Bathrooms

“Come out of there Heather!” My dad would yell from the opposite side of the bathroom door, scratching his salt and pepper hair frantically. He could hear the sounds of water splashing against the green and pearl patterned tile floor.

My mother left me with my father, a calloused construction worker named Dave when she went to prison. To this day I have no idea what crimes she committed to land herself there, let alone why she committed them. I do know, however, that my dad had no idea what to do with a little girl.

I was living in the dreamworld of all five year-olds. I had been left to my own devices in the bathtub. I emptied a whole bottle of V05 shampoo into my bathwater. I couldn’t see my legs through the bubbles; the tub was almost overflowing. The spout had been running so long it was spitting out cold water. I was boogying around, pretending that a soggy washcloth was my shirt. My dad hooted and hollered from the outside of the door for me to come out.

The bathroom was the only sign of femininity in our house. Before my mom had gone away, she plastered the walls with thick, deep-colored wallpaper. It was burgundy, marked with different shades of green and purple flowers in a metallic finish. As a little girl, for obvious reasons, it was my favorite place.

My dad did know one thing: grown men and naked little girls don’t mix. He was terrified that I would get taken from him if allegations were ever made. I was on my own navigating the tub and navigating what it meant to be a girl. I would eventually get tired, so with wrinkled fingers I would exit the bathroom. My shirt would be inside out, but I wouldn’t even notice. I would just continue to go about my life as the little woman of the house. I thought I had to figure things out on my own. I didn’t know he was doing his best to figure them out with me. I didn’t remember what it was like to have a mom. I still longed for her. I wanted her to braid my hair and dress me up on picture days.

Then one, night my dad casually mentiond to me, “Your mom might get out tomorrow.”

She was coming up for parole. I went to my room and looked around: it was a disaster. I stuffed everything I could under my bed to get ready for her return. She didn’t get out that next day. When she was finally released a few years later, I ran to her. I ran toward all the dreams I had of her. And I looked a social worker in the eyes, and I lied.

“He got mad and put me in the top of the closet and made me stay there for a long time!” I told her. Then again, I told the judge and anyone else who asked me. I was ensuring I would be going home with my mother. My dad just sat there with no understanding of why I was doing it, why I was choosing her over him.

But my mother was nothing like I imagined. Soon enough, she was barking orders and completely fought everything I knew as normal. No more kid’s meals, no more Boys and Girls Club.

“You get lice every time you go!” she would yell when I would cry and beg.

When I did eventually talk her into it, I was only allowed there for short periods–not from open to close like I was used to.

My mom would get mad, and so she wouldn’t allow me to see my father. She would use me to punish him–or else, him to punish me.

At around twelve years old, my teen rebellion started early for this reason. It was sparked by my mom’s attempts to discipline me and my dad’s efforts to enable me. I ended up resenting her and doing everything I could to piss her off. My dad was just like me: he loved to piss her off. He was a crazy fucker.

“Feed my fucking daughter, Lorinda!” he yelled running off the porch. His butt crack peeked out from the pants that he could barely hold up.

He had left the engine running.

He knew the risk he was taking. There was a restraining order in place from their constant fighting.

“Get out of here, Dave!” she yelled from the porch.

He flipped her off, tucking in his thumb, yelling, “Fuck you pig!” The truck kept swerving. He hurried to straighten it out, but he couldn’t fight his impulse to rub his head frantically like a maniac with both hands instead of keeping them on the wheel. It swerved back and forth down the whole street until he hit the corner. I’m sure he was thinking about what he should have said, things he should have called her, getting himself riled up all over again.

My mom opened the Wendy’s bag and inspected the contents. It looked like a cheeseburger, fries, and some sweet and sour sauce.

“Here you go Davetta!” she said, handing me the bag with attitude.

I was grounded for something or another. It was typical that my dad and I would undermine my mom and pull something like this. He would sneak me food or whatever I asked for, hence the name “Davetta,” as if I were just an extention of my dad (Dave).

I anxiously took the bag to my room and closed the door. I sat the bag on the unmade bed, and then I unwrapped the cheeseburger. Tucked underneath the thick burger was a soft pack of Marlboro reds covered in grease. Mission accomplished. I let out a sigh of relief and headed to the bathroom.

I hit the pack of cigarettes off my palm as quietly as I could. The packaging was slick. I was trying to grip the tab but it was tricky; it wanted to slide out of my hand. Luckily the cellophane was only strong when intact. The little tab let me rip through the grease trap easily. I opened the window, sat on the edge of the tub, and inhaled deeply. I chuckled at the image of my dad barely able to keep his pants up running to the truck.