Five girls, five fathers.
And only one of us from the man my mother actually married. The rest were reactions to that man—the one in the wedding photos, the dark-haired man with black eyes, slim build and a navy uniform, who sat and stood and laid himself next to my mother long before I ever knew her. The man whose face could still be seen in those of my oldest sister and my brothers. Mr. Livingston. A man I did not know, but whose name I wore like a skin, a man I cursed each time people asked if I was English or Scottish, and whether I was related to so-and-so, or felt compelled to share their slight historical knowledge with corny offerings of “Dr. Livingston, I presume.”
“No, I’m not related to your cousin in Poughkeepsie,” I’d answer, and when they persisted, I’d continue, “It’s just a name—from my mother’s husband, not my father.”
They’d smile politely while squinting their eyes and trying to make sense of what I’d just said.
I played it cool, but in truth, I was jealous of Mr. Livingston, and of my three oldest siblings, whose last name actually matched a father, offspring of the man who had exchanged vows with our mother over at St. Mary’s.
My mother said he was cruel, that I really had nothing to envy. She’d chosen him back when she didn’t know any better, back when she was new to the city, new to the state, new to men. So new, she had thought his neatly parted hair and military uniform guaranteed her something. Back before she understood that there are no guarantees.
Despite his neatly parted hair, he kept her inside, blamed her when other men noticed the bend of her waist, the blue of her eye. He hit her. Wanted her pain to equal his own, she said, and made it so until, when she could take it no more, she gathered up her three children and left.
“Don’t trust the first man you love,” was my mother’s frequent love advice to her daughters, the nugget of wisdom she’d gleaned from her time with Mr. Livingston, the pearl she passed on to her girls.