Playground (9 page)

are envious of your lifestyle! But I can take it away if you’re not

happy!” he screams violently. His tone makes us weak.

“You don’t need to get so mad,” I say, hesitantly, knowing he

could ask us calmly or perhaps remind us not to leave our things

lying around, but that never happens.

“Don’t tell me how to act! Do you hear me?”

Dad shakes his head violently as he stalks through the room.

“Where did you learn your manners? Your mother?”

Our faces burn with shame from constantly swallowing critical

comments about Mom. We try to block them out, but sometimes

they sink in and we wonder if they are true.

“Is somebody going to answer me?” he rages, and Savannah

begins to cry.

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The more she cries, the more he screams.

“And what’s that smell?” he sniffs, leaning toward Savannah,

who visually disintegrates and breaks down.

Her cry terrifies me; it shatters my heart into tiny pieces.

“You stink! Go wash under your arms! How many times have I

told you to wash under your fucking arms? Jesus! Didn’t your

mother teach you how to clean yourself ?”

I want to stick up for her but I am afraid. I can’t stop him. We

remain silent, lost in shame.

Dad leaves, slamming the door behind him.

I try to comfort Savannah. I want her to be okay, but she isn’t.

Sobs rack her small body while my thin arms wrap around her.

Terror and self-loathing begin to build in each of us. Savannah

and I become uncomfortable with our own development as we

learn to dislike our bodies.

For years and years we will look into mirrors and see ourselves

as not good enough, not pretty enough, not thin enough. We will

see fat even when there is none. We will feel dirty when we are

clean and want to jump out of our skin, escaping our imagined

flaws and imperfections.

I wore many hats as a child with my father. My role was never

clearly defined. I was either his daughter, his running mate, or the

son he never had. I don’t expect anyone to understand it really. It’s

rather complex. In other words, he socialized me, trained me, pro-

grammed me to disrespect women and treat them with little regard.

Women were viewed as lesser people and for years I believed them.

The admiration I had for the men I was surrounded by began with

my seeking their approval and identifying as one of them. Soon, my

respect and admiration turned to disgust and disappointment.

Yet, regardless of who he was dating or screwing at the time,

my father always put me first. He kicked girls out of his house at

the drop of a hat. I knew all their secrets and it was clear I was his

favorite.

Meanwhile, my sister’s role was always consistent. She was

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treated like a weekend pet. He was always trying to train her in a

derogatory way. My father knew she favored my mother so he went

out of his way to berate her and treat her like a typical girl, like a

hooker with no respect. He humiliated her regularly. I tried to

stand up for her as best I could, careful not to set off his temper

even more. But my efforts were useless. Perhaps I lowered my head

in shame one too many times, deep down grateful I was the one

not getting yelled at. I may never forgive myself for not protecting

my younger sister from the madness of a man we both loved and

knew was volatile.

The saddest thing is, all she ever wanted was his love and atten-

tion.

Years later, my sister and I will drift apart. We won’t speak and

if we do our language is superficial, our relationship competitive. I

will continue to stay angry at my parents and push love away while

my sister will search for it in all the wrong places.

I hold Savannah close to me, smelling the sweet chlorine scent

in her hair.

Regret grips my heart and starts to squeeze for not saving my

younger sister.

When we hit puberty, our development becomes even more

important to Dad. Savannah and I try to present ourselves in ways

that will gain his approval. Though his temperamental outbursts

become more frequent, we manage to bury them, reminding our-

selves that he only wants to be proud of us. Dad is very eager to

present his daughters as glam and sexy. We are a reflection of him.

He wants others to stop and look at us, knowing that we are his

daughters, polished and sophisticated. If we were top students in

our class, most parents would be happy. This is not the case with

him. We learn that our bodies must be perfect in order to gain his

approval. We are on display, constantly critiqued and scrutinized

like the Barbie dolls we never had but over the years morphed into.

We learn that big boobs, tight asses, and flat stomachs define

the norm in Dad’s world. Hearing his analysis and critique of each

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girl he meets shows us that women are valued by their appearance.

The better you look, the further you can go.

My mother contributes to this in her own way. She’s a psychol-

ogist who specializes in eating disorders and depression. She

watches me from afar, never truly understanding that I may even-

tually struggle with the same issues her patients do. I never feel a

sense of being taken care of by her. Instead, she will acknowledge

me inasmuch as I make myself the child who pleases her. Her ap-

proval is gained through a facade of plastic image or accomplish-

ing goals she deems worthy or important.

I awake to the sound of birds chirping outside the window.

Sunshine gleams over the backyard as I get out of bed before my

sister wakes up. I run out to the game room, tiptoe into the carpet

room, and lock the door behind me. I turn on the television and

The Playboy Channel washes over the screen. I lie on my back, half

watching TV, but more interested in the mirror on the ceiling.

The light from the television flickers across my clothes and

face, giving my skin a ghostly appearance. I run my hands over my

face and chest.

In this place, in this magical castle, I want to be safe and I am,

most of the time. The memory of my father’s vicious attack the

night before pushes its way into my consciousness and I shudder.

Panic from the memory builds, seizes my lungs with hot

hands, and I want to disappear. I want to escape. I want to forget it

like the other memories of his anger.

My small hands find their way down my white Fila tennis

shorts, searching for comfort and forgetfulness.

My visits to the carpet room become more frequent.

The summer takes a turn when Dad hires Cindy, a twenty-year-old

babysitter (so he says) with feathered blond hair. Cindy watches us

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while Carmela oversees construction on Dad’s house. According

to Dad, Cindy is both well traveled and culturally liberated, but

Savannah and I know she is just an airhead.

At the beach house, “Centerfold” by the J. Geils Band blasts

across the deck as Cindy prances around in a skimpy polka-dot

bikini. Savannah and I spy on her as she refills Dad’s cocktail.

“Total Valley girl.”

“Orange County. She is so cheese. Did you see her matching

pinstriped miniskirt and tank top?”

“Blue eye shadow?”

“Flat-ironed rooster bangs?”

“Sassoon jeans.”

“Ooh la la!”

“Check out the Members Only jacket she borrowed from Dad.

What a poser.”

We chew on Pop Rocks while we rag on Dad’s latest addition. I

have become as highly critical of women as he is.

Savannah and I duck underneath the deck and race into the

ocean before they notice us.

The sun is going down. Dad flips through the newspaper on a

beach chair while Cindy’s at the market.

“Where’s Pamela? How come she’s never around?” I ask Dad

with Savannah at my side.

“She’s been busy lately. She has a new TV show, and she’s jeal-

ous of the girls at the Mansion. But I’m seeing her tomorrow,” he

mentions nonchalantly.

“Why is Cindy always with us?”

“Cindy’s here to do errands, make life easier, take care of your

needs and my needs,” Dad laughs to himself.

“We miss Pamela. Cindy’s so Valley.”

“To the max,” Savannah says and we giggle.

“What’s wrong with you girls? Cindy’s great.” He shakes his

head. “You’re both spoiled.”

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Savannah and I continue to make Valley remarks as we run

into the house and head straight for the fridge, which is stocked

with oranges, pasta salad, and club sandwiches from the deli down

the street.

That night, I walk in on Cindy and Dad in bed together. Dad

scrambles to play it off, jumping up as Cindy rolls over.

“I insisted Cindy spend the night since it’s so late and poten-

tially dangerous to drive home,” Dad explains.

I look at him in disbelief. I can’t believe he thinks I’m stupid

enough to buy that excuse.

“Do you need anything?” Dad asks warmly.

“No, I just wanted to say good night,” I add before closing the

bedroom door.

I run back to my room to tell Savannah.

As the weekend comes to an end, Pamela drops by the beach

house to say hello. While Dad’s busy talking to one of the neigh-

bors, I take Pamela into my bedroom, shut the door, and sit her

down.

“I don’t know if I should say anything, I mean, you probably

already know, but I just thought I’d tell you . . .”

“What is it, honey? You can tell me anything, of course,”

Pamela offers warmly.

“I don’t want you to say anything to Dad ’cause he might get

mad at me.”

“Sweetie, you can tell me anything, you know that. What we

discuss is between us. I won’t say anything if you don’t want me

to,” Pamela says and I believe her.

There’s a pause as she waits for me to continue.

“Well, you know Cindy sleeps here, right? I mean, she was in

Dad’s room last night watching TV and she sleeps at Hef ’s all the

time, and I don’t understand because she’s just supposed to be

driving us around,” I spit out.

The room is silent and I can tell by Pamela’s horrified expres-

sion that my life is about to end.

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We are at the Mansion when Dad corners me in my room, slam-

ming the door shut behind him.

I can see the pool through the window where Playmates slip

and slide across a greased blue pole suspended over the water. My

father stands in front of the window and sunlight shines behind

him, darkening his features, his body.

“How dare you go behind my back! Pamela told me you told

her I was having an affair with Cindy!”

Terrified, I swallow his verbal attack, melting into the ground,

wanting to erase myself.

My father circles me like a lion. I stare out the window again,

avoiding his glare, and watch topless girls splash into the pool.

“I’m sorry, Daddy, please don’t be mad. It was a mistake.”

I tremble, hiding behind a well of tears.

“There are no mistakes!” he screams, pointing his finger in my

face.

I wish I were dead.

“Did you really think Pamela wasn’t going to say anything to

me? She is a lying, manipulating, self-centered bitch. The only rea-