Pretending Indifference

I got a 1410 on my SAT’s. That doesn’t really mean much, or even matter in the grand scheme of things. But in my junior year of high school, it seemed like a big deal. I got my scores, and after the shock wore off, I went straight to my dad.

“Dad!” I said. “Look at this! I got a 1410 on my SAT’s! 700 in the math section, and 710 in the verbal!”

He took the sheet I was holding out to him and looked it over. “Nice job,” he said, turning back to his newspaper.

I was crushed. Nice job? In that flat tone of voice, as if he were saying, “We need milk,” or “Time for school.” But while I was a bit dismayed at his lack of enthusiasm, I couldn’t say I was surprised. What had I expected, after all? That he would suddenly show interest in my life after 16 years of ignoring it?

A few weeks after that, he was in the hospital again. Oh, didn’t I mention? This was in the last months of his battle with cancer. He went back to the hospital, this time for a number of weeks. As it would turn out, he wouldn’t leave the hospital at all – this was his last trip.

I continued going to school whenever I could, and visited at the hospital the rest of the time. The staff at school were very understanding, because they knew all about my situation. You see, my dad worked at my high school. No, that doesn’t quite convey the depth of his importance. My dad was my high school. You didn’t go to that school without knowing my dad, and you certainly didn’t work there without conversing with him regularly. So when I walked through the office in those days, halls were silent. Looks were exchanged. Whispers followed in a trail behind me. That was just how it was.

One day I was talking to the principal’s secretary in the office. My SAT scores came up, and she exclaimed, “Oh, I heard! Your father was in here as soon as you got the scores, telling anyone who would listen. He was so proud! You should’ve heard him going on and on about how well you’d done and how you were going to go to a great colle-”

I stopped her. “Wait,” I said. “My dad said that? About me?!”

“Sure,” she replied. “He’s always in here bragging about your latest accomplishments.”

I couldn’t believe it. All these years, and I’d never realized. He did care. He just showed it to everyone but me. I didn’t know what to feel. And when I went to the hospital that afternoon, I didn’t quite know what to say either. I just held his hand, and when he asked what was wrong, I said I had a lot on my mind.

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Seven years later, when J. and I first started planning our wedding, we started by choosing a potential date and then checking with the VIPs to see if everyone could make it. One of the VIPs was R., the Dance Mentor Extraordinaire, from whom I (and many others) learned to dance. I wanted him to play a special role in the wedding.

One day, after class, I asked him if he was busy that weekend. He said no, and asked why. So I told him: “I think J. and I will be getting married then, and I was hoping you were available, because I was wondering if you would walk me down the aisle and give me away.”

Complete silence – he just stared. Nervous now, I hastened to add, “You don’t have to. I mean, you can say no, that’s fine, I just…”

“No, I… I just wasn’t… I mean…” He fumbled for his words, finally coming out with, “Isn’t that sort of the father’s job?”

I hadn’t realized he didn’t know. So I nodded and said, “Usually, yes. But my father passed away when I was sixteen.”

“Oh, I see,” he replied. “Well, yes, I can do that. Thanks.” And that was it. He just shut down and became his usual, professional self again. I suddenly felt bad, like I’d manipulated him into doing something he didn’t want to do. I figured there was more than a year until the wedding, though – we’d figure something out.

The next week I was at a party at Lady M’s, chatting with a friend. She’d just come back from a wedding the previous day; also in attendance had been Dance Mentor Extraordinaire.

She suddenly interrupted her current small talk to shout, “Oh! By the way, I heard you asked R. to walk you down the aisle!”

“Yes, I did,” I said. “How’d you hear?”

“From him,” she told me, patting my arm. “Goodness, you should have seen him at the wedding yesterday, strutting around all proud and telling everyone how you’d asked him to walk you down the aisle and wasn’t that just the greatest honor ever. I swear, he must’ve told every single guest in attendance all about it. I think it’s just great.”

I sat there in shock, listening to her. I hadn’t realized it meant anything to him, and yet there he was, apparently beaming with pride as he shared the story of my asking with anyone who would listen.

And I thought to myself, You know, I really couldn’t have chosen anyone more perfect to stand in for Dad.

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This post was written by Lara David as a part of the June Blog Exchange about Dads/Fathers. Lara is a 20-something writing her way through life one day at a time, constantly discovering that the more she learns, the less she really knows. She loves new friends, so follow along with the ups and downs of her life lessons at Life: The Ongoing Education. Plus, FishyGirl is writing over there today, so go visit and leave a friendly word or two.

Comments

[dancing dragon]

Hi Lara,

Really awesome story. Makes me think about how people communicate (or don't) what things mean to them, and how to try to read people. It's also nice that I can picture the face and voice of Dance Mentor Extraodinaire during the dialogue, and him walking you down the aisle.

[nutmeg]

Beautiful as always, Lara. I too lost my father at a young age and chose to walk myself down the aisle. I didn't feel like anyone had earned that place. I'm so glad you feel differently.

[jodifur]

Lovely post. And I'm sorry about your loss.

[Laura Lohr]

Ahhh, what a sweet post Lara!

[Mommy the Maid]

Such a wonderful and heartfelt story. Thank you for sharing.

[jenn in holland]

What a great conclusion. I think we often 'hide' the deepest feelings inside and don't share with those to whom it would matter the most to see them. But good for you for seeing past that and knowing the things were deeply felt, if not shown.
Wonderful post.

[Soccer Mom in Denial]

I really don't know what to add, accept thanks.

[Jessica]

That was a lovely post, and one I can really relate to.

[mayberry]

Wow. Beautiful, beautifully sad story.

[FishyGirl]

Lovely story, Lara, and great post.

[Lara]

thanks all for your supportive comments! :) and thanks to fishygirl for having me here!

[Gunfighter]

A great story, Lara... really great.