Memoirs Of A Young Woman Part 1

Memoirs Of A Young Woman

 

   I wrote in my diary not to long ago about how displeased I am with the quality and quantity of my writing. I asked for help, and some readers gave great encouragement and advice. One in particular told me to tell the story of my life because I know it best. So I went to bed that night and thought about it. The idea seemed really good. I have so many memories and experiences to choose from. But where would I start? Do I write my life in chronological order? Or do I write it as it comes to me, and the reader can put the pieces of my puzzled life together? I never came to a conclusion. I have decided just to write it anyway.

 

            I am going to start with my earliest memory.

 

 It takes place in Southern California. It’s summer time; the heat is sweltering and dry as it beats down on my skin. I’m in a little blue dress that ties together with white strings at my shoulders. There are colorful red, yellow and orange sailboats on it.  My curly hair is short and in a unmanageable disarray. My mom is at work and my father is in the parking lot with his buddies working on a broken down car he can’t afford to fix. It’s not that he doesn’t work, but instead there are endless beer cans littered around them as they shoot the breeze. I can’t remember if I hated the smell of beer before that day, but certainly after the smell causes my nose to turn up in disgust.

 

After several hours of keeping myself company on our front porch, I go to the door to let myself in our small apartment to get a juice from the fridge, but it’s locked. The pavement hit hard on my little feet as they ran down the sidewalk to my father. Finally my little legs give out just as I reach him and I stop short of breath.

“Daddy I’m thirsty,” I can hear myself say. My small chest heaving heavily under my dress. I pant and my swollen tongue begs for moisture.

“So go inside and get something to drink.” He replies as he throws a wrench down and picks up a can of beer. He pops the lid and the foam fills the rim and spills over onto his hands. He shakes it off and the bitter smelling droplets spray all over my little blue dress.

My father was what many middle class and educated people might call “simple.” Perhaps they even considered him a “hill-billy” or “trailor-trash.” He wore cut off shorts when he worked, and no shirt, high top tennis shoes and his body was a brilliant shade of bronze (except in the covered areas of course.) He was a roofer. He spent his days on top of buildings spreading tar, laying shingles, tiles, or what ever it is a roofer does. His arms were strong, his chest and stomach defined. His face was attractive when it wasn’t covered with a beard.

He made friends with the same kind of people. “Users” my mom used to call them. They’d go to the bar on payday and spend their paychecks, bringing nothing home to the hungry mouths that awaited them at home. He’d let his homeless friends sleep on the couch, his drug users crash in his baby daughter’s room. He would give the shirt off his back to any friend in need, but couldn’t seem to help pay the bills. Support his wife and child.

His many girlfriends and drug habits weren’t struggling either. They would get his time and his money. Some must have been pretty amazing girlfriends because a few of their names were added to his body with a little ink and a needle. My name was on his right arm, right under a Pegasus he had designed when I was born. I guess I should consider myself lucky to have made it to his women’s “Hall Of Fame.”

My mom considered herself pretty lucky to have such an attractive husband. She was overweight, with plain features and crooked teeth. She’s not some Classic beauty, but her soul was much more. Her eyes are beautiful though. I think anyone can get lost in them. She has expressive eyes. She can speak with them. A lot of people say I have her eyes.  She tells me she kept him around for my sake. According to her, I was “Daddy’s Little Girl.” I don’t remember it that way, but maybe for some reason I choose to hold on to the bad memories. I think it was her insecurities that kept him there though. Until my father, she claims no other man wanted her. I guess her thinking was, “Why give that up?” I think she made a lot of sacrifices to be with him, loving the idea of being in love.

 

“I can’t. It’s locked. Will you take me to get something to drink?”

“I’m busy Hanna. You can wait!”

The desperate tears welled up in my eyes, my dry mouth swollen, praying the tears might make it there, even one just to quench the thirst. I couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t get me something to drink. “Please Daddy” I pleaded. “I’m thirsty Daddy. I just want something to drink.”

I can remember the sound of annoyance in his voice. He didn’t want his kid around while he and his buddies were hanging out. One guy lit a joint and put it to his lips, inhaling deeply. The responsibility was embarrassing. It must have been, otherwise he would have gotten me something to drink right?

“Please Daddy…” I said as I began to sob quietly.

“Fine, you want something to drink? Here!” He grabbed my small chin in his big, calloused and tanned hand and lifted my head up. He stuck his dirty, oily thumb between my lips to separate them and put the can of beer there and poured. “There, now you’re not thirsty anymore,” and he jerked his hand away. He picked up his wrench and went back to work on the car.

I swallowed the bitter liquid and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. The tears came faster and the sobs harder. The smell was so repugnant. It lingered in my nose and i

n my mouth. I stood there not knowing if I should run back to the porch or stay there. The uncomfortable silence caused his buddies to look down at their own hands, which too held a can of the terrible stuff. I wonder if they had a thirsty little girl at home.

It is then that the memory fades out and turns dark. I know I wasn’t old, Maybe 2 or just barely 3? It’s not long after that the next memory occurs. The night my mother threw him out.