Of Demigods and Men: Achilles Rising

Of Demigods and Men: Achilles Rising

My mother asks me sometimes if I have any happy memories from my childhood. My response is always, “Of course.” It’s never that simple though. I remember one time at our house on San Miguel, when my dad held me under the water too long and I coughed up chorine and pool slime for two minutes straight. He was always roughhousing with me. He’d always wanted a little boy. He was terrified that he’d almost killed his “daughter” and I was seething. I still to this day don’t like to be dunked in the pool. Drowning is a fear most real for me. In an attempt to right his wrong, he told me he’d stay at the bottom of the pool for two whole minutes without breathing. In my childlike anger, I was all for the idea. I knew how it worked at the bottom of the pool. You had to exhale most of the air in your lungs, just to get down there. I knew my dad was a smoker. He’d been a fan of Cowboy Killers for as long as I could remember. I was so angry with him that I didn’t care. He stayed down there the whole two minutes and when he came up from the bottom of our pristine pool, gasping for his inhaler, I sprung into action. I ran about the house screaming questions to my parents, throwing things in every which direction until my mom calmly walked out of the house with Dad’s inhaler. I wasn’t the hero this time, my father was. I hugged him, when he could breathe again. He could always make me love him again. Perhaps it was his charm or a quiet strength he bore.

My father was a very strong man. What he lacked in resolve, he carried in strength. Sometimes, he seemed to have too much strength. I had this mermaid bath toy, when I was seven, which changed color in different temperatures of water. Dumbest thing, about my toy, was that you weren’t supposed to submerge her under water. She’s a mermaid! They live under the water! Silly instructions must’ve been wrong. It was late afternoon, and I was casually enjoying a relaxing bath with my toys, when the bathroom door swung open. My mother gasped for air. I remember the feeling in the air. It was something electric. Her mascara had melted all the way to her chin and she choked on her tears. I immediately jumped up and asked her what was wrong. I felt scared but invigorated. The bathroom was my safe zone. I was the queen here. I hugged her and just as soon as I’d wrapped my arms around her the door shot open again. I heard splinters this time. My father, face contorted into the almost unrecognizable, stormed in. I hurried to wrap the clear shower curtain around me, thinking it was better than nothing. He was enraged. He could barely breathe; his howls were draining so much energy from him. “Fuck you CUNT.” I wondered what a cunt was. He said it so crisply. My mom cowered against the far counter. Dad came upon her quickly. I raised my little voice as loud as I could and screamed for him to stop.  I didn’t know why they were fighting, but I knew that only I could stop it. Something about this wet, naked little girl yelling in between her two idols must’ve shocked my dad back into existence. He began to calm. Just as soon as it began, the fight was over. It was almost too easy. This time. 

He hit my mother more than I, or at least I’ve been told. I never considered myself abused. That’s inviting weakness into your life, or so I thought. Dad was smart about it. He only had to hit us once, before we complied. Afterwards, he just had to raise a fist to silence us. It wasn’t about misogyny. He was always right, because he was always wrong. He didn’t rage all the time. Sometimes, the doctors had him so overly medicated that he’d forget to pick me up from school. 

I lost contact with my father for about two years, when I was 22 years old. His sister in North Carolina had been incessantly emailing me, requesting I go check on him. My opinion was quite casual: he hadn’t contacted me, and he obviously didn’t want to see me. When Aunt Becky continued to email and imply that he’d never cut her out so severely before, I began to wonder if my father still lived. Was he rotting in his apartment amongst his cowboy boots and soured cardboard memories? Was my juggernaut of a father dead? One day, I finally got up the nerve to go. The guilt and fear of the unknown had started to overpower me. My very best friend Sasha Snow came with me. It was a gated community and only 15 minutes from where I was living. Was he always this close? Thankfully, a man was exiting and we slipped in unnoticed. When we found his apartment, I took a deep breath and looked over at Sasha. She nodded and I knocked. I just knew he was dead. I’d missed two years to see him and now I would only see his husk. My mind spiraled out of control. I heard a faint dragging noise from inside and for a moment thought him perhaps a ghost. What a laughable thought. Where was my sense, I so prided myself on? I heard a voice, and before my mind could register what it said, I replied with, “Dad, it’s Mallory.” The locks creaked open, slower than slow, and there stood a man. He was not my father. His once-tan face was pale and gaunt. His skin hung all around him. His hair was closer to white, than the jet black of yesterday. He hunched in stature. Where was my tall, strong father? The sun hurt his eyes. Perhaps it was just a bright day. His eyes finally adjusted and he began to cry. I stifled a laugh. This could not be my father. It was far too preposterous. He spread his mouth with his fingers and showed me where his teeth were green and breaking apart.  He’d lost so much. I promised him that I would return the next day. I hugged him softly. I felt he might’ve just broken apart in my arms. 

I came back the next day. His apartment was a mess. Over 300 pizza boxes littered the drawers and in the closets. The fridge was caked shut with dead gnats. He’d stabbed his houseplants to death and shoved toilet tissue in his drains to stop the bugs. He hid a picture of himself behind some old records. He didn’t like looking at what and who he used to be. His bed had springs sticking straight out of it, almost as if they were trying to escape this Nicotine-yellowed, sickly place. I worked with him for four months. I got him back on his psych meds, I got him a new bed, I cleaned his apartment up, threw away the dead plants, and gave him more than just one small pathway through his boxes. For four months, I worked tirelessly almost every day to get him to his doctor’s appointments. He had lung cancer you see. The Cowboy Killers don’t lie. My father did, however. He lied. He couldn’t wear his seatbelt because it hurt his back. He couldn’t call my half-sisters in Atlanta, because it would be too hard on them. He couldn’t have the surgery that would save his life, because he was scared to die. My father was always afraid. His strength was a fa?ade. He wasn’t scared to die. He was scared to live. He died on August 08, 2009, and no matter how many things he did wrong, I will always love him. That’s not weakness either; it’s real strength. I think I finally know what it is: forgiveness. I gained the ability to see my god as the human that he truly was.