Dad, I'm leaving

The first time dad took me apple-picking I was seven. Him and mom were not together anymore and he was struggling to find something to do with me on the days we were together. After all we had never spent that much time bonding, him never really being around. What can you do to entertain your young daughter that doesn’t require money and communication? 

“Do you want to go apple-picking?”

I just stared at him. I was shy. He was my dad, but I didn’t really know how to interact with him. I was just seven. He was my dad, but he didn’t really know how to interact with me.

He stared back, visibly uncomfortable, scratching his neck, eyes moving sideways. 

“You know, picking apples. There is an orchard not far from here. I can teach you how to pick apples, we can take them home, you know. To eat them.”

That definitely caught my attention. Food? That I can get myself? Take it home and show it to mom?

“We don’t have to, it was just an idea-“

“Ok.”

He stared at me, again, eyebrows slightly raised in question.

“Ok.” I repeated. He relaxed, straightened his posture and attempted a smile. 

“Okay then. Put your sneakers on, you’ll want to be comfortable for this.”

Now, it may seem like dad was a bad parent. As a matter of fact, he wasn’t. He isn’t. He loves me with all his heart, and that is enough to make him not bad. For me, at least. The thing is, dad drinks. He always has, and that is what ended his and mom’s marriage. I don’t blame her for wanting out, I have never blamed her for anything. Even at seven, when my dad’s problem was not something I could completely understand, I somehow knew that my mother wasn’t a bad person for not wanting to be with him. She was unhappy, she wanted out. 

Dad was never home. He would be at work and he would call and say he’d be back in time for dinner. The food would wait on the table, ten minutes, twenty, forty, until mom would reheat it for us and I would go to sleep right after. I have no memories of ever hearing him come back late at night, but I know he did, all the time. That’s the reason I had no idea how to interact with him, the first few times we were alone, together on his free days. It's also the reason why he didn’t know what to do with me. 

The apple-picking is probably the best idea he’s ever had to this day. That first time we went, it was a blast. He took me to a part of the city I had never been. He taught me how to pick apples, and carried me on his shoulders to help me pick them myself. He taught me how to recognize the ripe ones and how to carefully store them so they don’t get bruised. He talked about his childhood, and how he used to do the exact same thing when he was my age. He talked about what we would do with all those apples. He talked about mom, and how annoyed she would be at the quantity of apples we would bring at home with us. He talked and talked and talked, and I listened, quietly, amazed at this person who had been hiding underneath the surface for all this time. Something magical happened on that early autumn day: I discovered my love for nature, for apple-picking and for my dad. When we went back home, we had so many apples they literally lasted us for months. I categorically refused to leave any unless we physically couldn’t pick them. I was a selfish kid I guess, I didn’t want to leave anything for anyone else. A new tradition started that afternoon, and it would last up to this very day. 

“Hey, you okay?” my dad’s voice shakes me out of my thoughts.

“Huh?” I mumble dumbly.

He laughs. 

“You had this spaced-out look, you should have seen it. You were almost drooling. What happened, were you thinking too hard and your brain short-circuited?”

He’s mocking me. My dad, a fifty-seven year old man with more flaws than a bridge built with paper straws, is mocking me. I scowl.

“Ass.” I say, throwing an apple at him.

“Hey, don’t waste food!” he says dodging my shot and picking up the unfortunate fruit. “Look at it, it's bruised now.” he says mock-scolding me. 

“Whatever.”

I make my way past him, to a tree with an impressive number of apples on its outer branches. I reach my hand to grab a beautiful, shiny fruit.

“Remember, roll-“

“Roll upwards and twist. I know dad, we’ve been doing this for more than ten years” I interrupt him, rolling my eyes rather fondly. 

We have a weird relationship, me and dad. In some ways, I still act like a child when I’m with him. I hug him all the time, I kiss his cheek, I tell him I love hime every five seconds and I stick my tongue when he makes fun of me. On the other hand, I think we are both aware that this is just an act to cover up the fact that, now that I am an adult, it’s harder to pretend I don’t hold any resentment towards him. I do. That first time we went apple-picking changed my life for good: many days of happiness with my father, discovering and loving him followed that day. At the same time, it condemned me to a lifetime of unkept promises, of pointless waiting, of pained understanding, as the years passed and my conscience developed and matured. Like a ripe apple. Today, I do no longer make up excuses for his behavior. Not to others, nor to myself. I no longer feel a stab in my chest when mom says something harsh about him, because I know it doesn’t come from hatred, but from experience. I no longer believe promises that he will get his shit together, that he will pay off his debts and get a house and take me on a holiday, somewhere special, just him and me. And I think that, sadly, he is starting to not believe himself anymore either. I know for a fact he doesn’t do this to hurt me intentionally. I know for a fact that, for a long time, he really believed he would keep his promises. I also know for a fact that he doesn’t realize he has a problem. He doesn’t know that drinking the way he does is not normal. He doesn’t know that he has debts to pay not because he has no money, but because he is an alcoholic. He doesn’t realize how selfish he acts because of it. He doesn’t understand that if he didn’t drink, he would have the money he needs, and then he would be able to come and see me when I am gone.  

Because I am going. This is the last fall I am spending with my family. I am moving. Mom thinks it’s because of him. It’s not. Or at least I don’t think it is. I want out. From this city, from my memories that chain me here. But not from my family. Not from dad. If there is one thing I wish I could take with me, it is apple-picking. With him, because it is not the same otherwise. I have tried with my stepdad. I love him, but god, he is a disaster at picking apples. We went once and never again. I also tried with my friends. But kids these days don’t really care for hobbies like this, right? No, there is only one way to pick apples, and it is with my dad gently mocking me and constantly reminding me how to do it, never mind the fact I am better than him at it. Fall is the season of change, and what a change it is this year. I am leaving. I really am. 

“Ow!” an apple suddenly hits me in the head. I see my dad snickering. “What the hell, you could have given me a concussion! Seriously.” But even as I say it I can feel my mouth twitching in a grin. "Look at it, it's bruised now. What was it you said about not wasting food?"

“You looked a little lost there. Are sure you’re alright?” he asks with a subtle worried tone masked by a silly look.

I stare at him. I stare right into his blue eyes, trying to somehow reach his soul. They are a little unfocused. He’s been drinking, obviously. He is not drunk, but he is not sober either. Autumn is the season of change, but I do not anymore kid myself into thinking that he will change. He hasn’t changed for mom and he hasn’t changed for me. I highly doubt that he’ll change for himself. This year, once again, the only change will be for me.

“I’m leaving” I state dramatically.

He stares at me, puzzled. 

“You mean now or…”

“No, I mean that I am leaving. For good.”

He is still staring, looking more confused by the second. 

“Yes. I know you are.” he says slowly, as if talking to a small child.

“This is the last time we pick apples together.” Clearly, I am on a dramatic streak, because I can’t stop from letting shit pour out of my mouth.

“Are you crying?” he asks. He looks terribly uncomfortable and probably as lost as I was looking earlier. 

“No, of course not.” I say even as I feel a tear make its way down my cheek. “It’s because you hit me with the apple. It was painful.” 

He just stands there for a few seconds, trying to hold it together, but then he bursts out laughing and says,

 “Come here. We can sit over there and I will kiss your head better. Let’s have an apple and talk a little, so you can tell me again exactly what it is you’ll be studying, because I still don’t get it.”

He starts walking, then stops and turns around.

“Oh, and forget all that nonsense about this being our last time here. Autumn comes every year, you can just come back every now and then, and if it’s the right time, we will come picking apples like always.”

I watch him walk for a little, and then I sprint to catch up and I grab his hand. We walk together.

Things are changing. Autumn comes every year, and with it comes change. Maybe not just for me. Maybe there is still hope for him.