How I Know You

There he is. Standing on a perfectly manicured front lawn of a large house. He throws a football to a small boy who shares his chestnut hair and bright blue eyes. The child just barely manages to catch it, and the man’s mouth curls into a warm smile, one I have never seen on his face before. It was so wide it crinkles his crow’s feet. Even through the car door, I could hear his jovial laugh.

“Good job, buddy.” He shouts.

The little boy smiles back at him, “Thanks, Dad.”

Dad. I feel my heart rip apart when I hear the word. I know he’s this kid’s father. How could he not be? Throwing the pigskin around on a hot day during summer break was a typical father-son activity. If we had a lawn back then, would we have played catch too?

A woman opens the front door. Her highlighted hair and painted face enhances her natural beauty. She shakes her golden hair and calls out from her carefully crafted lips,

“David! Junior! Lunch is ready!”

“Be right there, Mom!” Junior says.

He throws the ball one last time, which David catches, before the two run into the house. I catch David patting his son on his back before the door closes. I can’t hear them, but I can only imagine what he’s saying. Telling him how proud he was, how good of a kid he was, even how much he loved him. All the things I wish he had said to me.

I sit in my old Chevy, staring at that door. This is the moment I had prepared for. Scoured the internet to find where he went, drove the hundred and fifty-six miles to get there, and prepared exactly what I would say. All the things I ruminated over for the past fifteen years. All the questions I need answers to. But now my legs are lead. I am reduced to a statue, painted with that same brown hair and blue eyes- the only connections between my father and me.

My phone rings. I don’t need to look at it to know who it is. I gave my Mom a unique ringtone so I’d always know when she’s calling. It’s her favorite song. She always makes me dance to it when it comes on, even if it’s just at home. Though I’m sure she’s not in the dancing mood right now; Not after she read my letter letting her know I’d be driving halfway across the state to find her ex. She rarely got angry, but I imagine this would be one of those moments. I let the call go to voicemail. My phone rings a couple of more times, replaying the same small snippet of chorus over and over, but then it goes quiet. A text comes through. I can’t bring myself to read it.

The sherbet glow of evening creeps in and then quickly melts into night. I shake my head. What am I doing here if I’m not going to talk to him? My ability to move returns, and I turn to put the car into drive. That’s when there’s a knock at the window. I look over, and see him leaning down, staring right at me.

“What are you doing here?”

A million thoughts race through my mind, each knocking into the other, vying to be the first words I’d say to him since I was seven years old. But a dense lump in my throat blocks each one from coming out, leaving them to swirl in my stomach along with the anxiety. I sit still, too stunned to even stammer.

“Look, man,” He says, finally breaking the silence, “According to my wife you’ve been out here all day. I don’t really care, but she’s getting worried. Do you mind moving somewhere else?”

My shock turns into confusion, marked by my furrowed brow. He’s acting so casually, almost as if… As soon as I realize what’s going on, my thoughts fly out of my mouth,

“You don’t know who I am, do you?”

He cocks an eyebrow, “Should I? Have we met before?”

My hands shake. How could he not know it’s me? How could a man not recognize his own son? It’s been a long time, sure, but still… I have his eyes. Mom always said so. Though she never held it against me when things went south in their relationship. In fact, she told me how pretty they were all the time, how she saw who I was through them. Why couldn’t he?

Memories come flying back to me. Sitting in my dark bedroom, covering my ears as he and Mom argued, his loud voice piercing through my soul as he shouted obscenities at her. Running up to greet him when he came home from work, only for him to push me aside citing his fatigue as the reason. Asking him to go to the park to play soccer, but realizing he’s too drunk to stand. Even through all that, I still wanted him in my life. I wanted him to be the dad Junior had.

I open my mouth to yell at him, but I can’t think of what to say. I could call him a deadbeat for not being much of a dad even before walking out. I could chide him for leaving both Mom and I to fend for ourselves when he knew we had no money and no way to get any. I could scream at him for never trying to keep in contact, not even a birthday card or gift.

But then my phone rings again. Her song plays through the speakers. I remember all the times we danced together. On my eleventh birthday when she baked my cake from scratch and scrounged up enough money for me to go to soccer camp that summer as a present. At my uncle’s second wedding when I was fifteen and embarrassed to be dancing with my mom, but I did so anyway because of how happy she looked when it came on. Even when she played in on purpose to get us laughing after a fight. The song subsides, and I don’t want to yell anymore. I’d rather go home and dance with her.

“Seriously, do I know you?” He says.

“No, you never did.”

I don’t bother to look at his face for any sign of recognition or confusion or concern. Instead, I put the car in drive and speed off. I dial Mom at the next red light.