Memory Lane

“I’ll never forget this day!” seven-year-old Clara squealed with glee, as she half ran, half dragged her mother from spectacle to spectacle. It was the county fair, everything tailor-made to delight and amaze young enthusiasts, such as herself.

Little did Clara know, just how right she was. She would never forget this day, but not for the gleeful adventures that she predicted. Those attractions would all fade away in the light of a new memory that would soon define her.

Today was an exceptionally and unusually happy one for Clara’s mother and Clara took full advantage. From the beckoning spray of water-gun games to the aroma of fried corndogs, to the twinkling fairy lights hanging overhead, Clara’s senses were titillated.

“Carol!” someone cried out to them as they were walking along, between amusements.

As her mother turned, she let go of Clara’s hand, for just a moment. In that one moment, the crowd carried Clara away and jostled her like one of the poorly blended milkshakes from the concession stand, being sucked through a straw. Frightened and confused, Clara was frantic as she was forced along a path that she did not want to go down.

She was in a frenzy calling out for her mother until she saw that one face that she had longed for with every fibre of her being for the last year. Her dad. She stopped.

As if in slow motion, this trim, middle-aged man threw his head back in laughter with his arm slung around the shoulders of a stunning woman with a chic, blonde, pixie cut. His path intersected with Clara’s and just as his eye passed over her, his face too froze. As his expression changed from joy to shock, he remembered the last time he saw his daughter. The sounds of children screaming with glee and music being played over head faded away as if the two were being transported.

The last time the pair had laid eyes on each other was a year ago, as Clara peeked around the corner into her parents’ bedroom. Clara’s mother was exploding physically and verbally with rage at her, now, ex-husband while he was kneeling in shame. The room looked as if it had been shaken up like a snow globe, with clothes and books being thrown in all directions, as her mother tried to hurt the target as much as she had been hurt. When Clara and her father’s eyes connected across the room, he hung his head low, despairing that his precious one had to see him like this.

Now, Clara’s father could barely meet his daughter’s eyes, but he could go no further.

As his companion turned questioningly at his immobility, he turned and whispered something in her ear. Bewilderment lit her beautiful, tiny face as she locked eyes with Clara, also immobile, staring at them. They were still talking as he was scanning the crowd, presumably looking for Clara’s mother.

They both nodded as she turned and walked away, while he walked straight towards Clara.

Her father crouched down, coming to Clara’s eye level, “Clara, my peanut, where’s your mother?”

‘My peanut’ was the father’s pet name for Clara. At those words, a flood of tears rocked Clara’s little body as she threw herself into her crouching father’s arms, knocking them both down to the ground. As the crowd parted around them like a stream around a beaver dam, Clara also remembered.

Clara remembered the day she found out she had a peanut allergy. That day had all the makings of a terrible day, if it had not been for her father. After being rushed to the hospital, the doctor told the little family that they couldn’t have peanuts in the house.

Her father, who loved peanut butter and banana sandwiches, without so much as a second thought, turned to his daughter and said, “Since I can’t have any peanuts, you’ll just have to be my peanut, my Peanut!” With that declaration, he then showered her with kisses and tickles until she was smiling and laughing. She felt so special and loved in that moment. But she hadn’t seen this beloved man in a year.

“… Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy…” Clara cooed over and over. She knew that her Daddy had done something terribly wrong to make her mom angry. Clara thought she should be angry too, but the should gave way to what was, and what was, was a young girl that missed her Daddy.

“… Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy…”

Then, over the intercom, came a loud booming voice, “Would Carol Elencia please come to the merry-go-round to pick up her daughter Clara.”

“Clara, Clara, Clara, Clara, Clara… » Her father did not even notice that he had joined in his daughter’s chorus until the announcement awakened him. He picked up his daughter in his arms, like a baby, and brought her to a nearby bench. When he set her down, Clara looked around and realized that she was already at the merry-go-round.

“Clara, peanut, we don’t have much time together, your mom won’t want to stick around when she sees me, but I have to say this to you,” He turned Clara to face him as she did her best to wipe the tears away.

“That’s my girl,” he smiled.

He combed his hand through his salt and pepper hair nervously, “Well, Clara, I don’t know what your mother has told you… This is an imperfect first meeting but, as you’ll learn more when you’re older, I’m a very imperfect man. I’ve done something so horrible to your mother, and to you, but… No. There is now buts. I messed up big. Period. I won’t even hope for forgiveness right now, or ever, but can you understand just how terribly sorry I am? If you can understand the guilt I’m feeling, then maybe there’s hope for me yet…”

“CLARA!”

The two weary figures turned and saw Clara’s mother running towards them. Her ponytail had come loose, and flyways were going every which way. Worried tears ran parallel to the thin frown that etched the terror she had felt, into her face. She smelled of sweat and greasy fair food.

She swept Clara up in her arms, “Clara, Clara, Clara…”

Her mother froze when she saw who Clara had been sitting with. Every thought and expletive in her head were written on her face. But what came out of her mouth was, “Jerry, thank…”

At that moment the, now timid, young woman from earlier approached, keeping her distance. As the mother locked eyes with this woman, she abruptly spun on her heals and went in the opposite direction.

Clara looked to the angry face of her mother, and the sad faces of those they left behind, “People are messy,” Clara reflected as she tried to make sense of her own varying and conflicting emotions. It would take her many years to sort out those emotions and realize just how true that statement really was.