23 Chromosomes

By Haleigh Dixon

Nobody warns you that a permanent goodbye feels like a perpetual state of mourning. I’ve been searching for the answer to acceptance since I let go of Harvard and art museums as a possibility for my future. I didn’t let go because I didn’t think I could do it, I let go because I like to watch things go in slow motion. Even when you watch someone leave in slow motion, something in the air that tells you your time with them is fragile, and your goodbyes – if you get to say goodbye – could turn ugly in the face of vulnerability. Goodbyes are always raw and painful when you rely on your pride – your ego – to push someone away. To push someone away is an art. A challenge. It’s a careful test for an unsuspecting victim that asks “How far can I push you until you go?” Then it forces the victim to choose an answer that will satisfy self-destruction. You perfect the art so that you never have to let go.

I didn’t let go of someone until the tender age of 21. You wouldn’t know this, but I lost my best friend of over a decade two years ago. I felt their absence when they disappeared. But you... you’re only a vague memory. Mostly feelings and emotions. Like a tick leeching away my energy or a fruit fly that buzzes away in my subconscious. It is said that obsession only drives people to madness, so maybe that’s why I only think of you once or twice a year. I don’t say it to be mean, because, honestly, I have no recollection of your departure. I was too young.

I was too young to remember dusty holes in the floor where furniture once stood. I was too young to remember the stillness of an empty house. I was too young to contemplate the crushing responsibility of caring for two young children alone. I was too young to feel the stress of turning a house into a home. I was too young to remember anything, but maternal love stored in the walls of a ranch-style home. Then you returned like a space invader from another planet. I was suddenly prompted to call you – a person I didn’t know - Dad.

As I sit here, I can’t help but think I would’ve liked it better if you never appeared like a cowboy over the horizon. You whisked me away on a trip to North Carolina to visit people you called my family. I played in the backyard of an old house painted white, with a chain fence that kept the dogs in. I played with the dogs while I waited for my brother to pay attention to me. I walked in and out of that house. I rubbed my cousin’s feet for $10. Then I got diarrhea. I fell asleep. Next thing I knew I was in the back seat of a car, with your sister at the wheel. She was exponentially exceeding the speed limit. I clutched my seatbelt. Then suddenly I was home.

I was home and I still knew nothing about you, but a round nose and a kiss on the lips hello. Despite spending time with you and your mother, I never really knew you. To fill in the gaps, I threw myself into daydreams. I never imagined you as a Superman type. You could never lift cars or fry people with eye beams. You weren’t a Captain Steven Hill type either. A handsome macho man, who’s brave enough to sacrifice his life for the greater good. You certainly weren’t someone who “gets the girl”. You never saved the day. Not once. Instead, you had top billing in neorealistic stories about working a sensible 9 to 5. Between playing pretend with my Barbies, and emotionally manipulating my friends on the playground, I never wondered what you were doing. I only ever wondered about why you were doing it. I rationalized in my mind that you left us to pursue your purpose. I told my best friend at the time that you were rich and successful. They asked me why I don’t ask you for money, and I simply replied, “We don’t talk.” Maybe you left because the family that you created was holding you back from achieving your calling. I felt that I could accept the way things were if your absence resulted in tangible possessions. The possibility that you left just to leave was unthinkable to me. I was told that blood is thicker than water. But it’s only a saying. If I had to choose, I’d rather have water because water is the foundation of life.

Why would I need your blood when I already had my mother’s? Mom had already laid the foundation for love with long working hours, attendance at parent-teacher meetings, consistent vision therapy, lashings from the belt, and a room filled with stuffed animals and toys that played a disappearing act every time I broke the rules. Mom attempted to spackle the hole in my heart with love, but she still held her pain and inflicted it on me. Though I didn’t know it, I held my pain and inflicted it on others too. It’s sad to say but you both taught me how to dangle and withhold love, though I don’t think you meant to. Nana used to say I was only nice when I wanted something. When she said it the first time, I was deeply offended. I thought that Mom had taught me differently, but I know now that her words held some truth. As a child, I hurt, and I didn’t want my family to fix it. I didn’t want my mom, brother, cousin, or aunt. I didn’t want my grandparents. I wanted a dad. And you wanted a picture-perfect daddy-daughter relationship by your design.

I was your daughter. Store brand. Our special bonding days were labeled daddy-daughter days. Generic. Though I had conflicting feelings about it, daddy-daughter days were an anchor to which I clung. I only saw you when the weather turned hot or when the weather turned cold. I liked those moments because they gave me hope. I hoped that I wouldn’t feel pain when I saw you. I have a vague memory of you taking me out before my birthday. I don’t know which one, but it had to be before January because Christmas hadn’t happened yet – or maybe it did – but holiday sales were in full swing. I think we went out to eat, or maybe I complained during a game of Minigolf about going to the store to buy my birthday present. I don’t know. That might have been a different day because my brother joined us for Minigolf, and It was hot that day. No. My brother wasn’t there the day you took me out before my birthday. I only remember a crowded Best Buy packed with customers fighting for holiday deals. You made me an offer. You probably thought I wouldn’t refuse. You showed me a camera. A little silver camera. You requested snapshots of my life. Back then I couldn’t recognize that photographs contained a million unspoken words. But at the time, the only offer I wanted was a guarantee that you would never leave. And I couldn’t have that, so I asked for a Littlest Pet Shop instead. 

I remember the crestfallen look on your face as you handed the cashier your credit card, but I didn’t care, because I had your love in the form of hard plastic. A type of love I would grow well acquainted with throughout my short life. Nevertheless, the look in your eyes planted guilt in my soul. I was determined to correct my mistake because I resolved that I needed you enough to put in the effort. I don’t know when it started but I decided I would call you every single day. I remember the first time I got the courage to do it. It was a school night. I decided to call you on a school night so we would have something to talk about – my school day. I stood in my room. I practically burned a hole in my carpet with my pacing. 

I paced and paced and paced. The only things caging me in were my four walls. I snacked on the skin around my nails because the satisfying peel of flesh calmed my nerves. I didn’t know whether you would answer when I called. I felt a little lighter when you did. I called you every day for a week, maybe two. We talked and talked and talked. I tried to find something we had in common. I thought I had my dad for the first time. I thought you had me too. I decided to have faith in you. I left the phone cold for a day… then two… then three, four, five, six, and seven. I truly thought you would call. I don’t understand why you never did. Maybe that test wasn’t fair, but what else do you do when you’re a kid, and you can’t logic away why your dad doesn’t seem to care, and it feels like your heart is going to fall out of your chest just by making a simple phone call to the person who is supposed to love you unconditionally? But unconditional love is hard to come by.

Some people only “love” annually. I guess you got the message when January first came around. I had the most peculiar feeling that day. I was alone and sick. I had nothing to distract me from my loneliness. My Mom ran in and out of the house. Her boyfriend enacted self-confinement in another room – until his dinnertime - because we rarely exchange words past hello and goodnight. My grandparents stayed in their home, just twenty minutes down the way. They couldn’t afford to get sick in their old age, so they stayed home. I lay on the couch while I scrolled through Netflix. I thought a silly musical would band-aid my empty heart. Then the clock hit 7:47 p.m. I heard my phone buzz. You wished me happy birthday on my “big 23,” and told me you loved me. And instead of replying, I watched Grease and Honey Girls instead.

Then May came around – the 26th to be exact, 8:55 pm – and you sent me an Instagram link. Maybe you thought a cute dog would sway me. I didn’t open the text until today. I didn’t reply. Then June 5th, at 10:09 am, you asked me to “take a look at VOO vanguard when you get a chance,” and later that day at 5:36 pm, you sent me a link to an article that teaches people how to invest in index funds. I didn’t read the article. I didn’t reply. Last Sunday, June 11th, at 12:22 a.m., you sent me another Instagram link. This time the video featured a finance guru gently talking into a microphone about achieving financial freedom in your 20s. I watched the first two seconds then bailed. I didn’t reply.

Then seven days passed. Seven regular days lead to June 18th, 2023. Father’s Day. Father’s Day has always been confusing for me. I get confused because I don’t have a father, I have a dad. I don’t know why, but the world wants me to have a father. The church down the street wants me to have a father. Publix commercials want me to have a father. The Hallmark store wants me to have a father. Hell, even my mom wants me to have a father. When I look at Hallmark cards on Father’s Day, I don’t think of you. At least not in the way they want me to think. When I look at those cards, I think of my grandfather’s wisdom and guidance. I think of my mom’s steady presence. I’ve concluded that you can’t be my dad, because I already have a dad, and my dad’s name is Mom.

Mom didn’t teach me to understand radio silence as a love language. You did. Mom didn’t teach me to justify distance as a necessary evil. You did. Mom didn’t teach me that silence can be broken by an annual soundwave via call or text. You did. Mom didn’t teach me that plastic is an acceptable substitution for emotional intimacy. You did. I don’t know your pain. I never knew your dad. Maybe he did the same to you as you did to me. But that’s not an excuse for the way you have treated me. At this point, all we share are DNA and vague memories. I thank you for giving me life, but your 23 chromosomes only make you my father, they don’t make you my dad.