The nightmares started almost exactly two years to the
day of my mother’s untimely death. I would fall asleep at night after tossing
and turning restlessly for an hour or more, and then I would sleep only after I
couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer. Then my mind would start dwelling on the
horrific events that had followed her accidental death. There were constant
images floating in and out of my subconscious—specifically, the image of my
father pointing his accusatory finger at me, screaming at me that I was a
murderer! Then my own image would appear, screaming back at him tearfully,
protesting that I had nothing whatsoever to do with her death. I had loved her.
But he would insist that she wouldn’t have died that day in that way if it
weren’t for me. I told him to go look in the mirror whenever he wanted to say
horrible things like that. He’d had as much to do with her death as anyone. She
had died horribly, yes, but in reality, she was much better off now that he
wasn’t around her any longer, abusing her and constantly taking her for
granted. That’s why we don’t talk to each other anymore. He just can’t stand it
when I talk back to him. Now that I’m a young adult, I don’t take crap from him
(or from anyone else) anymore. And I never will again.
The reason my father, Bill Richards, was
accusing me of murder (incredibly) was because, one evening, we were all in my
parents’ car together, with my mother (his wife, Laura) driving. My father was
in the front seat passed out from drinking, and I was in the backseat behind my
mother. We were all wearing our seatbelts, as required by law. They were
driving me home from their place after a lovely family dinner. The accident
occurred when the car suddenly started sliding and spinning around on the
snowy, icy road and only came to rest when it hit a concrete hydro pole full
force. She was killed instantly and my father was hospitalized for two weeks. I
escaped with nothing but a nasty whiplash and a bad emotional shock from
witnessing the death of my mother. It was
terrible to have to witness an event like that. It took me a long time before I
was able to accept her death and carry on with my own life.
My name is Lisa, their eldest daughter. When
I was growing up in my household with my parents, my mother was definitely the
loving one of the pair. My father was the one who went to work every day, faithfully
doing his job, even liking it most of the time. He was the one who “brought home
the bacon,” so to speak. We never talked about anything important though. I was
just his daughter who dutifully went to school every day (at that time I was in
Grade 11). That was my job. He would occasionally ask how my studies were doing
and I would, equally dutifully, tell him there were no problems. I wouldn’t
have dared tell him otherwise. He could never handle hearing anything that wasn’t
pleasant about me or from me during my preteen and teenage years.
My mother was the one who went to all the parent-teacher
interview nights twice a year to talk to all my teachers. She was the one who had
stuck by me, helping me with my studies back in Grade 4 when I was struggling
so much with math and English. I might very well have failed Grade 4 if it
weren’t for her efforts. One thing was certain—if it weren’t for her devotion
to me and my childhood struggles at school, I wouldn’t be doing nearly as well
as I was in Grade 11 this year.
My parents couldn’t usually come to my
gymnastics competitions or my track and field meets in which I had participated
for three years of my high school career. I was doing very well as an athlete
and had earned both my junior and senior letters (athletic awards). In fact,
athletics had always been part of my life. Even my parents had been athletes in
their younger days. But now with both my parents working full time, there was
no extra time to spend with me or my siblings. I tried to accept this seemingly
apathetic attitude from them. Naively, I thought things would change over time.
But I also knew that parents can get very stressed out by the day-to-day
demands on their time and energy.
I was 15 when I starting dating in high
school. My parents didn’t appear to be overly inquisitive about my dates. These
boys were just taking me out for the evening and would return me back on a
timely basis. As long as I was back home by midnight (on a Saturday night
only), I was usually left alone and they didn’t ask too many questions. So I
was okay in that respect. I had known of other girls who went out on dates even
on weeknights when they had other obligations (homework), and that was
something my parents discouraged as far as I was concerned. They weren’t “bad”
parents; I just wasn’t close to my dad like I was to my mom.
Long after my mom’s death, late in 2008, as
a young adult, I would be walking around and doing my thing (going to work
every day, paying my bills and going out once a week or so). Then, when I least
expected it, I would “hear” her voice in my head, guiding me along, telling me
I was doing all the right things. She would tell me I should not worry that I
did not like my father as a person (despite the fact that one should probably like his
or her father). She would also tell me that I should not worry about her at all; she was just fine. She would assure me
that if I really felt that strongly about not spending quality time with my
father that was okay with her—she understood completely. She’d tell me she’d
always known he wasn’t often a nice guy. Of course he could be really charming
when he wanted to be, but he seemed to act a lot nicer than normal whenever he
was with my mother. According to him, he loved her. I guess he tried to show
her some of that love at times.
I really think he was incredibly lucky to
have had a woman like my mother in his life. The fact that she’d died
unexpectedly didn’t diminish the fact that she had given him the best years of
her life. I don’t really know to this day if she was always happy with him, but
I do know that he tried to make her happy (whenever he was in a good mood). From
what I knew and saw of their relationship, I became convinced that a
conventional, old-fashioned marriage like my parents had was definitely not for
me. I wasn’t sure if marriage was something I’d ever be good at. Only time
would tell if I could make a marriage (traditional or common-law) work so that
we, as a couple, would both get the most out of our own lives and, at the same
time, make each other happy. It takes a marriage of equals to accomplish that. That
was the only kind of marriage I was going to be able to accept for myself. I had
no reason to doubt that, even to this day.
I used to visit my mother’s grave regularly
in the first few years after her death. While there, I would talk to her
gravestone about my ongoing problems with my father. But I hadn’t been to visit
her grave since the summer of 2006. I did try to make my usual annual visit,
but I wasn’t able to go that summer. Regardless, her good and gentle spirit has
given me an inner strength that I might not have had otherwise. Her virtual
companionship in my life has allowed me to live my life the way I want to live
it. I know that she loved me when she was alive and she loves me still. And I
know that I love her too and that I always will.
copyright - Anne Shier, 2013, all rights reserved, published by Authorhouse, Bloomington, Indiana, USA
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