Author's Note: My first fanfic in over six years... is a Captain Planet piece about Linka's father, who we never even see. This may have been a poorly calculated move on my part. But I rewatched Mind Pollution and then this idea wouldn't leave me, so here we are. Feedback is always appreciated and will help me grow as a writer, so feel free to point flaws or errors, or just things you think about this. I'm always open to constructive criticism, and I mean that sincerely.
Her memories of him start with the clink of a bottle.
His hair was white before its' time and she never knew why. She was old enough to know the other papas didn't have white hair even though they were about the same age. She knew that whatever he did, it wasn't working in the mines like he said, because he didn't smell like her brothers, uncles, the other men in the neighborhood, when he came home. But she knew not to ask about any of that because it made his gray storm-cloud eyes sad and he would get very, very quiet. He was almost always a quiet man, unless he'd had a few drinks out of the bottle kept in the highest cupboard in the kitchen. Papa always told her not to try to drink from the bottle or get into the cupboard, and she didn't, because the bottle was bad smelling and more importantly, it meant something to her Papa. She didn't want to break something he cared about.
It took her a while to realize, as she learned words and then her alphabet, that there were a lot of different bottles. They all had the same effect, though. They made her Papa smile and have the energy to play after a long day, made the constant seriousness in his eyes disappear, and he would be a little silly, but good fun, fun to be around even if Mama clucked her tongue in disapproval. Mama, who never drank from the bottles, who was always asking Papa about how much he'd had, who kept on him about it constantly when they thought Linka wasn't around. That they had to keep it a secret was something she learned by watching and listening. She knew that they didn't want the neighbors finding out. She knew that it wasn't something other people thought was okay, which made her huff with defensiveness. They hadn't lived with him, they didn't know about the nightmares he had that woke up the whole house and the way he could calm down with a few drinks. Sometimes she would get a glass of milk, sit with him and show him the stories they were reading at school. Linka would focus very hard on reading out loud all the big, hard words and Papa would sip at his foul smelling cup until it was all gone. He'd lean over and kiss her on the cheek, tell her how proud he was of her.
People didn't understand. Her Papa was special. He needed vodka. And Linka understood that he was trying hard to be a good father, that he put in hours somewhere, came back exhausted, yet always tried to make time for her. The bottle came first in the order of things. She knew when she heard the click after the pouring that he'd be forcing one down, and in the summer that was her cue to ask him to play outside with her. Warm air agreed with him, the sun seemed to breathe some life into him, so that was how she pictured the idea of 'a few drinks' for a long time. When she heard that phrase she pictured a very amused if worn out man putting up with attempts to climb trees that ended in him catching her repeatedly. She pictured the time they roped her Mama into trying to catch a frog, and laughing as both adults got in trouble with each other for saying cursewords because it shouldn't be so hard for grown people to do. She pictured summer nights laying on the couch while the radio was on, her small body cradled against her father's long-legged one as he ruined serious news by making dry remarks that made Mama laugh even as she scolded him. Most of the jokes went over Linka's head, she just laughed because her mother's laugh was contagious.
Sometimes the bottles, the drinking, didn't seem to matter. When her parents were snickering at each other over some silly thing her father had said, Linka couldn't see what was wrong with the stuff at all. Her father had told her it wasn't safe for kids to drink. She didn't want to break the bottles when she knew they couldn't afford a lot, no matter what her parents pretended to the contrary. So she never had any of it. Once, curious, she put her finger on a drop that her father had spilled and popped it into her mouth. She'd sputtered and coughed like she was dying. It tasted awful. She told her Papa that much as he fought back an 'I told you so' that was written all over his face. Linka told him she would never, ever drink that stuff even when she was all grown up. He told her that was a good thing. More for him. It was a joke.
The click of bottles were replaced with longer work days. She wasn't sure when, just that over time, he'd quit playing with her, that he came home and needed more of it, that he was getting quieter than he already was. Not even making fun of the radio announcers made him as happy as it once did. By the time he had enough drinks to be happy he was falling down, laughing at things that weren't funny, and it scared her, made her watch him with teary eyes. When he drank like that he wasn't himself. He didn't make any sense. His words became garbled. Sometimes, he ended up asleep in Mama's arms, or on the floor, and waking him up was hard. Linka wished she could tell her friends but Mama said not to tell anybody, that it would pass. It had been like this before, she was assured, and it would pass in a month or two. But as a summer turned into the depths of winter, she realized it wasn't passing.
She was scared without knowing what she was scared of. He seemed to sober up the December she was ten, as they got closer to the break that always had done him some good. Linka played with him again. He took her sledding with little argument, even if he wasn't up to snowball wars anymore. Once, she heard the clink of bottles on the counter and came in, alarmed, peeking around the corner. He just made a list of what bottle had how much, put them back and put the piece of paper in his pocket. Relief flooded her immediately. It was just a list of what they needed to get. Come to think of it, Mama had never been the one to bring the bottles home, so it made sense, and she put it out of her head as she rushed forward to enlist him in snow sculptures. They managed to make a few basic things like shapes that day, although Mama was less than enthused when Papa suggested a snow giraffe. Giraffes were his answer to everything – favorite colors were giraffe yellow and brown, favorite animal was a giraffe, and when he was up to making fun of the radio, every sentence could be made funny by adding, "with a giraffe!" onto the end of it.
Now that she's older, she tries to remember him in giraffes, snow, talking back to the radio.
She tries very hard not to remember the nightmare, the clink of bottles in the night, and how she wasn't brave enough to go see him like that again. She was so tired that she shut her eyes extra tight in her bed and told herself that it was just a dream, because Papa had promised Mama he was going to get better about this and eventually she managed to get back to sleep. Whatever she dreamed was erased by the morning light and voices, unfamiliar, in the living room. She caught fragments of sentences – "should tell her" – "wasn't an accident, though" – "poor man" – "father was the same, you know" – and then she was in the living room with unfamiliar people and everything fell silent. She remembers it was a beautiful day out, blue sky, light bright and cold on the faces of false-smile clad people. The harsh light made everyone's eyes look bright and guilty. Her friends eyes look the same now in the blue of Washington D.C.
Mama said that it had been an accident. Too much to drink in the cold, he'd probably stepped out to clear his head and gotten it in his head to take a walk to calm himself, could've happened to anyone, something inexperienced drinkers did all the time. The excuses rolled together into a big snowball that kept gathering snow until it was big enough nobody questioned it. Linka kept quiet. She wanted to believe it. She remembered repeating bits of it, trying the words on for side, practicing, unknowingly, for what she would be telling her friends and teachers at school. She wanted to believe that her Papa hadn't finally been swallowed up by the nightmares. He was strong, quiet, with expressive eyes and a quick tongue when he did speak. He would never lose to things like sadness and alcohol. He was too strong.
He'd done an inventory of their alcohol. He'd taken all of it and walked right past the outskirts of town to the river where no one ever went, that filthy polluted rush of water and icy winds where he could be alone and the pain couldn't get to him anymore.
As she lays on the ground, surrounded by her friends, she cries for Boris, but also for her father, because only now, coming down from the joy of Bliss, does she truly understand what she lost him to.