I'd told Joey last night that I hated him, my father. It was true. But it was the first time I'd said it to anyone. Saying things makes them more real. It couldn't be taken back. And I did hate him. Being away from him all this time, suffering through the awkward phone calls, thinking about moving back in with him because I'd have to sometime. And it's just the same, nothing has changed. We still related to each other the same way.
And being away from him for all this time has made it clearer to me that he was wrong. When I lived with him I didn't have such a clear grasp of that. I'd thought it was my fault, that I made him angry. I was right about that part, I did. But he was wrong to be so mean, to be so abusive. And now I thought it might all be a little more complicated than I thought. His job, my mother leaving him, his own past, it all figured into how he treated me. It wasn't just me.
When I had gone to his house to get my stuff when I moved out I'd told him there were three options. The first was that I'd go to Children's Aid. The second was that I'd go and stay with Joey until we sorted it out. The third was that I'd stay with him and continue to get beaten. Well, I didn't know if we'd ever be able to sort it out.
I analyzed it all. He wanted me to move back in with him, to go to Europe for the summer and then just move back in like nothing had happened at all. And he wasn't right about it being time because he still got so angry and he still hit me because things weren't going his way. And I didn't think I could go back and try to follow all the rules and change my behavior based on his moods.
I went downstairs and Joey was making a grocery list, Ang was playing in the living room. I felt self conscious because of the stupid cut under my eye. But I'd play it off, I'd laugh it off like it didn't bother me. My old coping mechanism.
I saw the concern in Joey's eyes, the pity. Man, did I hate that look. He went to touch my face and I jerked away. There was a knock at the door and I was convinced it was my dad. I could feel the fear going though my bloodstream. That made me hate him more. I hated what he had done to me, how he always treated me, how I was so fucked up because of it.
"Do you think it's my dad?" I said to Joey, and he looked at me like I was just a little crazy.
"Your dad? No," Joey said, and that was reassuring, but he didn't know my dad. When he wanted something, like wanting me to come back and live with him again, he could be tenacious. Joey went to answer the door and I stayed where I was, trying to breathe normally, trying to get my heart to stop racing.
"Albert," I heard Joey say, and I heard the surprise in his voice. I saw Angie look up from her Barbies. I thought of running. I didn't want to talk to him, the bastard.
"Joey. Is Craig here?" he said, and his voice was calm and sorry. But I wouldn't forgive him. Not this time.
"Yeah, he is. But I'm not sure he wants to talk to you right now," Joey said, and I felt this wave of love for Joey. Joey, unlike my dad, had my best interests at heart. And he was so different from my dad it was almost unbelievable. It was unbelievable to me that my mom could have married two such different men.
"I understand," he said, and I could only see Joey. The door blocked my view of my dad, "I'd like to apologize,"
"Wait a second," Joey said, and left him standing there. He came over to me, talking quietly.
"Craig, you don't have to talk to him if you don't want to. I'll tell him to leave," Joey said, and I was looking down. I hated him. I had admitted it. But I still felt the urge to please him, to have things be right with him. I couldn't refuse him. I wasn't strong enough.