23 Chromosomes

By Haleigh Dixon

Obsession leads to madness, so I only think of you once or twice a year. I don’t mean to sound mean, but it’s the cold, hard truth. You’re a leech on my psyche, a fly in my ear. Yet I still want to hold, to love you, but I can’t keep something that was never really mine in the first place. You are a vague memory now, a ghostly recollection of firsthand accounts recounted by Mom. She told me about the dusty holes in the floor where furniture once stood and the stillness of an empty house. She expressed the crushing weight of caring for two young children, of turning a house into a home alone. Thankfully, she stored her maternal love in the walls of our ranch-style home. We survived on Goodwill pay and food stamps. Mom was stressed, but us kids were happy. Then you returned like a space invader from another planet, and I was prompted to call you – a person I didn’t know – by an unfamiliar name.

As I sit here, I can’t help but think I would’ve preferred it if you never appeared like the alien in Nope, come to consume me. I wish I were like Daniel Kaluuyaa, a cowboy riding over the horizon, releasing floats into the sky as my replacement. But you whisked me away on a trip to North Carolina to visit people you called my family. I played in the backyard of an old house painted white, bushes peeking through a chain fence that kept the dogs in. I played with the dogs while I waited for my brother to pay attention to me. I walked in and out of that house, too scared to settle in one place. I rubbed my cousin’s feet for $10 in the back room while he played video games. Then I got diarrhea. I fell asleep. Next thing I knew, I was in the back seat of a car with your sister at the wheel. Despite her numerous speeding tickets, she was speeding down the highway. Why couldn’t you take us home? I don’t recall. I was too busy clutching my seatbelt, a silent prayer that we wouldn’t die. Suddenly, I was home, but I still knew nothing about you besides a round nose and a kiss on the lips, hello.

To fill in the gaps, I threw myself into daydreams that filtered in my sleep. I never imagined you as a Superman type. You could never lift cars or fry people with eye beams. You weren’t a Falcon or He-Man type. You never flexed your muscles like a macho man come to sacrifice his life for the greater good. You certainly weren’t someone who got the girl. You never saved the day. Not once. Instead, you had top billing in neorealistic stories about working a sensible 9 to 5. Between playing pretend with my Barbies and emotionally manipulating my friends on the playground, I never wondered what you were doing. I only wondered why you were doing it. I rationalized in my mind that you left us to pursue your purpose. You were rich and successful because you could do anything and be anyone, or so I told my best friend at the time. They asked me why mom was struggling and why I didn’t ask you for money. I simply replied, “We don’t talk.” Maybe you left because the family you created was holding you back. You needed to leave to achieve your calling - to buy me things. I felt that I could accept the way things were if your absence resulted in tangible possessions.

Some would say that possessions are purely material, but I would say they’re an emotional state, a reaction capable of turning water into blood and blood into water. Someone once told me that blood is thicker than water, but who wants blood when water is the foundation of life? Mom had already provided me with water by working into the night, attending parent-teacher conferences, and scraping together pennies for my vision therapy. Mom attempted to spackle the hole in my heart with love, but sometimes, she drew blood by filling my room with stuffed animals and toys that played a disappearing act when I broke the rules. She wanted to teach me discipline and responsibility, but the only thing I learned was how to steal and disappear. I would snatch another’s love, withhold my affection, and disappear when I didn’t get what I wanted. Nana used to say I was only nice when I wanted something. When she said it the first time, I was deeply offended, not because I thought Mom taught me better, but because I thought I was better at hiding it. I wanted something I felt I was entitled to because I possessed you, and you possessed me. In a relationship, isn’t that all you need? Possession.

I was your daughter–store brand. Our special bonding days were labeled generic. Though I had conflicting feelings, these days were an anchor to which I clung. I only saw you when the weather turned hot or when the weather turned cold. I liked those moments because they gave me hope. I hoped that I wouldn’t feel pain when I saw you. I have a vague memory of you taking me out before my birthday. I don’t know which one, but it had to be before January because Christmas hadn’t happened yet – or maybe it did – but holiday sales were in full swing. I think we went out to eat, or maybe I complained during a game of mini golf about going to the store to buy my birthday present. I don’t know. That might have been a different day because my brother joined us for mini-golf, and it was hot that day. No. My brother wasn’t there the day you took me out before my birthday. I only remember a crowded Best Buy packed with customers fighting for holiday deals. You made me an offer. You probably thought I wouldn’t refuse. You showed me a camera. A little silver camera. You requested snapshots of my life. Back then, I couldn’t recognize that photographs contained a million unspoken words. But at the time, the only offer I wanted was a guarantee that you would never leave. And I couldn’t have that, so I asked for a Littlest Pet Shop instead. 

I remember the crestfallen look on your face as you handed the cashier your credit card, but I convinced myself not to care. I had your love in the form of hard plastic, a type of love I would grow well acquainted with throughout my short life. Nevertheless, the look in your eyes planted guilt in my soul. I was determined to correct my mistake because I resolved that I needed you enough to put in the effort. I don’t know when it started, but I decided I would call you every single day. I remember the first time I got the courage to do it. It was a school night. I decided to call you on a school night, so we had something to talk about – my school day. I stood in my room. I practically burned a hole in my carpet with my pacing. I paced and paced and paced. The only things caging me in were my four walls. I snacked on the skin around my nails because the satisfying peel of flesh calmed my nerves. I didn’t know whether you would answer when I called. I felt a little lighter when you did. I called you every day for a week, maybe two. We talked and talked and talked. I tried to find something in common because I needed us to work. I decided to have faith in you. I left the phone cold for a day, then two, three, four, five, six, and seven. I truly thought you would call, but you never did. Maybe that test wasn’t fair, but what else do you do when you’re a kid, and you can’t logic away why your dad doesn’t seem to care?

Annual caring is an unfortunate truth of the world. I guess you got the message when January first came around. I had the most peculiar feeling that day. I was alone and sick. I had nothing to distract me from my loneliness. My Mom ran in and out of the house. Her boyfriend enacted self-confinement in another room – until his dinnertime - because we rarely exchange words past hello and goodnight. My grandparents stayed in their home, just twenty minutes down the way. They couldn’t afford to get sick in their old age, so they stayed home. I lay on the couch while I scrolled through Netflix. I thought a silly musical would band-aid my empty heart. Then the clock hit 7:47 p.m. I heard my phone buzz. You wished me a happy birthday on my “big 23” and told me you loved me. And instead of replying, I watched Grease and Honey Girls instead.

Then May came around – the 26th, 8:55 p.m. – and you sent me an Instagram link. Maybe you thought a cute dog would sway me. I didn’t open the text until today. I didn’t reply. Then June 5th, at 10:09 a.m., you asked me to “take a look at VOO vanguard when you get a chance,” and later that day, at 5:36 p.m., you sent me a link to an article that teaches people how to invest in index funds. I didn’t read the article. I didn’t reply. Last Sunday, June 11th, at 12:22 a.m., you sent me another link to an Instagram video. This time, the video featured a finance guru gently talking into a microphone about achieving financial freedom in your 20s. I watched the first two seconds, then bailed. I didn’t reply. Seven regular days lead to June 18th, 2023 - Father’s Day. Father’s Day has always confused me because the world wants me to have a father. The church down the street wants me to have a father. Publix commercials want me to have a father. The Hallmark store wants me to have a father. Even my mom wants me to have a father. I don’t think of you when I look at Hallmark cards on Father’s Day. At least not in the way they want me to think. When I look at those cards, I think of my grandfather’s wisdom, my grandmother’s guidance, and my mom’s steady presence. I’ve concluded that you can’t be my dad because I already have a dad, and my dad’s name is Mom.

Mom didn’t teach me to understand radio silence as a love language or to justify distance as a necessary evil. The annual soundwave via call or text was not a band-aid for relationships. Plastic was not an acceptable substitution for emotional intimacy. Perhaps you learned these behaviors from your father? Maybe your father was mean? Maybe he was nice. I wouldn't know because I never met your father, and I'm not sure you did either. He may have done to you what you did to me, only bound by DNA and vague memories. I don't scorn you for what you were, but I cry when I think of what you continue to be. The progression of our relationship is unfortunate, but possessions degrade after a time, and that which is possessed can be taken. In the end, all that remains is us and our capacity for love. So, I thank you for giving me life, but your 23 chromosomes only don't make you, my father.