I walked into Coco’s restaurant in Santa Monica, and I barely recognized him sitting alone in the booth. My father. I had not seen him for about twenty years. The last time he and I had been together was when he visited me in the hospital back when everybody thought I was sick, when they canceled my tour due to lack of sales. I had not seen him since then. He missed my childhood, he missed my teenage years, and he also missed me in my twenties. And here I was in my mid-thirties. I wasn’t in the best of shape. I was struggling. He looked the same, just a lot older. I forget how it had happened exactly, but I think he contacted my sister about wanting to get together with each of us. Just out of the blue. There was no real cause for it. Neither of us had very much to say. I wanted to ask him, “Where were you? Why weren’t you there to watch us grow up?” But I knew there was no answer that would satisfy me. I think he was curious about who we were, what we looked like, and what we were doing. I don’t know if he was aware that I had a drug problem. If he was, he didn’t say anything.
There’s not much more to say about this meeting. Even in the state that I was in, I still felt very sad for what we had lost. My father sat there trying to blame my mother for the situation. He started saying to me that my mother had been too possessive of me, and that had made it hard for him. I know that both of my parents have their own points of view about what happened to our family. But as one of the kids who was affected by both of their actions, I felt sad sitting in the booth. It reminded me that I never had a father figure and how much I probably could’ve used one. Today, as my father’s primary caregiver, I have many mixed emotions. I take care of him because he’s my father. No matter how badly he may have treated us, he’s still my father. And in the back of my mind, buried deep, are the yearnings of a little boy who wants nothing more than his father to call him over, tap on the side of the bed for him to sit down, and have a heart-to-heart talk about life. I don’t think I will ever get that. And that’s okay. I’ve accepted him for who he is. But still, as the shadows grow, I still feel so desperate for that moment. Maybe someday.