Page 13 of Tainted Love

Restlessly, I pace back and forth in the kitchen, my shoes creating a rhythmic tapping on the linoleum floor. Suddenly, a warm hand covers mine, returning me to the present moment.

“Hi,” my mom’s voice breaks through my racing thoughts. Her gentle touch and presence ground me and ease my nerves. I realize I have been wearing a hole in the linoleum and unconsciously rubbing my ear in anticipation.

“Are you excited?” she asks with a smile.

“Yeah. I mean, it’s whatever,” I reply. But my mom knows better. She sees through my facade and knows that deep down, I’m more excited about this than I’ve been about anything in a long time.

Lydia said something a while back that has stuck with me. She said, “You have complete control over how you present yourself and express yourself. It’s one of the few things you can direct in life.” From that moment on, I’ve been sure I wanted to make a change.

Thirty minutes later, Lydia and I are walking through the aisle at Thrifty's, looking for the perfect color. We browse the hair color aisle, and I pick up the boxes, looking for the perfect raven shade. I want something bold and dynamic, something that will make my green eyes and pale skin stand out.

“Here’s the one,” Lydia says, handing me a box of color called “Black Velvet.” “This one will make you look like Susana Hoff from The Bangles.”

My eyes grow wide. “I love it.”

“Rad!” she exclaims. “Let’s grab some nail polish and make-up and get a scoop of ice cream on our way out.”

“Are you sure,” I ask. “I don’t want you to spend your money on me.”

“I want to,” she says sincerely. “Besides, a scoop of ice cream is thirty-five cents. I think I can cover it,” she says with a laugh.

We stay up late into the night coloring my hair, panicking when I dye several of my mom’s towels pitch black, and laughing about the latest Saturday Night Live episode. I cry when she leaves a few days later with the promise to call and write to me occasionally. Despite our age difference, she became my friend. I haven’t felt that close to anyone else since Michael Tazman.

It’s kind of crazy that I even remember him. But I do. I remember his sandy brown hair and not quite green but not quite blue eyes. I remember that he made me laugh. And for reasons I still can’t understand, I have a note taped on the edge of my mirror in my terrible first-grader cursive that says, “You owe Michael a Marathon bar.” I must have written it as a reminder. I don’t know why I never threw it away. I just didn’t. There’s got to be something to that, but I don’t have too much time to dwell on it with the start of the new school year.

Chapter 6

“Separate Ways”

Taz - Age 13, 1983

Emotions swirl within me like an unpredictable storm as I pack my bags to move back in with my dad. On one hand, it was brutally difficult to say goodbye to him and leave my life behind when he got arrested. The pain of separation lingered long after the judge sentenced him to ten years in prison for his multiple offenses. I was sad for a long time, and then I got angry.

But now, as I reflect on what I remember of that time, I realize Brian and I were better off living with Gram for the past seven years. She always remembered to make us dinner or pick us up from school. She was there daily to help with homework and shuffle us to and from sports practices.

First grade was an especially challenging adjustment, and I missed my old house, school, and friends. However, Gram signed me up for hockey, and soon, I found myself moving on, as people do.

The moment my blades touched the ice, I felt a rush of exhilaration unlike anything else. It was as if the frozen surface had been waiting for me to claim it as my own. I stumbled and fell countless times during those early days of learning, but I got back up each time, determined to conquer this new passion.

Meanwhile, Brian continued his pursuits on the football field until he graduated high school just a few months ago. He’s now set to join the local junior college team this semester, thanks in large part to our grandmother’s unwavering support and guidance. She patiently worked with him, helping him channel his anger into something positive.

As for our father, I still struggle to understand how he turned out the way he did after being raised by Gram. She poured all her love and efforts into raising him, leaving no stone unturned in her attempts to guide him down the right path. But something must have happened along the way that changed him into the person he is now; despite her best efforts, she couldn’t prevent it from happening. She hasn’t shared much about when exactly he went off the rails, but I suspect he was about the age I’m at now. I say this because I catch her watching me sometimes, almost trying to read my mind. She shouldn’t worry. I won’t disappoint her.

Despite being an absent father and a drug addict, apparently, my dad was a model prisoner. Gotta admit I didn’t see that one coming. That’s why he’s been released early. After spending years behind bars, my father has now been out of jail for a few months and is working in some sort of sales job his probation office got him. It sounds about right—selling things always came naturally to him with his smooth-talking and charming personality. Now, he’s looking to build a connection with us again. We only saw him two to three times per year while he was in prison, so he’s a virtual stranger, at least to me.

My brother is more excited than me about returning to our old town and reconnecting with our dad. I’d rather stay here with Gram, but the truth of it is, she’s tired. She’s spent her golden years selflessly raising her grandchildren, and I can’t be selfish enough to ask her to continue shouldering that responsibility. Years of hard work and sacrifice have taken their toll on her physically and financially.

But despite all this, Gram never complains or shows any sign of resentment towards us. Clearly, we’ve been a drain on her resources, yet she continues to love us unconditionally. Leaving her behind to live with our father feels like abandoning the one person who has always been there for me, but the truth is, she deserves to have a life outside of two grandchildren she never asked to raise.

Her friends are going on cruises, playing Bingo, and taking senior’s water aerobics, not shuffling around teenage boys. So I agreed to go live with my dad, with the caveat that if things go badly, I can move back in with Gram.

As we pull up to his new place, a brown two-story house nestled in a quaint, tree-lined neighborhood, my dad steps outside with his hands casually tucked into his pockets. He looks older, with creases in his forehead that I don’t remember. His once-long hair is now buzzed close to his head, and his slight build is being served by more muscle. The nerves and uncertainty are etched across his face as he bites his lower lip, but as his gaze hones in on our car pulling up to the curb, he smiles and puts on a brave front.

Brian and I climb out and go to the back to collect our belongings as my dad jogs down the walkway toward us, a broad smile spreading across his face as he embraces Gram. It’s heartwarming to witness the genuine happiness radiating from her as she welcomes her son back into her life. Her eyes sparkle with joy, and her embrace is warm and full of love. If she can forgive him, I can, too. At least I can try.

After a brief conversation with Gram, he walks around the car to us. Brian’s face lights up with a wide smile, and he wraps our dad in a tight embrace while I take a small step back. As I look at my father, I can’t help but notice how different he looks from the man in my memory. It could be that he’s physically changed over the years, or perhaps my perspective has shifted. We stand nearly the same height now, but despite his obvious time lifting weights, my build is larger and more muscular. His eyes meet mine, and I see a hint of recognition in them, clouded with age and regret. Dad emerges from his hug with Brian, and as he faces me, I catch a glimmer of hope and health behind his tired facade.

“Hey, big guy,” he says with a warm smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. I offer a curt nod in response and he looks disappointed. Maybe I missed something. What am I supposed to do in this situation? Is there some sort of code or etiquette I am not aware of? My thoughts are interrupted by Gram’s comforting touch on my shoulders, like an anchor securing me in place.