The Last Time I Saw Dad

He told me what he was going to do

Mom and Dad, from author’s collection

Trigger warning: suicide

An unease gripped me when I looked out the window and saw his blue pickup parked at the curb and him headed toward the porch.

It was a weekday and my sisters and husband were in school; I was home alone with my toddler who was napping.

As Dad walked to the front door, I went back and forth about answering it. I didn’t know what mood he’d be in.

He’d found me, us; while I hadn’t exactly been in hiding in Portland, 100 miles from where he lived in Astoria, I wouldn’t disclose my address to him. Somehow, he’d found it.

History

A few months before, he’d threatened to kill me and he’d had a rage in his eyes, a wildness that I’d never seen before he met Donna, “I wasn’t always fat and 40” but who I just thought of as Donna the Bitch.

She was the barfly who became his drinking partner a couple years after Mom died, the woman who started each day with a case of Hamm’s beer. The one who taunted and provoked him and pointed out his deficiencies: in bed mostly. And as a parent of nine worthless kids.

The one who kept the tension going, nonstop.

The one who, I learned later, chided him to “just do it, Frank. Just take your gun out to the barn and do it. I don’t want any messes in here.”

They’d married in secret and I didn’t believe it at first. But sure enough, he’d done it.

And bad enough that they lived like that, but my two youngest sisters were still at home. They were there, up in their room, when Dad took his rifle and shot a hole in the TV.

Donna had been oogling over some guy. Just to get Dad going. Just to keep Dad going.

My three middle sisters, all minors, had by then turned themselves over to Children’s Services Division. They were all in foster care. But CSD never came to investigate what was going on at home, why the three middle girls left. CSD never went to check on the last two who still lived there with Dad and Donna.

I lived in Idaho at that time, married and with a six-month-old, who was born there in Coeur d’Alene.

I got a call from my sister, Valerie, 11, who had saved her nickels and dimes and walked a mile down Highway 101 to Landwehrs, the gas station and grocery store, where she used the pay phone to call me to let me know that things were not good at home.

And I got a call from my friend, Gayle, around that time telling me the same.

Strangely, Dad and Donna came up to Idaho to visit for a couple of days. I couldn’t help but notice the gallon of wine and case of Hamm’s beer they ported in on arrival and if I didn’t quite believe it before, now it was all quite plainly true.

Dad weighed about 140 lbs. I’d never seen him so skinny. And he had a rage in his eyes as he ranted about the speeding ticket he’d gotten on the way up — for going 80 mph. I’d never known him to go the speed limit, much less over it.

He was insane until he ate something, which calmed him down. Donna didn’t eat. She just drank. And goaded.

Clearly, my two youngest sisters needed to get out, away from Dad and Donna. So I made the trip to Astoria and went to Children’s Services who placed them in foster care.

Then I set about getting custody myself. The first step was to move back to Oregon. We settled in Portland.

Our day in court

Dad and Donna sat together — they didn’t have an attorney; my sisters’ court appointed attorney sat at a table next to them.

Dad was quiet, Donna was vocal. She had the spotlight. She asked the questions, all of which revealed who she was.

Finally, I’m guessing the one that made up the Judge’s mind was directed at me: You were supportive of me, of your father and me, of our relationship, at first. What happened?

And I shot back, “You’re right. I was supportive at first. I wanted my father to be happy. But I didn’t know you then.”

The judge placed my two youngest sisters in my custody. They were 9 and 11, I was 21.

Dad had visitation and over the next two years, he’d make the trip to Portland now and then to see my sisters, to see us. We’d meet at the park or at the mall.

He never stayed long. And though the rage was gone, he was unhappy. Sad. Depressed. Always like he’d been that day in court.

Fortunately, during visits, he’d always left Donna at home.

When Dad showed up that day, unexpected, I didn’t know who I’d get. He hadn’t called.

And I knew he was still drinking.

I took a big breath, braced myself and opened the door. I invited him in and to my surprise, he was peaceful. I had never seen him so peaceful.

When I was growing up, he’d always been quiet. He was gone a lot, working. At home, he’d hide behind the newspaper.

He’d always been responsible, dutiful, but I’d never known him to be quite like this.

He didn’t waste any time. He didn’t accept a cup of coffee. He only stayed fifteen minutes. He’d driven two hours to deliver his message.

“I’ve made my peace with my maker. I’m ready to go back home. To be with your Mom, to be with Pa.”

It took my breath away. I made some feeble appeals. But clearly, his mind was made up.

He politely said goodbye and he left. Through the curtains, I watched that blue pickup drive away.

And seeing the peace in him, the first I’d seen since Mom died four years earlier, I felt peaceful too.

In the dark that November evening, I’d just picked up my husband from work. The streetlights lit the raindrops on the windshield. The wipers flapped steadily back and forth, back and forth as he drove us down the hill. For a few minutes, Tom was uncharacteristically quiet.

“Your father died,” he said.

I shouldn’t have been so surprised, but I was.

There was just the sound of the wipers, back and forth.

It had been three months since Dad’s visit. I had all but forgotten.

I cried. And I felt relieved.

My aunt Marie, my father’s sister, called Tom to deliver the news. Dad had taken his rifle to the barn and put an end to his life. He was 47.

I numbed myself. I said that the real tragedy was that he didn’t take Donna with him. But she had a few more shitty years to live.

It’s been 50 years. This is but a small part of the awful, alcohol-soaked drama that began with Mom’s death in a car accident — not her fault — four years earlier.

The years and my own addiction have softened me. I remember: To condemn anyone who has lost their way is to punish the already punished. I looked but couldn’t find an attribution.

The real tragedy is active addiction. For the addict and for the family and friends of the addict, it’s never going to be a happy ending.

My youngest sisters stayed with me until they reached majority. The next youngest sister left foster care and joined us.

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