Life on the Ramona Coaster (3 page)

The adrenaline starts to wear off. My body shakes. I am trembling and cannot control myself. My mind is flooded with terrifying questions.
What if he takes his anger at me out on my mother? What would have happened if he had challenged me? Would I have actually stabbed my own father in the neck?
Although he is abusive, I don’t want him to die and I certainly didn’t want to kill him. I just wanted to send him a message. I wanted him to know what it felt like to be defenseless and afraid. I wanted to threaten and test him the same way he threatened and tested my mother and me. I wanted to watch him back down in fear.

True to form in our family, nothing is said after this incident. No one acknowledges what happened. We don’t sit around the dinner table that night and talk about how naughty it was that Ramona pulled a knife on daddy. I’m not sent to a therapist for my anger issues. Instead, we treat it like any other violent episode that occurs in our dysfunctional household; we just sweep it under the carpet and pretend that it never happened. In fact, this is the first time I am sharing this story with anyone.

That day I became my mother’s protector and in that moment, I lost forever whatever was left of my childhood. I lost the typical mother-daughter relationship, where the mother protects her daughter. I lost my innocence. But in its place, I gained a sense of empowerment and independence. I became my own advocate, my own protector. On that day, I realized I was on my own.

N
OW, HERE I
was
—so many years later— standing in the doorway of my own home staring into the face of the man who had robbed me of my childhood. I shook off the memories and gave him a hug, suppressing my anxiety and turbulent emotions.

This was going to be a long week.

I led my father into the corner guest room, where he was to stay for the next five days because it was on the ground level and he could no longer walk up the stairs. At seventy-four, my father had diabetes and had been suffering from kidney failure. He was visibly weak from the dialysis treatments he was receiving three times a week. Prior to this visit, I had arranged for him to continue these treatments in Southampton with a local doctor. This was no easy task. Try finding a good doctor during the holidays . . . well, try finding one who isn’t spending it with his family or vacationing in Aspen or St. Barts. Every decent doctor who hadn’t left town for the holiday was fully booked and I had to beg and plead for one to fit my father in—but that’s another story.

I asked Avery to take her look-alike cousin, Victor, and his mother to their rooms upstairs. “Bye, Opa,” she said excitedly as she left the room. Avery always called my father Opa, which is German for grandpa. I choked up. I’d almost forgotten how much she adored him. Ever since she was a little girl, she wondered why we rarely saw him. She would say, “Mom, I don’t understand why you always say your father was such a mean man. I think grandpa’s really nice.” Of course, I couldn’t tell her what he did to my mother—or to me. I only told her, “Avery, you’re right. He’s very nice to you and I’m glad you have a relationship with him, but he’s mellowed over the years. He wasn’t that nice to me when I was a kid.” I wished I could feel the way she did about his arrival, but there was too much water under the bridge. It was difficult for me to watch her affectionately welcome my father into our home, but how could I begrudge my own daughter the relationship I never had? I understood for the first time that Mario was right. It was important for Avery that I try to set aside my issues with my father—for the moment—and give her this holiday with her last living grandparent. The past few years had been hard on all of us. First we lost Mario’s mother and then my own mother three years later.

Both women had been a huge presence in Avery’s life. When she was two years old, Mario’s mother, Carla, came to live with us. At the age of eighty-one, she had suffered a stroke on the operating table during triple bypass surgery. She lost some of her eyesight, so she could no longer read or play piano, and needed rehab to learn how to hold a fork and knife again. Mario decided she would stay with us for the summer. That visit stretched into months and then years as she began to show signs of dementia. Carla ended up living with us for years and we took care of her. I don’t want to say that I didn’t have a second child because of her, but having her live with us was as much responsibility as having another child.

When Avery was in kindergarten, Carla developed a clot in her leg. The circulation stopped, gangrene set in, and the doctors told us they had to amputate her leg or she would die. It was such a heart-wrenching decision for Mario to have to make. I remember him saying, “I don’t know what to do. If they don’t amputate she’ll die of gangrene and that’s a horrible death, but if they do she’s going be so devastated it will kill her anyway.” Carla was a beautiful, elegant, vain Italian woman. She dressed in couture, played concert piano, and was a painter and a singer. Mario just kept asking, “How can I tell my mother they have to cut off her leg?” It was so sad.

Because of the stroke and dementia, Carla had already required round-the-clock care, but once she lost her leg we had no choice but to put her into a home. After that, she lost her will to live. She stopped eating. She wouldn’t drink anything. When she passed away we had a viewing at Frank Campbell Funeral Chapel on Madison Avenue. We had a closed casket, but at the end of the day, after everyone but us had gone home, Avery looked at Mario and me and said, “I want to see Nanina. I want to say goodbye.” We opened up the casket, lifted Avery up and she leaned down to kiss her grandmother goodbye.

After that, I promised Avery things were going to get better, and I really thought they would, but unfortunately, soon after my mother was diagnosed with leukemia. When Avery was little my mother used to come to the city every Monday to take care of her while I was working, so Avery was as close with her as she was with Mario’s mother. She was so angry she said to me, “You told me things were going to get better, Mommy. You lied to me.” For years we watched my mother fight the cancer, struggling to hang on. But it was a losing battle and she died three years later. On top of losing Mario’s mother, it felt like a one-two punch.

Mario set my father’s one small bag down in the closet. “Are you hungry?” I asked him, already knowing the answer. “Your granddaughter and I prepared a nice lunch for you. Linguini with fresh clam sauce.” My father looked thrilled. He loved good food. I was relieved things seemed to be going smoothly—so far. Despite my misgivings, I intended to do everything in my power to ensure that he had a good time during that visit, even if it meant coordinating outpatient dialysis treatment and spending countless hours in the kitchen.

We walked through our festively decorated living room, which features oversized windows that look out on a majestic pond in the backyard. The smell of fresh pine from the Christmas tree and garland permeated the room. My father didn’t say one positive thing about my home or our Christmas decorations. Instead, he headed straight into the large eat-in-kitchen and sat at the head of the country kitchen table—Mario’s usual seat—like a king on his throne. This may not seem like a big deal, but the fact that he didn’t compliment my home and just plopped down in my husband’s seat made my blood boil. His sheer presence made me so feel so anxious and inadequate that everything my father did—or didn’t do—became magnified in my mind. On some level, I understood that this was about more than seating arrangements and decorations—this was about him asserting his dominance in
my
home—but in that moment I was too aggravated to think objectively.

I walked past the island countertop and resumed my position at the stove. I stood in front of the Viking free-range, carefully stirring the homemade pasta and aromatic clam sauce. Although my back was to my father, I could feel his green eyes studying me, staring at me. Childhood memories flooded my mind—memories of baking pies, cakes, and cookies in the kitchen in the hopes of receiving his love and approval. My father didn’t pay much attention to my sisters or me. He had no interest in our talents and accomplishments. The only time he showed me any love or affection was when I baked him desserts. My mother was a fantastic cook but she wasn’t much of a baker. Since we weren’t allowed to eat processed box cakes, I became the family’s Betty Crocker and I taught myself how to bake from scratch. I would walk down the road to pick apples at the nearby orchard and use them to make homemade apple crisps. Other times, I would make banana bread and cookies. After dinner, my father would eat these treats and I could tell by the sparkle in his eye that he was happy with what I had made, that he was enjoying something that I did. Finally. This was always such a bittersweet moment for me. On one hand, I was overjoyed that my father was acknowledging me—even if it was just for baking—but a huge part of me never understood why he didn’t express his appreciation in words or, better yet, with a hug or kiss. Was it too much to ask for some words of recognition or a small compliment? A simple “great job, Ramona” would have made me feel so cherished. All I ever wanted was to feel worthy of his love.

I poured the pasta into a stainless steel colander. As the steam rose up to my face, I closed my eyes and attempted to conjure up a fond memory of my father—but I couldn’t. Suddenly, I heard his voice, “Ramona.” My heart was pounding. I turned, bracing myself for some kind of dig. “That smells delicious.” I was taken aback. A compliment? For more than forty years I had longed for this moment. It may sound strange, but with just those four simple words, I began to relax for the first time all day. My father was actually making an effort to be nice to me. I wondered if he even realized how much those words meant to me. I shrugged my shoulders and thought that
maybe this won’t be such a bad week after all.

I plated the linguini and clam sauce, while Avery sprinkled fresh lemon and parsley over each portion. Mario opened an expensive bottle of Pinot Grigio. I looked at him, telepathically telling him to only pour my father a small glass. I didn’t want my father to drink too much. I didn’t want any fighting. I didn’t want my daughter to see the mean confrontational side of my father. Over the next hour, we ate, drank, and chatted. We behaved as if we were a normal family. There were no plates flying, no fists slamming down on the table, no demeaning insults. So far, so good.

Midway through the meal, my father asked about the menu for Christmas Eve.
Ugh! That’s so typical,
I thought to myself.
We haven’t even finished eating and he’s already thinking about his next meal. Well, at least he isn’t yelling at me
.

“So, Ramona, what are we having for dinner tomorrow night?”

Before I could answer, he continued, “Shrimp. It’s tradition to have shrimp for Christmas Eve dinner. That’s what we’re having.”

“Okay, dad,” I said to appease him. “I’ll get shrimp. We’ll have shrimp.”

“But, not just ordinary shrimp,” he smiled mischievously. “It has to be Colossal Shrimp. And you’ll need at least two per person.”

“Come on, dad. We don’t need Colossal Shrimp. Besides, they didn’t have them at the fish market when I went to get these clams.” I paused and took a deep breath.

I don’t think my father, in his seventy-plus years, ever served—let alone ate—Colossal Shrimp in his own home. Money was always a huge source of tension between my parents. My father was a cheap man who constantly berated my mother about money. He would come home and scream at her for spending too much on groceries, never acknowledging that she was shopping for a family of six. I doubt he would have allowed her to indulge on Colossal Shrimp with
his
money.
That’s it
, I decided.
I am not going to let him dictate our Christmas Eve dinner. Who is he to come marching into my house demanding that he be served Colossal Shrimp? He’ll eat whatever I serve him. He’s lucky I even invited him!
I took a deep breath and exhaled as I tried to clear my head of negativity. I reminded myself that he did seem like he was trying.

“But, I can try another store,” I said calmly.

The next day, Avery and I drove to the Clamman, our favorite seafood market in Southampton. As I approached the long glass counter, I scanned the selection of shrimp. I pointed to the extra-large ones and asked the saleswomen for a couple dozen. Immediately, I felt Avery tugging on my arm. She whispered, “Mom, the tag says they’re extra-large, not Colossal. Opa wants Colossal Shrimp!”

I decided to humor Avery and asked the saleswomen, “You don’t, by any chance, have any Colossal Shrimp?”

“Funny you should ask,” she responded. “We’re catering a party this evening and happen to have forty extra Colossal Shrimp downstairs.”

“Could you bring one up?” I asked.

I had no idea what they even looked like. The woman scurried to the lower level of the store and returned with this huge, ugly, insect-like creature with beady eyes and long pink whiskers. The freakish thing was as big as a lobster—and cost nearly as much!