Learning to Cry

by Christopher C. Payne

  I was in my office when Melissa’s school called, saying she had not shown up that day for class. I told them this was impossible. She left for school that morning, she was there. They had to be wrong. After being assured that their facts were straight, I left work and headed home. How patient is an employer with the parent of a troubled child? Companies are so callous, do they really care what distraction is causing a lack of productivity or is the bottom line the only factor? At the moment I didn’t care.

  I opened my front door and heard Melissa scream. I ran into the kitchen and saw her lying on the floor in a little pool of blood. It seemed fresh. It took me a few minutes to figure out what was going on. Her hasty explanation did little to enlighten me as I realized instantly it was nothing close to the truth. Her lies were so superficial. While it made me sad to hear them, I was also getting disgusted in being forced to endure the worthless banter protestations spewing out of her mouth.

  While I was initially concerned for her, I quickly saw she only had a small cut on her toe. What replaced my concern was erupting anger that burst forth from every pore of my body as I registered the state of our house, our home. I have never been robbed, never been attacked or really ever been assaulted in any way. There was one time when my car was broken into and someone stole a few CDs and other items from the front seat, but it didn’t seem personal for some reason. It was just part of the course of parking on the city streets.

  I looked around at the beer cans and the food packages. The filthy, neglected state the house now appeared, and it left me feeling violated. She had gone too far this time. No matter what was coming out of her mouth, it was evident that there were people in the house recently, and they had destroyed our house. Destroyed might be overly dramatic, but still, they had trashed it. There was stuff everywhere, and Melissa continued to proclaim that she and a couple of girls hung out that afternoon. Did she really think I was that stupid?

  Finally, I couldn’t take anymore.

  “Do you think I am a complete idiot?” I yelled. “Please just shut the hell up, and don’t say another word. You are a sad, pathetic excuse for a daughter.”

  I regretfully muttered this as I walked past her to assess the damage in the rest of the rooms. Beds were used and clothes were askew. Jesus would have found this as close to any brothel he visited in his time of rebuke, retribution and, oh wait a minute, forgiveness.

  God, is this what my daughter had become? Somebody who would skip school, do drugs, get drunk and sleep with anyone who happened to pass her way? Is this the person I had reared?

  Melissa ran past me and slammed her door. I could hear her crying in her bedroom as she flipped on the TV and began the process of losing herself in the mindless drivel we now call entertainment. Escape. My daughter sought freedom from life in everything imaginable. Maybe I did the same. I escaped my marriage with a divorce. I escaped my work by drinking. I had done drugs and, periodically, still did. It didn’t seem wrong to smoke pot every once in a while but now…could I condone what was happening with my daughter?

  When I was young I used to love model cars. I would spend hours putting each little piece in place. Painting out the details, placing the decals exactly where they were supposed to go. Each section had to be taken apart, the nub of plastic filed down where it had been attached in the factory. On some of the sophisticated models, you even had several working parts. Doors would open, trunks would pull up, hoods would reveal the engines that were all decked out inside. A model car was special because you helped form it from a mass of parts. You helped mold it into shape, watching it grow into something special.

  Still, you had to be delicate with the product while it was in the stages of production and even upon completion. If it fell, or was stepped on, kicked, dropped, squashed, you might find it was irreparable. Some of the pieces were too intricately woven together to ever find their way back once the ties that bound them were so harshly cut.

  Imploding and our introduction to the police

  Father

  I had never been arrested. Well, at least not by the normal police. There was a time when I was arrested by the military police. I was in the National Guard for several years. This was before The National Guard was used for actual military adventures. We manned flood zones and hosted the local Christmas party for our members. It was an exciting experience, and the college benefits were fantastic. I’m not sure how I would have responded had we been deployed.

  Once during a two-week annual training at Fort McCoy, Wisconsin, I spent most of the time in the field. A mobile shower unit hit my company about four days into our camping trip. The guys showered, but they ran out of time before the officers could shower. I was a platoon leader, so I missed out. No harm no foul. That is why we got paid the big bucks, right? So early the next morning when we had some down time, one of the other officers and I decided to take a quick trip back to the barracks and clean up. Seemed easy enough.

  The speed limit on a military post is 45 miles per hour. I, at the time, drove 60 miles per hour in my zest to spend as much time in the shower as possible. My fellow officer suggested I slow down, and my reaction was to scoff at this ludicrous idea. It had poured, raining buckets the night before. There would be no military police on the road this early in the morning, driving in foot high mud. As soon as this conversation concluded, the lights came on behind me, and I was pulled over. Ah, the irony. I received my ticket and instructions to remain in my barracks until I was summoned to the Provo Marshall upon return from our exercise. As always, I did as I was told.

  Interestingly enough the instructions were slightly skewed, and apparently I was supposed to report to the Provo Marshall upon our return. Since I failed to do so, a warrant was issued and a few hundred Military Police combed the base looking for me. How stupid is the weekend warrior police force? Wouldn’t they have simply sent a couple of guys over to my barracks and asked around before beginning a manhunt?

  The two idiots who finally found me (sitting in my barracks) grabbed me, handcuffed me, and threw me in the back of their vehicle. All of this over a speeding ticket. I wish I remembered the name of the moron who arrested me at the time. I would like to see what gas station he is currently working at today. I went cursing and screaming while my Captain scurried into his hole looking for our Battalion Commander.

  When my two commanding officers got their act together they met me at my makeshift jail cell a couple hours later. We pled our case, were sent home, and were asked to keep the speed down in the future. Getting a ticket as a commissioned officer is not the same as an enlisted person for everyone’s future reference. If you are going to speed, have somebody drive for you. It makes life a whole lot simpler.

  From that time on I was never allowed to drive my own vehicle again. I spent the remainder of my military career riding shotgun. As far as punishments go, I can think of far worse consequences than getting an assistant out of the deal. It reminds me of the “Seinfeld” episode where they come up with an idea for a television program with a butler for a character. Nothing like having a butler as you go through life. I guess I will never have that opportunity now, but my odds were always pretty slim anyway.

  I do wonder what it would be like for all those people who become so familiar with police that it is commonplace to meet them on the street. Riding in the back of a squad car is nothing more than a taxi cab to some folks. If you know a cop or a cop knows you by sight and name, you should take note that your life is going down a bad track.

  Melissa deteriorated severely after the party episode. It was almost as if she no longer cared about life, and nothing seemed to matter. Her grades were poor before, but now they were atrocious. She was flunking several classes and getting detentions for being tardy every other day. She spent more and more time in the office with her counselor, and he wondered if she would make it through the year. One Wednesday night, it all came to a head when she merely lied about doing her homework.

  All three girls and I were eating at
the dinner table. Melissa was moodier than normal, and I continually had to ask her not to lay her head on the table while we were eating. Why would you even have to ask somebody not to lay their head down while everyone is attempting to enjoy their meal? It is the simple things in life that make absolutely no sense. Who doesn’t get the basics? Are all teenagers so self-absorbed they can’t understand dinner etiquette. Jesus, to hell with etiquette, I would have been happy with her keeping her hair out of the food.

  As we discussed the day the topic of homework arose, and all three kids said they were done. With my two younger ones, it was believable. They had spent the last two hours at the table actually doing homework. They had books open, papers out, and even used pencils. Melissa spent the last two hours with her head down, apparently sleeping. How stupid did she think I was?

  I turned on the computer, which sits on the desk right by the table and clicked on her School Loop. Say what you want about the school system, budget cuts, and lack of programs, but School Loop is fantastic. Teachers post grades in real time, and they lay out the homework for all to see. Both child and parent can keep an up-to-date status of where everything lies. With Melissa it wasn’t a pretty picture. But I only cared about that day’s homework, and there was a lot.

  I asked her if she had finished the English paper that was due the next day. She said yes. I, then, asked to see her completed English paper, and she refused saying it was put away. I told her I would happily wait for her, and she begrudgingly went to grab her backpack. After a few minutes of shuffling papers, she said she couldn’t find it. She must have lost it. I had no idea how to respond to this.

  “Do you think I am that stupid?” I asked. “Why do you constantly lie to me? Why is it so hard to even make an attempt? Do you want to work in a gas station when you grow up? Do you want to be a drop out? Do you not care at all about your future?”

  I just couldn’t hold my frustration in any longer.

  Now Melissa and I have argued. She has zero control over her emotions, and once she is angry, a switch flips, and she turns into Dr. Jekyll, or is it Mr. Hyde? Whichever one is the bad one, that is the beast who emerges. She cursed and screamed and yelled at me. I was not her father. Where had I been her whole life? I left her with her mother. I left the family. I was really to blame for all of her problems. I guess this is a typical teenage outburst, but the difference was her eyes.

  You can see inside a person through their eyes, I believe. Eyes really are the gateway to somebody’s soul. Sadly, if that gateway leads nowhere, the eyes are nothing more than hollow vacant orbs, floating inside somebody’s head. I saw nothing inside of her, and it scared me. I wondered before where my daughter had gone, and I now knew she was completely lost.

  She ran into her room, throwing the table chair down as she left. She slammed the door, and I then heard an eruption of World War III commence. I didn’t open the door, but there was banging and slamming, and it sounded like glass breaking. I was worried for her safety and for my two younger daughters.

  I called my ex-wife.

  I never called my ex-wife on the phone. I couldn’t stand talking to her. I truly did hate her, and this was not conducive to a healthy relationship for any of the kids. I just couldn’t help it. I was tired of the rumors she spread about me. I was tired of the things she told our old friends. If I had a dollar for every time somebody told me what they overheard her say, I might have enough money to pay off the credit card debt she racked up and left for me to pay.

  Still, this was our daughter, and I had no choice. I phoned her, let her hear what was happening, and we decided to have her parents come to the house and pick up the two little ones. Cheryl couldn’t do it since she was out of town. We also decided that I would call the police and have them attempt to talk with her. If she were truly hurting herself maybe they could help. The crashing and banging in the bedroom continued through our entire conversation.

  I hung up and dialed 911.

  I don’t really understand the psychological impact of dialing 911 in response to my daughter’s actions. It seemed logical, but still, how is that even possible? The little girl I held in my arms. The small child I dressed at Halloween. The girl that went to her first dance as I watched. She entered this world a sweet, innocent little girl, and now I was struggling to define who or what she had become. Had she really degraded to a point where the police needed to intervene?

  I explained the situation to them, and they handled it the same as I would go about a conversation with my dry cleaner. They kept an officer on staff trained to handle teenage domestic disputes and said they would send him over. It would take him 30 minutes or so, and they said I should leave her alone and remain calm until the officer arrived. No problem, I remember thinking. Why would I overreact to my daughter destroying her bedroom and threatening me?

  Cheryl’s parents arrived and picked up the two little ones. Cassandra was crying, and Amelia was close to tears. Her parents are decent people, but Cheryl had filled their heads with so many lies they detested me. I saw the strain in their faces as they looked at me. I could sense them judging me for this incident, as well as so many others. But I honestly didn’t care. My daughter was in trouble. I was now going to do whatever it took to pull her back, or at least get her to look at the direction she was headed. Maybe if nothing else, dealing with a police officer might jolt her into reality.

  Since this is true confessions, I should admit that while I was never arrested as an adolescent, it was more from luck than anything else. Most of my friends had been arrested at least once. It didn’t seem like a big deal at the time. Caught for underage drinking, having a party where alcohol was present, serving underage drinkers, smoking pot, etc. These are normal things for which teens get reprimanded. I was one of the few in our group who managed to make it out unscathed. I just happened to never be in the wrong place at the wrong time, but I participated in all the same activities.

  When the officer arrived, he spoke with me for a few minutes. He tried to get the lay of the land. By that time, the commotion had ceased in the bedroom, and an eerie silence had crept over the house. I wonder if this is what Damien’s mom felt like in The Omen right before he shoved her off the staircase. That was how she died, right? It wasn’t really an accident like the police report stated at the time. After talking with me he approached the door and lightly tapped on it.

  “Melissa, this is Officer Tate,” he said. “I am with the Burlingame Police force, and I would like to talk with you for a few minutes, please.”

  The door creaked open, and it was so freaky, I thought I might see her head spinning in circles and her eyes bulging from her head. Instead I saw my daughter, Melissa. I saw her eyes puffy and red, her cheeks flushed, and it broke my heart. I wanted so much just to hold her, but she wouldn’t even look at me. The officer asked me to stay outside, and after Melissa agreed to see him alone, he spoke to her in the bedroom with the door closed. He asked her all the questions that logically pertained to the moment. Can you sense my ironic tone? Did I beat her? Had I hurt her? Was I threatening her? I understand that some parents are abusive, but society has gotten to a point of blaming the parent first and assuming it is always our fault. I had never laid a hand on this girl.

  With his concerns appeased, he stepped outside and asked me to join him. He said that Melissa was concerned with my tone. I had yelled at her, and she worried about how aggressive I was. She told him we’d been talking about her homework, and I went ballistic because she was not doing as well as I expected. I will hand it to her. She does tell an interesting lie. She can mix in just enough truth to make even me wonder what actually happened.

  I asked him if she also stated that she was flunking all but two classes? Not doing poorly, failing. I also asked him if she mentioned that she didn’t do any of her homework, and all that I cared about was her passing. Jesus, I never even contemplate her getting As anymore. If she brought home Cs, I would be fine with it. My standards for her had degraded substa
ntially. He looked a little perplexed, and before he could say a word, she started screaming. Screaming right there at both of us this time.

  Her grades were of no concern to me. They were her grades and her responsibility. I had no right talking to her teachers. I had no right getting involved in her business. She spewed forth so many of my parental violations I couldn’t keep track. I also lost the concept of what a parent meant to her. If I had no right to be concerned with her actions and future, then why was she here? What was the point of our relationship?

  Finally, the officer asked Melissa if there was somebody she would feel comfortable staying with tonight. She agreed to call her aunt and see if she would pick her up. After a quick call, her aunt agreed and would be there in about 20 minutes.

  Damn, I had started out the evening having dinner and talking about homework with three of my daughters, and I would end the evening with none of them under my roof. I was losing daughters faster than I could keep up. It is almost enough to make a person cry.

  My daughters often discussed the fact that I never cried. None of them had ever seen me cry. Crying is just not my thing. I had been sad before, but crying just always seemed over the top. It wasn’t from any sort of macho thing. I just didn’t do it. I guess I was so depressed in general that nothing ever seemed sad enough to push me over the edge to tears. There was no need.

  When I opened the door, my sister-in-law said hello and gave me a hug, I burst into tears. I couldn’t hold them in any longer. I sobbed as she held me, and I felt like I was a child again. I was exhausted. Life shouldn’t be this difficult. I told her the basics and felt that with her Melissa should be fine. By this time the policeman had gone, and Melissa was locked back in her bedroom. She walked back and knocked on Melissa’s door. Melissa was all packed and now ready to go. She left that evening without saying goodbye. My tears had dried up by the time she walked out of the door, so she never saw me losing control, but the second the door closed, they flowed freely the rest of the evening.