Life on the Ramona Coaster (4 page)

“Okay, okay. I’ll take twelve; butterflied, cleaned, and deveined. Plus, I’ll take three quarts of your homemade lobster bisque.”

The saleswoman put the slimy, translucent shrimp on the scale. Each one weighed at least 1/3 of a pound, if not more. Despite my aggravation, I did want to please my father. I craved his approval. I always have.

We pulled up in front of our home. Before I could even put the car in park, Avery grabbed the bag of shrimp and ran to the house, shouting excitedly, “Opa, we got Colossal Shrimp! We got Colossal Shrimp!”

Inside, my father enveloped Avery in a bear hug, “Wait till you have these. You will not believe how delicious they are.”

He smiled and I noticed that sparkle in his eye was back. I could see he was happy, but I was hoping for more. I felt empty. I knew I was being foolish, but at that point the shrimp had become more than just freakishly large crustaceans, they represented my father’s approval and his respect. I knew it was ridiculous, but a part of me actually believed that if I brought home those shrimp, my father would finally show me he loved me. Ever since I was a little girl watching reruns of
Leave it to Beaver
and
Father Knows Best
, I dreamt of having a father who came home from work in a good mood, asked me about my day, sat at the kitchen table with me while I did my homework, and then tucked me in at night. When I was laying out a small fortune for those Colossal Shrimp, I pictured myself presenting my father with the treasure I had brought home for him. He would be so excited and proud that he would finally compliment me, maybe even give me a hug.

I was wrong. He hugged only my daughter. Once again, he didn’t acknowledge me or show me any affection. I tried to remind myself that we were making progress, but I couldn’t help wondering
why can’t he hug me the way he hugs Avery? What do I have to do for him to show me some love and affection? Am I so naïve as to think that my father can change?

For the rest of the day, Avery and I prepared Christmas Eve dinner while my father sat at the head of the kitchen table. Mario played jolly Christmas carols throughout the house. We sang along, while we baked butter cookies from scratch. I looked at my father, who had resumed his place at the head of the table. He was smiling at me and humming along to the music.

My favorite thing to do at Christmas is to make cookies with my daughter. It’s a Singer family tradition that began when Avery was two years old. As I carefully rolled out the creamy dough on the marble countertop, the smell of sweet cream butter and vanilla extract transported me back in time. I smiled as I recalled my younger self meticulously shaping and cookie-cutting the malleable dough, as Avery happily poured as many red and green sprinkles as she could fit into her tiny, pale hands and then carefully sprinkled them on top of each cookie. The moment they cooled from the oven, she would run to her daddy and give him a cookie. He was the taste-master. And, even if Mario wasn’t hungry, he’d devour the cookie and give his little girl a kiss on the cheek, hug her tight, and tell her what a fantastic job she did.

And here we were—years later—still baking these delectable treats. But now, my father had joined us in this family tradition. Avery delicately decorated each cookie with a faint touch as if each buttery confection was a work of art. She handed my father one of her tiny masterpieces for his appraisal. He had become the taste master. He had taken Mario’s role—first his seat, then his title. And, he appeared to be enjoying every minute of it. Come to think of it, so was I.

Christmas in Southampton, ca. 2000

“Ramona,” he said, “can I have another cookie? They smell great. And they taste even better.”

“You know you aren’t allowed to eat too many of them. Not with your diabetes.”

“Come on, it’s Christmas. Besides, my beautiful daughter and granddaughter made them,” he said to Avery, with a wink.

I walked over to the table and handed him another cookie. He ate it happily. And, this time, it wasn’t Avery who got a hug, it was
me
.

As we finished baking one hundred butter cookies, I felt like my father’s arms were still clasped around my waist. Although it may sound strange, this invisible hug lit me up inside and gave me a sense of hope that my father and I might actually get along that week. As I breaded the Colossal Shrimp, I closed my eyes and hoped this feeling would never end.

As the day wore on, I was full of mixed emotions. Although I was ecstatic that my father and I were getting along, there was a part of me that questioned everything he did and wondered why he was never able to be this type of father when I was a little girl. I kept reminding myself to stay positive and enjoy his improved behavior, but there was an uneasy feeling at the back of my mind that I couldn’t ignore. I couldn’t let go of our history. Sure, I’d gotten a few compliments and even a hug, but that could never make up for all the years I lost.

That evening, as I set the table with my antique gold Minton china for our Christmas Eve dinner, I realized that there were so many things about my father I didn’t know. So much had been left unsaid between us. It’s sad that I have so few fond memories of my father. I began to question why he was suddenly behaving differently. Had my mother’s death humanized him? Had his dialysis weakened his fighting spirit? Had he finally realized that he was an abusive husband and unloving father? Perhaps he felt the needed to make amends before he died. Or, maybe, he was just happy that I bought him those damn shrimp.

I headed upstairs to my bedroom to change for dinner. As Mario zipped up my gold Michael Kors dress, he tried to calm me, “Quit worrying, Ramona. You and your dad are actually getting along. I haven’t heard one below-the-belt jab or condescending comment come out of his mouth in the past two days. Just continue to have an open mind and a positive attitude.”

I stared into the mirror and told myself to stop questioning my father’s good behavior; to just enjoy it. After all, who knew how long it would last? Suddenly, it dawned on me:
I
am in control of how long it will last.
I
am in control of how my relationship with my father affects me. It’s not my father, my husband nor my daughter. Only me. It occurred to me for the first time that, in order to come to peace with myself, I needed to find forgiveness in my heart. I needed to let go of my resentment toward my father and allow myself to release the suppressed feelings of animosity that were holding me back from enjoying this special Christmas Eve . . . from enjoying life. But that was easier said than done.

Before I could explore these thoughts any further, the doorbell rang. It was Mario’s best friend, Andrew, and his beautiful girlfriend. Andrew is a warm, handsome man with a down-to-earth, infectious personality. His girlfriend is an elegant woman who looks like a Ralph Lauren model.

We sat at the large, candlelit dining room table. My father sat at one head of the table, while Mario sat at the other. We plated and served creamy lobster bisque while I oversaw the portioning of the Colossal Shrimp. “Two shrimps per plate, please,” I said, smiling at my father. Mario opened a nice bottle of white wine and we said grace.

Conversation flowed effortlessly. I do not recall the words that were spoken or the stories that were exchanged, but I do remember the feeling of warmth around the table and the smiles on everyone’s faces. My father was polite, even friendly, to my guests, especially Andrew’s girlfriend, with whom he was shamelessly flirting. I had to hand it to him; even at the age of seventy-four, he could still admire the grace of a beautiful woman.

I couldn’t believe that we were all having such a warm, intimate, engaging dinner. It was a far cry from the last holiday that I had spent with my father five years earlier. At that time, my mother was gravely ill and I wanted her to experience the most special, memorable Christmas. I had bought thousands of dollars worth of Christmas decorations and had even flown in stone crabs from the famous Joe’s Stone Crab in Miami. At the last minute, some friends had invited us all over to dinner at their home. We hadn’t seen this couple in quite some time so we decided to join them. That was a huge mistake. Throughout the evening, my father repeatedly insulted our hosts. I was mortified. We ended up losing them as friends.

But
, I tell myself,
that was then . . . this is now
.
I need to forgive—though not forget—the past.

“Ramona,” I heard Mario say, “Is everything okay?”

I had fallen into a trance, thinking about Christmas past. Before I answered his question, I glanced over at my father. His green eyes were twinkling like Christmas lights. He was genuinely happy. And that made me happy. For the first time in our lives, I was enjoying his company and he was enjoying mine. It felt like we were a real family. This was the best Christmas Eve I could remember in years . . . and it seemed like it could only get better.

Me and my father

“Yes, Mario,” I smiled. “Everything is perfect.”

That night my father, Mario, Avery, and I went to midnight mass at the Basilica of the Sacred Hearts of Jesus and Mary, a beautiful, hundred-year-old Roman Catholic Church in Southampton. I remember my father standing next to me in the pew. We were so close I could feel the warmth of his hand dangling down by his side next to mine. Then, all of a sudden, he grabbed my hand and wove his fingers into mine. I froze in disbelief. This had never happened to me before. I kept very still, barely daring to breath, expecting any moment my father would realize what he had done and drop my hand in disgust. But he continued to clasp my hand in his for the rest of the Mass.

After my initial shock subsided, I felt delighted and exhilarated. The warmth of his hand radiated through my entire body. My heart was so full I felt like it might burst. This was the first time in my life that I had ever held hands with my father. It was like seeing the first snow ever as a child or opening up presents on Christmas morning. It was the most fantastic feeling in the whole world. Santa Claus had come early for me that year.

When it was time for my father to go home, I remember saying goodbye to him at the door and, for the first time in my life, feeling sad to see him leave. Finally, we had connected. I was enjoying his company so much that I wasn’t ready for our time together to end.

“Dad, please, can’t you stay? Do you really need to go so soon? I really want you to stay a little longer,” I said.

I got very emotional and I started to cry.

“No,” he insisted, “I can’t stay. I need to get home. I have my dialysis. I have things to do. We’ll see each other again soon.”

He died two weeks later. I never got to see my father again. We had finally turned a corner in our relationship, and now he was gone forever.

B
Y OPENING UP
about my childhood, I have learned that there are many people like me who have been crippled by their past. Maybe my father did the best he could, maybe not. Either way, my childhood was awful and the memory of it still haunts me to this day. I will never excuse my father’s behavior. But, for my own sake, for my own happiness, I needed to forgive him. That doesn’t mean I will forget the past, but I realized that the hatred and resentment I had been holding onto was self-destructive. I finally understood that I needed to move on. I learned the importance of forgiveness, for my own well-being. I needed to come to terms with my past, what my father did to my mother, and my relationship with him. I needed to do this for myself.

Through my father’s death, I was released from the negativity that had clouded all of my childhood memories. The toxicity surrounding my life slowly faded away. In its place I found a sense of peace and forgiveness. I emerged from hell and was brought into the light.

My mother, Veronika Mazur