Promises Are Just Words

"He promised he would come," I cried as I looked through the crowd of parents. "He told me we could go get pancakes after."

"Sweetie, he isn't coming," Mrs. Donovan assured me. There was an air of melancholy around her, but it wasn't something that appealed to me at that certain moment. I remember the other mothers and fathers hugging their children, the fathers giving their daughters flowers-- enormous bouquets of roses that seemed larger than the children themselves. The mothers were each holding the hands of young ballerinas, proud of them-- the pride shining in their eyes, gleaming like stars in the night sky. I ached for that feeling, someone to be proud of me. This was the first time that he had made me wait. He had missed my first dance recital.

Tears stung the back of my eyes as I looked at the woman standing above me. "You don't understand. This time he promised."

My hands gripped to my tutu as my eyes searched the room. I waited for a bearded man to enter with flowers that he had gotten for me. I waited for him to come and lift me up into the air, making all the other little girls jealous that their fathers weren't as strong as mine. I waited, and waited, until the janitor had come to clean up the chairs and sweep the floors. I had sat on the stage, still in first position, a smile decorating my face, waiting for him to enter. I pictured him coming in, his clapping being the loudest, his cheering being heard above all others. But, he never came. I remember Mrs. Donovan's hand around my shoulder as she led me to her car so that she could drive me to her house until he would come and get me.

Promises are curious, I realized many years later. They are words that seem to have more power than they can bear. It's a word that is supposed to make us feel like we can rely upon it, stake our lives on it, when in fact, it is just a cluster of letters that are as meaningless and the next combination of characters on a page.

#

When I was twenty-two, I had freshly graduated college. I received my diploma and even though I had finished with honors and job offers, I felt envy creep upon me as I saw my other classmates with their families. Again, I was alone. I made sure that he would make the flight to Los Angeles, I booked the tickets myself, paid extra money that the airline company would wheel him around the airport so that he wouldn't stop at a bar in the airport and miss his flight. I thought of every possible scenario, every possible delay that could occur, I made sure that it wouldn't. And yet, he wasn't there. He again had promised to be there. To "see his little girl become a woman of success".

My father was a simple man. A plumber that lived on the outskirts of Miami, coming home late, sometimes not even bothering to come home at all. He was away for some days at a time, and I'd have to find quarters around the house to buy a bus ticket so that I could go to school that day.

Sometimes I can still hear his voice, his speech slurring as he begged for me to open the front door to let him in.

"Teddy, dear," his gruff voice would say, "open the door. Have you eaten yet? Done your homework?"

He always asked if I had done my homework. Memories of us sitting on the living room floor trying to figure out how to cope with fractions and long division still haunt me. He used to buy pizza on those nights, so that if we were up all night trying to finish homework, I wouldn't be hungry.

His body would lay limply on our wooden porch, a bottle of booze in his left hand while his right was moving aimlessly towards the door handle. The light from inside shone on his limp body outside as though pointing him out. I would open the door slowly and drag him onto the beige rug in the living room, the smell of alcohol infecting the house. He would grin and tell me that he was alright, but I knew better.

He had taught me to grow up fast, gave me the life lessons that aren't taught until you've grown up. I was taught to take care of myself, to know what I want in life. I realized when I was five years old, that I didn't want a life like the one I was living.

#

I had gotten married a few years after I had graduated college. I called my father right away, wanting to tell him the news. It's funny now that I think about it. I had friends that I confided in, people that had been there for me a lot more of the time than he had been, and yet, he was the first person that my mind went to.

After several unsuccessful attempts at calling him, he picked up the phone.

"Who's this?" he asked, his voice sounding like he had just woken up hungover.

"Daddy, it's Teddy," I said slowly and then repeated again.

"Teddy," he paused as if he were thinking, "oh yes, yes, Teddy. I haven't heard from you in a while. How is everything?"

"Daddy, I'm engaged."

"Engaged?" he paused again as if unsure if he heard correctly. "To Tom or was it George. Whatever his name was?"

"David, Daddy. I'm engaged to David."

"Ah yes, that's the one," he said as he let out a cough. "When's the wedding?"

"I don't know yet, daddy. Are you happy?"

"Of course I am, very, very happy," his voice faded out again but then came back on the line. "I promise to be there for the wedding this time. I know I haven't been the best at being at the right place at the right time, but I wouldn't miss this for the world."

"Okay, daddy. I'll book the flight and everything, as always."

"Don't waste your money on me," he laughed, "You need it for the wedding, and a house, and to start a family. A proper family," he finished.

I said goodbye and hung up.

He didn't come to my wedding either. I walked myself down the aisle, and told the band to skip over the father daughter dance. My father-in-law had offered to dance with me, but I refused. I wanted my father. I wanted him to be there. And again he wasn't. I didn't know if I felt sad or angry or embarrassed that he didn't show up. It didn't matter then.

#

When the news came that he passed away, I couldn't say that I was exactly sad. He had never been an important figure in my life, just someone that was supposed to be there, but never was. Everyone said their condolences with heavy hearts, and the only thing that I could do was sit and watch the proceeding go ahead. When I was alone with him after the funeral (before the cremation took place) I looked at the wrinkles on his face that were so familiar to me. This was the first time that I had seen him in a suit, combed and smelling of cologne.

"Well, old man," I sighed, "at least you weren't late this time." And with that the tears of my five-year-old self had come back. The feelings of anger, sadness, and disappointment had come back again, this time in the form of rivers of lachrymose streaming down my cheeks. I thought of him on the porch again drunk, but then of him clumsily trying to put a band-aid on my skinned knee. I thought of him yelling at me for hiding the key to the liquor cabinet when I was a teenager, but him coming home with a dress that he bought so that I could go to my senior prom. I thought of when he threw out my drawings because he didn't want me to become an artist, but then he came home the next day with a new sketch pad for me and new colored pencils. I thought of when my mother had abandoned us, but how he had stayed. I thought of the moments that he hadn't been there, but then I thought of all the moments that he had been. Though few, were enough to remember. His promises had just been words; he had promised to be there, and he had been. Even though I could not see him, he was there, alive. But at that moment, I realized that never again would he break his promise to be somewhere where he couldn't make it.