemed to suffice.

The next order of business was to cut ties with his entire family – which meant I was no longer allowed to speak to my grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins...POOF just like that half of my heritage is gone. It seemed like a wise decision at the time and even now I understand my mom was in unchartered territory. But still – that was half of my bloodline. On top of that we had our last name changed. So before I turned thirteen I was a whole new girl.

I was missing Grandma and Grandpa in Florida where they hosted Christmas with the smallest tree ever and took us to buffet dinners at The Italian American Club. I missed them terribly and longed to cry to them. My mom and I were strangers; somehow it felt like we were on opposite teams fighting about nothing. I hated her and all of her decisions back then. I wanted to speak to my grandparents. I was forbidden to call or write or have any contact. She said it was for our safety because who knew what side they were on. Somehow my dad’s problems became everyone’s problems. Nothing would be the same ever again – we had to never speak of this or tell anyone about ‘the incident.’

That was what everyone referred to it as – The Incident. I was confused by that back then and even now. The incident was that my father killed a man. It was premeditated, drug related, and it was someone he knew. That was an incident, for sure. Yet it was more of a culmination to me. It was a full year that began with my parents separation, my mom and I moving into a two family house just down the street on Valentine’s Day, my dad telling me of a one night stand he had with a woman named Elizabeth, and learning that my mom was unfaithful in their marriage for pretty much most of my childhood. It was a year that turned my dad into someone I truly did not know anymore where he somehow managed getting into the business of selling cocaine. I had no idea how he even knew how to do that. We were boring suburbanites who were middle class at best but we got by just fine. I was also in a fancy private school on scholarship where all of my friends had parents who seemed to define perfection – at least to me. They were lawyers and doctors and people who ate dinner together and went on ski trips. They did not live in a small apartment outside of the city and have dads who sold drugs.

During that time I became my father’s confidant. I never asked or necessarily wanted to know what he was up to yet I had no choice. Our visiting day together was on Sundays and each one was a new experience. I played video games in a dive bar he bought during the afternoon while he did some business with the locals. We always had to make pit stops and sometimes they turned into visits with new friends. He seemed to have many. Everyone sat around freebasing while I just nuzzled myself into the corner of a couch as if that would make me feel less awkward. A few times one of them would turn to me and say “Don’t you ever do this, it is bad.” I nodded and smiled with my lips closed tightly together. I let my mind wander off and would just pretend to be elsewhere. I often thought of my friends who were probably out shopping with their parents picking out a new sweater at Benetton.

As much as our lives had all shifted – to say the least – I became accustomed to my father’s new job, listened to his crazy plans of retiring to an island or buying a huge penthouse in the city, and paying my mother off to let me go be with him. While it didn’t seem to be much of a fast approaching reality I did sometimes wonder if that would be cool. I wasn’t afraid of him, I never thought not to trust him. I loved him. He was my DAD.

Yet the last time I would see him would be the Sunday before The Incident. We sat in the driveway of the two family house my mom and I lived in. She was either not home yet or didn’t wonder why the car was parked there for so long. I don’t know how long it was parked there. Maybe five minutes. Maybe an hour. I will never remember. What I do remember was my father telling me of his plans for that Tuesday. He told me in explicit detail what was about to happen – which we would all later simply label The Incident. I would label it more as a turning point where I looked into his icy blue eyes and did not recognize a sign of sanity and wondered how a man who was about to do something so violent was my very own father and also why was he telling me this and was this even true!?!?!

Breathe. That was all I could do. I breathed. In and out. I listened. I gave him one nod when he asked me if I understood what I was telling him. I agreed to never tell anyone. Then I left.

I did not cry. I did not tell anyone. I sat on my bed. I stared out the window for an answer although I had many questions. I did finally decide that this was ridiculous and there was no way he was going to do this. I almost gave a chuckle when I thought about what a tough talker he was. But I knew he would never actually do this. I knew that for certain, for sure, guaranteed one hundred percent. Until I called his house that Tuesday evening and his girlfriend answered in a low deep voice, mumbling that he was out and would be home late.

I sunk. My heart, my spirit, my hope, everything just fell. Then I just hung up the phone quietly and slid so slowly to my knees. For some reason feeling the cool of the kitchen floor tile kept me feeling alive. I was now in a whole new world that I realized was about to collapse and I just waited for it to pan out.

Many years would pass before I stopped defining every moment as pre incident and post incident. The immediate post incident was where we basically began anew. It wasn’t all how I wanted it between losing a whole side of my family and also my last name – but eventually time can fade even the deepest of scars. My curiosity was often peaked and here and there I would investigate on the internet. I found out plenty, none of it made me feel any better. My grandparents had both died. My grandfather was literally heartbroken and had a heart attack six months after The Incident. My grandmother lived on but she too was a broken woman. My uncle later died of some form of cancer. And I finally got used to people asking me if I was related to so and so when they heard my last name, not feeling like a fraud because it really wasn’t my last name.

I probably spent most of my twenties and early thirties full of a deep seeded pain. There seemed to be a part of me that always longed for a dad – until I realized I wasn’t longing for him, just for another dad. I came to accept and finally understand what that psychiatrist meant when he said my dad was not capable of love. It took becoming a parent myself to finally get it – that you would never do things or say things to put your kids in harm’s way – so with a lump in my throat I had to agree – he was not capable after all.

I vacillated at points wondering if I should try to contact my father. I wanted to forgive him. I wanted to see him. Then I didn’t want to forgive him, I wanted to tell him he was horrible. I finally settled on the fact that neither would bring me any joy or peace. I did nothing. I wondered what the point would be of one single meeting. I knew for certain I could not somehow start a relationship up now. I didn’t trust him, I really didn’t know him – and did I even want to?

Somehow I couldn’t let it go for too long. I kept telling myself I had to do something so I could have closure. That seemed like something I had read somewhere but when I considered it I realized there was no closure to be had. I can allow myself to think about everything, to feel sorry for myself if I want, to see I am stronger because of this – but mostly to see this was not my incident, it was his.