Chapter 2: Life Vests, 1980

by Elizabeth McWillams

My parents divorced when I was six years old and in the spring of 1980 my mother, sisters and I relocated to Portland, Maine. Their custody arrangements allowed my father to see us every other weekend, alternate holidays and for about four to six weeks of the summer vacation. I openly wept when they first broke the news but, as most kids do, I quickly adjusted to my new home, school and friends.

That first summer, when we went back to Vermont to see my father, is the first time I really remember him as someone distinct from my mother. What I remember is a shuffling and tired man, somewhat grey in demeanor, who carried and plodded along through his day like a slow drip – quiet and steady but extraordinarily efficient at carving paths through whatever chore, routine or pursuit that had caught his attention. These pursuits were usually scholarly in nature, but he approached every small, petty detail or life necessity in the same, constant manner. There was always clean clothes to wear, food in the pantry, a well maintained lawn. My mother, in contrast, flung herself through life in fits and starts. One week the refrigerator would be stocked and meals would be planned four days in advance, the next week we would limp along with a jar of Kimchi, a box of Wheat Thins and a bunch of limp carrots. In the spring she would painstakingly plant shrubbery along the walkway, reseed the lawn and prune back the azaleas. Come summer, however, the garden would have been forgotten and overrun, a riot of undisciplined grasses and flowering bushes choking the brick path to the front door.

Visits with my father were orderly, calm and maintained. While I was very young, I would sleep in my father’s bed. He would hold me tightly against his chest the whole night through, as though I were a life vest that he had just had the good fortune to happen upon while floundering in a lonely, foggy sea. I scarcely dared to breath for fear of waking him. He was such a deep sleeper that he probably wouldn’t have woken even if I had leapt up from the bed and jumped by his pillow. But I would just lay there nonetheless, as still as could be, watching the shadows race across the wall with every passing car and obsessing on the droning, isolated hum of each lonely mosquito. Occasionally I would rub my feet together when I felt a tickle or drum my fingers against his arms in sleepless boredom. Perhaps I slept – I never really knew. Eventually I would hear the first tentative chirps of the morning birds, shortly followed by an expanding grey light that haltingly revealed my surroundings. The towering bulwark cloaked in a purple mantle leaning against the far wall slowly morphed into a tall, lightly polished wardrobe with scrolled, wrought iron handles. The squatting bear in the corner, hunched over its prey, evolved into the paisley upholstered armchair buried under a mound of unfolded laundry.

My father would mutter something unintelligible and then roll over on to his other side, finally releasing me from his hold. He always waked at dawn with the birds, no alarm necessary. I would hear his feet hit the floor and then feel his weight shift on the bed as he reached over to stroke my hair. Eyes shut, and released from my nightly vigilance, I would finally surrender to a deep and exhausted sleep.

Most mornings, Dad would make my sister and me a full breakfast with multiple courses: cereal, grapefruit, scrambled eggs, bacon and Entemann’s coffee cake.  Such a treat for us girls when compared to my mother’s breakfasts, which generally consisted of Muesli with sprinkled Brewer’s Yeast and goat’s milk. After breakfast, we would help him clear the table and load the dishwasher. Then we would make our plans for the day – a trip to Lake Dunmore for a swim, a quick stop at the A&W for a root beer float accompanied by the rollicking tunes of CCR’s Proud Mary, followed by office hours at the college.

During office hours, my sister and I would steal into the classroom across from his office and amuse ourselves by clapping the erasers together and watching the yellow and white powder sift down to the floor like pixie dust. Then, using our feet as makeshift pens, we would play a game of tic tac toe in the pile of dust we had made. Eventually we would move on to the chalk board itself and scribble our names, or pledges of allegiance to the dad we loved so much, or entertain ourselves by drawing pictures of stick figures kicking balls or jumping rope. My father always promised that he would leave the pictures on the board for his students to see. We could tell that he was proud of his girls and brimming with the love that would visit his house on alternate weekends.

At night, we would bring our dinner of steak, corn on the cob and a salad of sliced tomatoes and avocados out to the front porch. Filtered sunlight would dance across the glass table and flirt with the painted wooden floor, while the smell of citronella would float out from the candles that my father had just lit. Dinner would invariably be followed by a bowl of Ben & Jerry’s on the white wicker couch and a game of Memory or Boggle.

At night my father would nod off, a copy of Leaves of Grass or some other American classic dropping to his lap, a ruler and Bick pen firmly clutched in one hand, his glasses carefully folded in the other. My sister and I would argue over which TV episodes to watch until sleep finally called us as well. Then we would wake my dad and urge him over and over again to take to his bed, until finally he would lumber off the couch and fall with heavy steps up the staircase and into his bedroom. I would hurry into my nightie, brush my teeth, kiss my sister good night and then wiggle, fully satisfied, into the crook of my father’s arm. My parents had so recently split and those weekends and summer vacations with my father were gentle and sweet - a soft and tender mist that had a cooling effect on a time that was often erratic and unpredictable.