You could have heard the slap all over
the campground.
Not a girly,
just-enough-to-wake-you-up kind of slap, but a heavy handed, full on slap that
resounded and echoed.
I thought about that slap for years
after I saw it happen. Mostly I wondered why she chose to slap him instead of
punch him and break his nose, which was what he deserved.
It wasn’t until years later when I was
an adult and dealing with that kind myself that I realized she slapped him
because he wasn’t good enough for a punch.
I was nine years old when my mom
slapped my father on our camping trip.
* * *
My mom loved camping, always had. She
said she grew up with it and it reminded her of a more peaceful time, and that
the woods gave her hope.
My nine year old self didn’t really
understand this, but I liked to pretend that I did.
“We’re going to Hope, Hope, Hoooope!”
my younger sister and I used to chant while we helped my mom pack up the car
with our camping essentials, pretending we didn’t notice my father passed out
on the couch, a beer can still in his hand.
I always knew my father loved me, I
was sure of it. When he actually came home after work instead of going to a
bar, he used to tickle my sister and I on the floor of our living room, my
sister and I shrieking with delight, telling him to stop even though we never
wanted him to. He would grab us both up, one in each arm, and shower us with
kisses, telling us over and over that he loved us.
He had this phrase he liked to tell
us: “You are my stars and your mother is my moon.”
He was good to us, my sister and I. So
I learned to just think of him as not my father when he drank.
I don’t think my mom ever learned that
trick.
Instead, she would plaster on a smile
when he packed up several cases of beer in the back of the car for our camping
trips and grasp the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white.
My father seemed to rally a little
when we got to the campground, even unloaded the car and helped my mother set
up our tent. That first night as we sat around a campfire that he actually
built for us, he only had four beers.
We could easily handle him with only
four beers.
The second day, however.
My mom normally did her research
before we went on camping trips, making sure there were no concerts or events
nearby where he could get more alcohol than what he brought with him. I guess
she just forgot this time.
I watched my mother’s face go white
when we first heard the sounds of distant music. Not even ten minutes later, my
father stood up from his chair and kissed my mom’s forehead.
“Going for a walk, be back soon,” he
said, patting my sister and I on the head as he walked by.
I watched him walk away, knowing that
he wasn’t going to return as my father.
* * *
My sister and I were wading in the
creek together when the rain started. We didn’t mind, we were already wet, so
what was the harm?
I think we both screamed when the
first roar of thunder resounded.
It wasn’t that I was afraid of storms.
We had our fair share of thunderstorms where we lived, and I almost liked the
rain.
But this thunder was foreign. It
sounded like it was right next to me, like it had snuck up behind me and yelled
right in my ear.
“Emily Katherine! Emily Katherine, get
your sister now!”
I grabbed Cesi’s hand and ran towards
my mom as fast as my legs would go. I couldn’t remember the last time she had
called me by my full name.
“Come on,” she said, a forced smile
making her face look strange. “We’re going to sit in the tent and play Uno.”
There was no sign of my father; he had
only been gone for three hours.
I didn’t start to wonder if he was
coming back to our campsite until six hours had past, and the rain wasn’t
letting up, and it was well past my regular bedtime.
* * *
“Mommy, the tent is wrong,” Cesi said,
trying to hold back tears. I don’t think my mother or I had noticed that water
had begun to find its way into the tent until Cesi pointed it out.
My mother didn’t respond for a moment;
she just stared out at the rain pouring down.
“Okay,” she finally said. “We’re packing
up the car now.”
We put Cesi in the car and my mother
and I quickly began packing everything away. The rain had been coming down so
hard for so long that we were both covered in mud by the time we got the tent
halfway down, having slipped too many times to count.
I had just slipped again and had
lifted my face up to the sky to get the mud off when I heard him yell.
“Let me help!”
I thought it was strange that my
father’s voice had gotten so much deeper. And as I was helped to my feet, I
found my father’s arms around me foreign and unknown.
When he had stood me up and looked me
over to make sure I wasn’t hurt, I realized he wasn’t my father. I tried to
fight the instinct to cower, unsure what to do with a stranger holding onto my
arm.
“I’m Ben,” he hollered over the rain.
“I’m campin’ with my family over yonder, and saw you’ns havin’ a struggle and
reckoned I could help.”
“Okay,” I yelled back, not even quite
sure what he had just said. I had only read about accents like his, never heard
one up close and in person.
He ran over to my mother and said
something to her I couldn’t quite make out, both because of the storm and his
accent. Whatever he said, my mother cracked, and smiled the first genuine smile
I had seen all weekend.
We had the tent down and everything
packed in the car in less than 30 minutes thanks to Ben. I jumped into the car
with my sister and stripped, throwing my soaking clothes in the back and
changing into mostly dry ones.
I watched as my mother and Ben stood
by the car and talked; I tried to guess what they were saying just from
watching my mother’s face and Ben’s expressive use of his hands.
After a few moments, my mother shook
his hand, then climbed into the car herself.
“Here, momma,” I said, handing her dry
clothes.
“What would I do without my Em,” my
mother smiled, squeezing my hand.
* * *
I woke up to the sound of the car door
being slammed. I wasn’t sure how long I had slept, but it was long enough for
the rain to die down to a soft sprinkle. Slightly dazed from sleep, I opened my
own car door to see where my mother had gone.
That’s when I heard the slap.
It sounded like a gunshot from where I
stood. I closed my eyes and tried to get my bearings, my heart beating fast.
When I opened my eyes, I saw my father
standing a few hundred feet away, his body slightly slumped, his hand pressed
against his cheek. And my mother, standing next to him.
At least I thought it was my mother.
She looked so unlike her, her eyes more calm than I had ever seen them before,
her back straight. I don’t think I ever knew how tall she was until I saw her
standing straight next to my father.
It took me a moment before I realized
the sound was a slap, and the slap had come from my mother’s hand.
“Get in the car,” I heard her say, and
began to back towards the car before I realized she wasn’t talking to me. She
was talking to my father.
He didn’t say a word, but quickly
walked towards me, seeming to not even see me as he opened my car door and got
inside next to my sister.
I slid into the passenger’s seat and
waited on my mother. After a moment, she walked to the car, got in, and pulled
out of the campsite, reaching over to take my hand in hers as she drove us
home.
“You are my stars,” she whispered to
me, keeping her eyes on the road. “And I’m still your father’s moon.”
