One day as I was writing Stephanie's voice, Julie Martine grabbed me by the collar and told me she had a story for me to tell. It sprawled across my attention like a cat with attitude on my keyboard, its claws not letting me go until it was told. So, here it is. This isn't related to anything else I've written. Julie says I can go back to what I was previously working on (which, fear not, are the final chapters for "A Second Chance").
I don't own the Stephanie Plum characters; nor do I make any profit, though this story is mine. It's purely for entertainment, so there may be mistakes.
How We Live
The first time I really got to know my father, he was dying for me.
Of course, it wasn't the first time he'd met me. In fact, he'd supposedly lived with my mother and me in our Army housing for several months, maybe even most of a year, when I was a baby.
I have a half memory of a narrow window with a palm blocking its view. It's like a postcard image in my mind, fading into a shaft of sunlight across a brown rug, a room with an old television set, and a worn sofa near some tray tables with peeling gilt edges. I remember a man's clothes, probably a uniform, in dry cleaner's plastic.
My mom says I can't possibly remember those things because I wasn't even three years old when we moved out of that apartment. But I do, at least at some level. It's like when you watch a movie that you saw long ago, recognize some scenes that have been dormant in your mind for years, and feel the exact same shortness of breath or dawning joy that you did when you first experienced them. If that makes any sense.
Sometimes my imagination smudges my father into the corner of memories. For example, maybe he was a shadow in the doorway one time, talking in a low voice with my mom. Perhaps he was the silhouette I half-remember in the kitchen, unsure where to put the dishes as they were dried.
In reality, though, what I have is just the outline of masculinity. And the scent of clean laundry and aftershave, boot polish, and a haunting familiarity like a dream you've already forgotten by the time you've woken up. No actual memories of my father.
But I do remember my mom. When I was really little, I mostly remember her being depressed. I figured that out later from scattered moments, like the expression she'd have on her face when she thought I was napping, her hushed conversations with my Aunt Rita, or especially from the songs she sang to put me to sleep. Like, who sings "Desperado" or hums "What Will I Tell My Heart" to their daughter to get her through teething, or to help her sleep with an earache?
When I told her a couple years ago that I remember her being sad when I was little, she didn't deny it. Instead, she just went into hyper-mom mode. I was suddenly enveloped in her arms as though she was strong-arming me back to the warm comfort of the womb where nothing bad could ever happen again. Meanwhile she "oh, honey"ed me and reassured me that I was the happiest thing in her life back then. I was precious and beautiful and hers. And I'd never, ever been the one to make her unhappy.
Yeah, it didn't take a genius to realize that the one making her unhappy back then was my father, the tall and dark shadow-man of mystery. But, I'd already figured that out.
So maybe it wasn't surprising that I almost didn't miss having my father in my life. Probably it was also because my mom met Daddy Ron when I was still a little kid. It was after we got our puppy but before we started the daycare experiment. Wherein we discovered that I apparently had a 'bad attitude' and a tendency to react with my fists rather than with my happy little indoor voice.
Yeah, I still feel a little bad about bashing Candice Crocker and bloodying her lip with Malibu Barbie. Though, in retrospect, it was probably the start of a beautiful relationship for both of them. And I kinda regret whaling on Eddie Morales because he put dirt in my shoes and ate the last of my string cheese. Oh well, nobody's perfect, right?
But that's neither here nor there, as my mom would say. What matters is that I remember when Daddy Ron first started showing up. Partly because he made my mom smile. He gave her flowers, brought over movies to watch, and sometimes brought carryout to eat. And also because he made me feel special. He did silly little tricks with coins and cards for me, carried me on his shoulders once when we were at a fair, and made caterpillars out of paper straw wrappers. He let me honk his car's horn in the parking lot.
All the crowd pleasers for the moppet set.
He even brought me a stuffed turtle, which I still have even though he's kinda frayed along the seams at this point. And yeah, I named him Yertle, okay? I was a little kid, what do you want?
It didn't seem like much time elapsed, but there I was one day in Grandma Martine's backyard wearing a frilly dress and matching shoes as though it was Easter, even though it was autumn. Walking down the path beside the pool with my basket, I tossed fistfuls of flower petals on the ground to either side of me as I headed on an unflinching, chubby kneed trajectory toward Reverend Rogers. Just like we'd practiced.
As I reached the front, my cousin Lynette slightly after me, the reverend stopped us and effortlessly shepherded us to the side. Even back then it was obvious that Reverend Rogers had worked as a bouncer at some point before taking up the church. Later we found out he'd even handled security for Pearl Jam on tour one year, which totally added to his coolness factor.
That was before he found God, though, and became a reverend and started marrying people. That was cool, too. Just in a different way.
Anyhow, after Reverend Rogers had herded my cousin and me under the orange tree, I looked over at Daddy Ron. He winked and smiled at me, then he looked back toward the house where my mom had just emerged through the sliding glass door, her face aglow in the light. I remember her dress: it was cream colored with lace and ruffles, and an empire waist that hid my yet-to-be-born sister Christy, who was starting to make mom a bit round.
But the dress was perfect; it draped and billowed like she was in a cloud. And she walked like she was in one, too. Smiling and light as air. The waves in her hair reflected the sunshine as though ribbons of light had come down to attend the wedding along with the rest of us.
Of course, I've seen the pictures hundreds of times since then, since they're framed along the wall that leads to their bedroom. But I remember being there, too, because it was the first time I realized that my mommy was beautiful. And, from the look of awe on Daddy Ron's face, I knew he thought so, too.
As far as I was concerned, that moment was when he became my dad.
Well yeah, of course he did, because he was marrying my mom. But, there's a difference between what it says on paper versus how you feel. I was too young to know that going to the court and changing my name from Julie Manoso to Julie Martine meant something legal. All I knew was that we moved into an actual house with grass and a swingset, and I had a daddy who loved my mommy and me, too. A daddy who came home every night to be with us.
Even better, I didn't have to go back to stupid daycare because we were down the street from Grandma Martine's house. Where more and more Martines were getting raised every year, all of us herded by Butch, who'd grown from a puppy into some type of Collie-dinosaur mix. First Christy joined us in the year when Mom and Daddy Ron were married. Then a year later, the twins Ellie and Marie were born. And finally Ron Junior. But by then, I had been in school for a while.
In fact, they skipped kindergarten and just landed me in first grade when I was five. I guess it was because I'd been reading since I was three and could do basic math already. I don't really remember, though I know Mom and Daddy Ron had a couple of disagreements over starting me in school so young. Honestly, though, I think it was one of those standardized testing things, and my scores just chutes-and-laddered me directly into a first grade desk, backpack a-flapping.
At least I could keep up in class, even though I was a year younger than everyone. I even got into the Whales reading group; no Dolphins, Groupers, or Minnows for me, no sirree. Beyond that, I was tall enough to look like the other first graders. And yeah, as we discovered, I still had those fighting fists of daycare fame when I needed them.
And in case you wonder, I totally don't feel any misgivings about knocking out Jeffie Smith's front teeth. He was a bully who liked to make people cry. And though it's true that my mom and Daddy Ron are both fair with light hair while I'm dark with black hair, they didn't buy me off a truck. That's just stupid.
And besides, they were Jeffie's baby teeth. So I hope you're over it, Jeff, and that you learned something from having a toddler's lisp until your permanent teeth grew in. I hope you needed braces because of it. So there.
Anyway, I was in school, one of the big kids, practically an adult as far as I could tell. I mean: I had school clothes. I had a prepaid card that let me buy lunch. I even got money one time to buy Junior Scholastic's books. Beyond that, I had a textbook that was mine so I had to make sure to not lose it. I even got to play a Great Big Tree in our school's production of Peter Pan and my parents brought my sisters and baby brother to see.
I was a star. I was no longer part of kiddie time at grandma's, except for after school and holidays but grandma was there too, so that didn't count. It was like I was her little helper.
Yup, those were heady days. I could see grown-up-ness and freedom just on the horizon. Sometimes after school I'd explore what my future might hold. For example, once instead of heading straight home like a well-behaved daughter would, I walked to the big pet store in the mall. For over an hour I wandered the aisles, imagining how I'd set up a pet sanctuary in a mangrove forest somewhere near the Okefenokee.
Okay, my knowledge of geography and, like, reality wasn't where it needed to be. But come on: it was a good guess from Disney and Animal Planet, that's all I can say.
Or, there was another time that I walked almost an hour to the big park that had a Robinson Crusoe style climbing structure. Sitting under the splayed logs of the roof, it was easy to imagine what it would be like to live on a tropical island, maybe as the daughter of a pirate. A good pirate, or maybe someone who built nice tree houses for other reformed pirates so they could drink non-alcoholic grog and watch TV with their almost adult daughters.
The friendly policemen who eventually found me and delivered me home tried to explain that real pirates and bad guys were dangerous. They weren't the fun people that I imagined. But I knew that. Like, duh. They were the scary, bad men who my mom had whispered about with my Aunt Rita. The men who my equally scary father hunted with guns in godforsaken jungles and deserts instead of being at home.
I think the cops didn't believe me, that I knew the difference between make-believe movie pirates and actual gangsters and such. But I was pretty sure that I did. I found out later that I didn't always recognize them by sight, but I was wired to fight them, just like my father. Though that came later.
You know, on reflection, maybe that's what my mom meant when she told those cops that I was just like my father….
No, I think she just meant that I knew how to find trouble the way he did. But, honestly, I think sometimes it's that adults look to find trouble in normal things. For example, that summer when I wandered off trail at Clementine Children's Day Camp, I was prepared. I had my backpack, my metal spork, my Dora the Explorer compass, and a towel. I think that's pretty darned good for like six years old.
But yeah, I didn't think about bug spray, suntan lotion, or bigger things like water and food. So I was back by the time the bus was ready to leave. I really couldn't figure out why the camp counselors were so wigged out. After all, we were in a freaking fenced-in former estate, with make-believe forest rangers every quarter mile or so, and folksy signs like "Make Way for Horsies" and "Potties to the Right" all over the place. That's what I mean about adults looking to find trouble where there isn't any.
But, regardless, it was around that time that my father re-entered my life. Not in person, exactly. Instead, he was there in the sense that, even though I wasn't being raised Catholic, my mysterious father figure started paying for me to go to parochial school. I guess it was because the nuns had, like, eyes in the backs of their heads and the mentality of wardens when it came to after-school adventures.
I can also testify first-hand that Sister Mary Agatha of the Second Grade Torment was fairly adept at basically hammerlocking little kids who were prone to, ahem, "acting out their differences."
Around the same time, my mysterious father also started sending birthday and holiday cards directly to me. At first I wasn't sure why I was getting cards in the mail signed by "Your Father" when my dad— Daddy Ron— handed cards and gifts to me in person. It was weird, like Santa Claus had suddenly returned from fantasyland, adopted an alias, and taken a sudden interest in me, Julie Martine.
Mom tried to smooth it all over in that guileless yet completely awkward way that mothers have. It seemed that my birth father was trying to reach out, and that it wasn't a weird creepy thing to suddenly have "Your Father" in my life. That he had always loved me, but showed it in indirect ways. Like making sure we had a place to live and food while I was little. And car seats and a car to put them in. Oh, and a crib. And, like, sheets. And really cute little shoes.
It went on-and-on, and after a while I think I went glassy-eyed over the details of the Army PX shopping lifestyle that my absent father had enabled.
But really, poor Mom. I give her credit for trying to justify it all in terms that a little kid could maybe understand. Especially the part where she valiantly tried to explain that he'd been away and really, truly unable to contact us until recently. And suddenly, now he was in touch again, which was super great. But he still wasn't here with us. And really it all made sense.
It's probably obvious, but I wasn't entirely convinced that I was getting the full story. Looking back, I'm pretty sure his reappearance in my life, as it were, was due to my mom reaching out to read him the riot act about his unruly daughter.
Maybe it's also true that he was simply incommunicado for several years. After all, as he's recently explained to me, my father really was out of the country on confidential missions during much of my early childhood. And that it was only after he retired from that life, moved permanently to the states, and started his own business that he could get back in touch.
That said, how and why he managed to marry a woman, father a daughter, and then get divorced while being Mr. Secret Agent Man with no mailing address or cellphone all those years is still a mystery to me. One of these days I'll figure out how to get him to explain that whopper. Until then, I just assume he's telling me what he can.
It's not like he's super great at the communicating-with-words thing.
Anyway, though my father was marginally in my life at that point, I didn't know him. Not really. In fact, it's only recently dawned on me that, through my whole childhood, we had no pictures of him, of Ranger, anywhere on the walls or in albums. It hadn't struck me as odd. He was a cipher, a shadowy dream, and nothing more. Even after he graduated to being "Your Father," he was still an outsider. So, I guess, why would we have pictures of him?
Of course, after I finally saw his face, I realized that all I had to do was look in the mirror and I could see him staring back at me. No photographs needed.
I was around eight or nine when that happened. For some reason, he showed up over winter break. My parents obviously knew he was coming, because my sisters and brother were all at Grandma's house, but my mom and dad were in the livingroom with me while we waited. We sat, murmuring about inconsequential things, tucked into chairs in our nice clothes. It was like we were all waiting to be picked up for the prom by an embarrassing date.
While we sat, a ginormous black car with tinted windows rumbled up and parked in the driveway. Oh yes Mrs. Morris peeking through the windows, the Martines are having very polite narco-royalty stop by for a visit in the suburbs. Could my life get any more weird?
Why ask? As we watched through the picture windows, a fit and deliberate man, like a wrestler and dressed all in black, unfolded himself from the car. He looked around in his mirrored shades, closed the car door, and turned to stride up the sidewalk. He disappeared from view as he approached the front stoop. Footsteps thumped. We waited. The doorbell rang.
Finally my mom stood, quickly brushing imaginary dust off her skirt, and walked toward the door. I escaped my dad's restraining hand and followed behind her. And then my mom opened the door and we were face-to-face with… a tall, tanned stranger who looked like me after he slid his sunglasses off his face.
"Hello Carlos," my mom broke the silence.
"Rachel," he answered with a single nod, his voice low. Then he shrugged, a single flex of his shoulder that did nothing to indicate indecision. "I mentioned on the phone: I go by Ranger now."
"Um, yeah," my mom responded, and then put her hand on my shoulder. "Julie, this is your father." Which didn't sound at all like Darth Vader saying "Luke, I am your father." Nope. Not even a little bit.
While I pondered how these two phrases were nothing alike, Mom looked at me with an inscrutable expression, then back up. "And Ranger," she said trying to carefully enunciate his name as though it were normal, "this is your daughter, Julie."
I think I just stared at him. Who expects shadows and half-dreams to become real? "Mom," I leaned close to her ear and whispered. "What am I supposed to call him? I already have a dad."
In retrospect, my mom and Ranger should have planned out this first meeting a little better beforehand. Because, as I glanced sideways at my father, I saw the glimpse of something raw and sad in his eyes. It was for just a second, and quickly hidden. But knowing him now, I can tell it was a moment that truly hurt him. The incautious arrow of guilt fired by an unaware child, making a direct hit.
"Julie," my mother hissed in admonishment.
"No, that's all right," he said as he pinched up his pant legs, bunching them over his knees to squat down. Head closer in height to mine, he said kindly, "Hi Julie. I'm glad to meet you. You've grown so much and I hear so many good things about you from your mother." He glanced up at her, then back at me. "You can call me Ranger, too. Just like your mom."
"Okay," I answered. My mom elbowed me so I knew there was something more I was supposed to say or do. But, for the life of me, it escaped me in the moment.
So he stared at me. I stared at him. At about the point when I started wondering if his thighs were going to cramp the way mine sometimes did in my martial arts class while holding a similar pose, I felt my dad approach from the living room. Daddy Ron to the rescue, yet again.
"Hello Ranger," he said in his usual mild voice. "Welcome to our home, why don't you come in." He held out his hand, ready to help my father stand. He then readily converted it to a handshake when my father had no difficulty standing on his own. Daddy Ron was slick.
So Ranger entered our house as a precursor to entering my life in short measured doses. The mysterious figure who sent cards with no return address, signed "Your Father," gained a face. And a name… sort of.
I have to admit that my first impression that first day was that he was larger than life. Not that he was much taller than Daddy Ron, but was way more muscular. Beyond that, though, he filled the room the way nobody else I've met before or since.
My second impression, as Daddy Ron got everyone soft drinks and continued to carry the small talk for us all, was that my newly discovered father was baffled by this new, unprecedented social situation. His comments were politely uninformative. His questions to me felt like they came from a "what a Martian should ask a human child" handbook.
I think that was the first time I'd seen an adult who wasn't hiding that he had absolutely no clue what to do. And, I saw that he was really trying. Hard.
I decided I could like him.
My Grandma Martine, who was keen on social graces, had taught me that the best way to make someone feel at ease was to ask about their interests. You know: give them a chance to talk about what they knew and liked. What they did for a living. That sort of thing.
So, I figured I could help my father feel at ease in this awkward situation. "Um, Ranger," I started, feeling a bit daring that I was addressing an adult by name, rather than calling him Uncle This or Mister That. I took a deep breath, confident in my direction, and asked, "Do you really hunt down bad people and shoot them for a living?" Sitting back, I smiled. Grandma Martine would be proud; I could do conversation.
Unfortunately none of the adults could follow my lead on that one. My father's eyebrow winged upward as his gaze swiveled to my mother. Daddy Ron looked as though he was going to drop his soda in his lap. And my mom turned to stare at me as though I'd just announced that I'd sold my siblings to the circus.
Which, yeah okay, I had considered from time to time. But even I knew that was a fantasy.
"Julie," my mom gasped at about the same time that my father recovered.
"It's okay Rachel," Ranger said, probably saving her from the stroke that she frequently claimed I was inevitably going to cause. "It's good that this came up." So that's when he told me that he worked in something like law enforcement, so I was kinda right that his job involved finding and arresting bad guys. (Not shooting them, no no no.) It was really dangerous, though, and super-secret. That's why I shouldn't tell people anything about him.
I shouldn't even tell them his name. It was okay to call him Ranger, but I should never say he was Carlos. And I should never, ever mention my original last name, which I noticed he pronounced with a Spanish accent that gave it an elegant, almost caramel-filled sound.
I tucked that away for future thought. Because the main point for that day was that I was Julie Martine, daughter of Rachel and Ron Martine. If anyone asked, I should tell them that Ranger was just a family friend who sometimes came to visit. Which, yeah, was totally believable since I looked just like him, and nothing like Daddy Ron. Adults just don't think things through, sometimes.
But, that was the new family story, and we were sticking to it. Oh, and by the way, I should tell my mother right away if anyone did ask about Ranger.
So, with that auspicious start, my father started showing up from time to time. Christmas break, my birthday, and other random days. An awkward, distant, yet obviously caring man, he'd take me out for special father-daughter time. We went to Zoo Miami for my birthday, the Seaquarium more than once, and Jungle Island over one Christmas break. I was suddenly an ecology tourist in my own hometown.
But, it was nice to have someone in my life who was mine alone. It made me feel like the universe had finally noticed that I was different, but in a good way for a change. I felt special.
My bedroom felt the specialness, too. Over a couple of years, I acquired a pod of blue plastic, injection molded dolphins, a bag of hacky-sack balls with cartoon animals on them, and a necklace of enameled rainforest frogs. There was also the plush parrot that matched the photo of me with teal, orange and blue parrots on my shoulders. From some business trip, my father brought me a wooden Peanuts puzzle, which quickly became the property of Ron Junior. And, there was the five-foot stuffed giraffe that, sadly, wasn't sturdy enough to ride and so eventually needed to be hooked to the wall so it didn't fall over.
Through all that time, I only had to explain my father a couple times. And I didn't tell my mom because, well, Missy Suarez honestly only wanted to know why she'd seen me in a really cool car that looked like a black Hummer. And Holly Zinn just wanted to find out if she could fix up her mother with the dreamy guy (like, eew) she'd seen me with at the zoo. Well, it turned out that Family Friend Ranger had a weird car and probably was gay, and that took care of any lingering questions from the grade-school gallery.
Though I wouldn't have admitted it back then, I think that having my father in my life did help me. I don't know if that was the cause, but my school attendance and grades definitely improved after that point. And my mom didn't have to go to the school nearly as often to discuss my bad attitude. Honestly, I think it was a relief to have a reason why I looked and sounded different from Christy and my other siblings. And why I was the loner in the midst of a gregarious family.
And I emphatically wasn't bought off the back of a truck, thank you very much.
After meeting my father and finding out a little about him, I also got much more into my after-school martial arts classes. After all, if my father was a tough, crime fighting hero guy, I could be Kung Fu Girl. If I applied myself, I could grow up to be Sydney Bristow from Alias.
So that's how it went for a year or two. Julie Martine: by day a star student at Saint Mary of the Annunciation School. And by evening, a budding Kung Fu and Judo master. Pow pow pow!
Then things got a bit weird. At some point I realized that I was being followed. It was subtle, but I started to notice big black cars like my father's lurking just beyond sight. There was one outside of Girl Scouts one evening, one that often parked outside the Chinese restaurant across from my martial arts studio, one that I spied slumming occasionally with the Toyotas and Kias in the church parking lot.
Then, one night when I snuck out to see why Butch the dinosaur dog was barking so loudly in the yard, I spotted one of them parked down the street in front of old Mrs. Keeler's house. Given that she used a walker 24-7, I was betting that it wasn't her new hot ride.
So yeah, that was more than a little creepy. Even for Kung Fu Girl. So the next morning I told my mom. Who got kinda pale, I'll admit, and immediately placed a call that sounded like she was having to punch through levels of security at the Pentagon. I think some of what she said were codewords, though later I realized that the references to "tanks" and "bazookas" were really that they were talking to— or maybe about— my father's coworkers Tank in Trenton and Bazurka, or Baz, in Miami.
I met them later, after I finally got to know my father. Apparently getting kidnapped and demonstrating a willingness to fire guns in a hostage situation gives even a little kid a bit more of the old "need to know." But I hadn't met them yet. All I knew was that my mom had gone, like, ballistic on the phone with the man who was suddenly, once again, "Your Father."
Who finally persuaded my mom to put me on the phone.
At which point he explained in a fairly intense voice that some really bad guys were looking for him. So, he'd sent people to guard me and our family. The best thing to do was to pretend they weren't there, but know that I was protected. And so were Mom and Daddy Ron, and my little sisters and brother. And even Butch the dog; you bet I asked!
You know, I still remember the flush I felt when my father said he said he was proud of me for telling my mother what I'd seen. And, I also remember his low chuckle at the fact that I was aware of my surroundings enough to spot what he called my "tails."
I also remember how cold his voice got right after that. Apparently the fact that a little kid could spot the security he'd sent meant that he was going to "rip them a new one." Which is an expression I now understand, though at the time I thought he was maybe going to go tear up their notebooks and make them do their homework over again.
The threat was sufficiently chilling when combined with his tone of voice. Especially because they were grownups, so wouldn't be able to claim that their dog buried it or their baby brother barfed on it. And with the thought of what Sister Mary Febronia, the Sainted Scourge of the Fifth Grade, would do to anyone who couldn't produce their homework when it was due... Basically, I trembled for a moment when I thought about what was in store for the men my father had hired.
And it wasn't entirely fair. After all, they hadn't realized that they were guarding Kung Fu Girl, so didn't know they needed to be extra sneaky.
After that, I still knew they were out there, but I didn't spot them as often. They used a variety of cars. They wore "dad" clothes over their firearms and pretended they had kids at school events. They'd obviously been sufficiently humbled by having their homework torn to tiny shreds. But, as my father and I both later agreed, they hadn't become very much smarter about their job.
Because, they didn't spot that nutso guy who pretended to be Ranger. That afternoon, when a big black car like my father's pulled up, and the shadowy man who called me over got me with the classic chloroform washcloth, apparently none of my father's men noticed.
At least, I think they didn't notice until my mom called, hours later, at which time she probably shared the "ripping a new one" experience with my father. Like me, she's really good with the anger thing when she needs to be.
In retrospect, I couldn't believe that I'd thought The Scrunge, a.k.a., Edward Scrog, was my father. I mean, yeah, he had a similar profile in the dark of his car, backlit by the sun. But oh my god, he was so totally lame-o. Like, I'm truly grateful that we all survived and everything, but who the heck abducts a little kid so he can pretend to be the kid's father? I mean, whatever happened to normal crime like kidnapping for ransom?
I could go on for hours, the guy was such a tool. But seriously, if he was going to pretend to be Ranger, he should've spent a bit more time at the gym because one word: flab. Actually two more words: butt crack. I swear that's what has me scarred for life, even though everyone worries about my mental state after being abducted and having shot a man.
Really? The jerk kidnapped me, kept me tied up, fed me nothing but junk food for over a week, drugged me, and shot my father right in front of me and his girlfriend. So yeah, I shot him back, and made sure he couldn't hurt anyone else. I call that catharsis, which is a word I learned through the whole forced therapy experience. Or maybe it was justice. But trauma? Not so much.
And I'm proud to say that, during the time that The Scrunge held me captive, Kung Fu Girl had a couple of memorable victories. Let's just say that the trick of stomping on someone's instep and elbowing them in the solar plexus can give you over a minute of time to get away. That is, if there's freaking anywhere to hide. You get a couple minutes, at least, with the sharp knee to the family jewels. But again, be sure to map out an escape path first or you'll find yourself wrapped in stupid clothesline again.
Oh, and the thing where you hit the back of your head to someone's nose really works better if you're closer in height. I think I scarred my martial arts teacher with that and a couple of other discoveries from my Scrunge-themed cross country trip. Like, always look for an escape route and assume that adults like your father's girlfriend are maybe just as captive or drugged as you are. Or more so.
Because, oh yeah, that's how I met my father's girlfriend, Stephanie. Yeah, I know, normal people meet their divorced father's girlfriends at a special edition of Lunch with Dad. Or like the way I met Daddy Ron, when he appeared out of nowhere to take Mom and me to Chuck E. Cheese, because random adults just do that kind of spontaneous kid-oriented stuff with other people's children.
But me? No, I met my father's main squeeze because she got herself abducted by The Scrunge with some vague plan to be a human GPS so my father could find me. And then, not being Houdini she couldn't escape either. At which point she became part of The Scrunge's vague plot to blow things up. None of which quite worked as expected, which I've learned is a hallmark of inviting Stephanie into your plans. And, weirdly, it seems to work out well for her and my father.
Well, whatever. At this point, I mostly just chalk up the whole adventure—quote, unquote—to experience.
And to decent luck. After all, The Scrunge wasn't the least bit pervy with me. He was just stone-cold nuts and had decided I was going to be his daughter. Oh, and instead of his wife-or-whatever Carmen, he was going to shack up with Stephanie. And somehow that would work, and it would turn him into Ranger. Have I mentioned before that adults just don't think clearly sometimes? I may have grossly understated my case.
Yeah, but anyhow, that whole mess was when I truly first got to know my father, for real.
Because as Ranger entered the room where The Scrunge was holding me and Stephanie, his gaze flicked to me. I could see that he was ready to surrender his life for me. My heart leapt. It sounds cliché but suddenly I realized that I loved him.
It wasn't an intellectual "oh my goodness I just realized it" kind of thing. Instead, love suffused my lungs instead of breath. My heartbeat couldn't keep up. My bones hummed with it. He was mine, the same way my mom and dad were. The same as my sisters and brother. And yes, Butch too. But that part of my family was safe at home, as Stephanie had assured me.
Unlike my father, who was the bravest man on the planet but he was here, holding his hands in the air, and in danger. And I loved him. And I'd be gutted if something happened to him just as I'd figured it out.
Well, I was my father's daughter. So I concentrated. Hard. While my father kept The Scrunge's attention turned his way, I forced myself to wake up. Then I managed to work myself free of the totally dorky tie-up job that had been enough to hold me captive while I was unconscious. And this time I plotted out my path. Not to escape, but to stop The Scrunge.
The way I figured it, I could dash over to him and ram his knees from behind. If he fired his gun, it would go up or maybe into the wall. Not a great plan, admittedly, but did I mention that I was only ten? And, well, I figured that all I had to do was to break the freakazoid's attention long enough for my father to take over.
But then, oh I god I wasn't in time. Because somehow a gun fired—again and again—and my father, my very own father, was on the ground. There was so much blood, and The Scrunge was taking aim once more. I don't truly remember the next several minutes, except I knew that it was all up to me at that point. So I dashed toward him and kicked him hard. My voice was raw afterward, so I'm sure I screamed at him, though I don't recall.
Finally we were on the floor and, the next thing I remembered, I picked up a gun, did my best to aim, and I shot the man who'd hurt my father.
It's what my father, Ranger, would have done. I stopped the bad guy. And, right then, I didn't care if I'd killed him. I started to take aim one more time.
At that moment, the police barged into the room, so I knew I could stop shooting. I dropped the gun and crouched over my father, don't die, don't die, don't die. More people appeared, Stephanie was free, there were cops and doctors and my father's staff and... yeah I have no idea who they all were. All I knew was that I had to stay with my father. It was my job, now, to protect him the way he'd tried to keep me and Stephanie safe.
I ran with the stretcher; I demanded to be in the ambulance with him. I watched everything the medical people did to make sure they were trying as hard as possible to keep my father alive.
When we got to the hospital, they wouldn't let me follow him into surgery. But then I met an uncle I never knew I had, and eventually a grandmother. Along with a slew of large men who were as close to my father as anyone. I finally met the man named Tank. And we all waited.
Eventually others arrived. That's when I found out that Stephanie was hanging out with some other guy while my father decided if she was his girlfriend or not. And while she decided whether to listen to her brains, her instincts, or like who knows: maybe a Ouija board. As previously noted: adults. Not thinking clearly.
And wasting a crapload of time. Which is a word I recently learned while hanging out with some of my father's friends. I've been taking notes because they know some great words. They got some ill, bitchin' and bumpin' vocab. I'm almost fifteen, now, so yeah I'm totally ready for this.
Anyhow, after Ranger was conscious again and could have visitors, I spent every waking hour I could in his hospital room. I was there along with the rest of his family and I stayed when they left. (Kung Fu Girl had a very strong grip and could glower with the best of them.)
My father told me about when he was a boy, which he'd never discussed before. I learned about his family, about how he'd gotten into trouble as a teenager, and how he'd ended up in juvenile detention. I learned that getting sent to "juvie," as he called it, was not a cool thing. And that he'd go medieval on me (my words) if he ever found out I'd done something to warrant that.
I also figured out that he was probing for my reactions to the whole Scrunge event. I could tell that it bothered him tremendously that I'd been endangered because of him. And that he truly was proud of me. Really, that's all I needed to know.
We didn't have as long together as I'd have liked before Mom and Daddy Ron came to take me home. Don't get me wrong: I was so happy to see them I thought that tears would squeeze out from my pores. But, I was sad to leave my father behind.
As you can imagine, having been abducted because of my father's background wasn't popular. My mom wanted to close down all contact with Ranger, who had again been demoted to being barely "Your Father" when she spoke.
But happy news: it turns out I didn't kill The Scrunge. So I got trotted to court to testify about how I'd been abducted and treated. And, after some fun rehearsals with Ranger's really scary lawyer, I carefully described how, being plucky and brave, I'd desperately saved us all by grabbing a gun. And getting in a lucky shot, against all odds.
Which meant that The Scrunge was sent to the Big House for, like, the rest of his weaselly life. I got lots of court-mandated therapy. And, after nightmares didn't abate and I staged a few tantrums, I also got an agreement that I could continue to see my father on holidays, birthdays, and at the random other times he could make it to Miami.
Spending time with Ranger was a relief. He knew what I'd gone through. He made me feel safe. Daddy Ron finally convinced my mom that "My Father," Ranger, was a good influence on me. He could reach me when they couldn't. And he was right about that; thank you, Daddy Ron.
So, things progressed. I went back to school, attended therapy, and spent afternoons at Grandma Martine's. On weekends, I spent more time with my mom, helping with laundry, tagging along on errands, and such. Along with Butch the dog, I watched over my sisters Christy, Ellie, and Marie. Oh yeah, Butch and I also rode herd over my renegade brother, Ron Junior, outsmarting his plans before he made it out the door or over the fence. Curses, foiled again, bwa ha ha.
But I'd vowed: none of them would ever be in danger the way I had been.
I also spent time with Ranger when he could visit, which actually was more often than before The Scrunge. Mom and Daddy Ron lost that frantic look they'd had for the first several months after I returned from The Scrunge experience. They got to know my father's assigned security, and Daddy Ron even introduced one of the guys to a lady he knew from work.
Meanwhile, by the time I started high school, Mom decided I was old enough to spend a couple weeks every summer visiting my father in Trenton. I owe that partly to Stephanie, who (finally, thank you!) decided that she truly was my father's girlfriend. And he had the same revelation at roughly the same time. Yay Ranger and Stephanie for (finally, thank you!) figuring it out.
When I say I owe my summer visits partly to Stephanie, it's because I think she lobbied my mom until she agreed. Well, until Stephanie totally wore her out, which is roughly the same thing. Also, Stephanie agreed that I could stay with her instead of with my father during visits. My mom is convinced that, as a woman, Stephanie is bound to provide a more sane and safe environment than I'd experience hanging out with Ranger. Yeah, what Mom doesn't know won't hurt her.
But this particular visit is the last time I'll be staying in Stephanie's apartment when I'm in Trenton.
Because as I adjust my flowers and hold out my arm for my Uncle Les, I'm walking in a new, frilly dress with matching shoes toward Father Emilio, just like we practiced. I see my father, Ranger, as he his eyes shine in the way I've learned is manly emotion being held in check. He's stunningly dapper in his tuxedo, as is his right-hand man Tank beside him. From back here, as I start to walk, I can see him swallow, and then he smiles at me. It's a bright smile that is just like mine. A smile that can hardly hold in the pleasure of the moment.
Then the music changes and my father's gaze pivots to the back of the church. His face fills with wonder and awe, and more love than can be expressed with words. Without having to look back, I know that Stephanie has entered. I saw her a few moments ago outside the dressing room, breathtaking in her champagne colored gown, her veil resting over her curly, wild hair as though it was trying to become part of the wind.
Without looking, I know that her face has the same expression of wonder and awe that I see on my father's. And, at this moment, Stephanie has become my second mother. Like I have both Daddy Ron and Ranger, I have Mom and Stephanie.
Because it's not just paper, it's not how you got here, and not just that you waited through the ceremony and witnessed it. It's how you feel, how your heart expands in that moment to hold another life as precious as your own. The way my father figured out how to open his walled-off heart to me and finally to Stephanie.
Now that I truly know my father, Ranger, I know that he's showed me the fundamental paradox and mystery of love. Which is that the people for whom you'd die, the ones you'd protect with your very life, are the exact ones for whom you live.
I catch my father's eyes briefly as Stephanie passes in front of me, about to reach the altar. I know my expression is fierce through all its happiness and love, so I quirk my lips into a smile. He nods, his lips softening in affirmation. He knows exactly what I'm feeling.
Love is how we live for each other.
- fin -