Normal

Don’t ever tell anyone I told you this, but my brother and I were estranged for about 10 years. It began the day I announced I was leaving my husband. It was like I lost a husband, brother, niece and nephew all on the same day. It was a bitter time, and I think I am the only person in the southeast with divorce papers restricting the ex-husband from taking his children to visit the wife’s father or brother.

It had been five years or so since I last heard from my brother’s family. I had heard through the grapevine (my ex-husband) that they had moved to Illinois to be near our father, so when the phone rang at 10pm on a Monday night, I was surprised to hear my sister-in-law’s voice on the other end of the line.

“Linda, I have something to tell you and I don’t want you to say anything back. Okay?”

“Okay,” I answered, wondering if answering her question was already breaking her rule.

“The girls and I just finished watching a movie on TV. It was about this family where the father molested his daughters.”

“Hey, I just watched that same movie!” I interrupted.

“Well, as soon as the movie ended, Leslie turned to me and asked how anyone could forget that they had been molested when they were little. Leslie said she could never forget. Then Patti said she could never forget, either.”

“Oh my god.”

“That’s what I said, ‘Ohmigod!’ Then I asked them who molested them and they said it was your father.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Did you hear me?” she asked.

“Yep, I hear you.”

“Don’t you believe them?”

“Yes, I do believe them. When did this happen?”

“About five years ago. My god, Leslie was only five years old then. Patti was only four. They never told anyone.”

Speechless, I sighed.

“Linda, here’s what I want to know: Is this why you haven’t seen your dad in 15 years? Is this why your kids don’t know their grandfather? Did he do this to you?” she demanded.

“I don’t know.”

“Are you telling me that you don’t remember?”

“I’m telling you that I don’t know. I just don’t know. I know he is a bad guy. I know I wanted my kids safe from him,” I answered, as I paced back and forth in the kitchen.

“I’m going to have him arrested,” she said.

“Good.”

“I’m going to have the investigator contact you, too.”

“Good.”

“I can’t talk any more now,” she mumbled.

“I think it is great that the girls could talk to you and that you believe them and are taking their side. I think it is great.”

“What else would I do?” she asked.

Well, I wanted to say, lots of moms might think their daughters were exaggerating, or making up stories, or trying to cause trouble. Lots of moms might turn a blind eye and a deaf ear and a weak heart. Lots of girls can’t go to their moms, I wanted to say. Instead, I just said, “Goodbye.”    

After I hung up, I wondered about my dad and my childhood. Was our
relationship normal or should I call Jerry Springer? All my life I had thought my family was odd, but no odder than everyone else’s. After all, didn’t we go to church together every Sunday morning? Didn’t we eat tuna casserole every Wednesday night? Didn’t my brother play Little League baseball, and didn’t I wear pink to my junior prom?

Does it get any more normal than that?

Was my whole life a lie?

Meanwhile, my brave nieces went to court and testified against their only grandfather. He pled guilty and was sentenced to a short time in jail, to be served only in the evenings and weekends. He was allowed out every morning to go to work at the eldercare establishment he opened in his home. Every evening he reported to the jailhouse where he spent the night. For many years, my dad’s face and information appeared on that state’s registered sex offender website.

I printed the website page with my dad’s face (older and greyer than I
remember, but with the same pretty, sad blue eyes). I taped it onto my desktop, right next to the day planner. If I look at it every day, I told myself, I will be able to point to it each time I need to remind myself why I have nightmares, why I like to turn the doorknob five times before I leave, why I worry that no one likes me. Look at this clipping, I say to no one and everyone, it is my Get Out Of Jail Free Card. I am not just quirky and crazy and a little compulsive. I am the daughter of This and maybe I have reasons for why I am like I am. Any time my friends complain about having the worst family in the world, the most vile of dads, the most dysfunctional of families, I ask them if their dad’s face has ever been pictured on any state’s sex offender website. If they answer “no,” which they always do, I say, “Well, I guess I win.”

After I heard about my dad’s arrest, I started to re-examine all my memories of him and to re-evaluate what a father-daughter relationship was supposed to feel like. I felt like I didn’t know the difference between what was normal and what wasn’t. After all, whatever you grow up living feels like normal. So, I started polling my friends about their childhood memories.

“Hey, did your dad ever say anything to you like this?”     

And if he did, does that mean he is a pervert?

A bad person?

An evil dad?

I can recount how special Dad made me feel when I was a little girl. He
carried me to bed when I pretended to fall asleep on the couch. He told me stories about The Good Old Days. He looked at me with eyes that told me I was
beautiful. Sometimes he even acted like I was his Most Special Person.

Did your dad make you feel like that?

Was your dad quite the Ladies’ Man?

Or was it just in my house?

Did all dads have affairs?

Did all moms try to kill themselves?

Was every home painted with secrets?

Or was it just in my house?

And, were all 18-year-old girls hooked on Valium? Did they all grow up to eventually spend a week in the psych ward?

Or just in my house?

Linda Amstutz, the author of four humor books, has just finished work on her memoir, entitled “In My House”. This essay is a part of that story. 

~Linda Amstutz