ESCAPE
© 1991 by Lisa Dietz
Dusk fell over Los Angeles as I entered the small cottage- apartment. It was an efficiency place with one small room. The black and white TV, which the manager had loaned us, blared and flickered. A bed dominated the room and on it lay my father, a small fan turned back and forth, cooling his body. The whole place smelled of bad, rusty plumbing and urine from cloth diapers that still needed cleaning.
I carried my two and a half year old son in a pack on my back as I opened the door and watched the cockroaches scurry back and forth to hide from the light. Nervously, I headed for the tiny kitchen, unslinging Eric from the pack on the way. I moved the portable crib out of the way and immediately began preparing dinner.
"What took you so long?" demanded my father from the bed.
"I'm sorry, I just couldn't sell much today."
I had been out, as usual, trying to sell Dad's prints--etchings he had done years ago. It was not a very profitable endeavor. It did not help that we lived in Watts -- one of the poorest, most violent, drug oriented centers of the country. I was trying to sell to hookers, pimps, run-down store owners, smelly bystanders and crooked businessmen. A cold and cruel lot of people, they were hardened by the tough life on the streets. Usually, they believed nothing I said. They laughed about the story of a dying father at home.
"Right," they would say and just wink as if they'd used that one too.
Maybe my doubt about my father's "unpredictable" heart condition or the hopelessness of the situation I lived in caused my insecurity to show and made them taunt me. Men were forever suggesting that I had better means of making a few dollars. This daily struggle with a harsh world haunted me into my evenings with an insane father.
Eric started fussing.
"Shut that kid up," he yelled.
I knew from his tone that it was going to be a hard night. I quickly gave Eric a bottle and, for the moment, he was quiet.
"Did anyone come-on to you today?"
"Only the usual," I answered, tense. "They're such animals out there. Hardly anyone believes me."
"Well, you brought something home so someone must have believed you or did you give your little ass a workout?"
I calmed the hot flush of anger and indignation. "Dad, you know I'd never do that," I answered.
"Yeah, right. Where's my codeine?"
My hands began to tremble and the pan I was holding dropped noisily to the floor. "The dentist wouldn't give me anymore," I said quietly. "He said not until next week."
The silence that followed increased my anxiety. I tried to recompose myself, recalling the scene in the dentist's office. I had begged the dentist to refill the prescription, but he wouldn't budge. "But he's in so much pain," I had pleaded. He finally chased me out and told me to come back in a week. I knew this would enrage Dad, but had hoped that his valium supply would hold him until I could get more. A sudden headache began to pound in my temples.
As I prepared dinner, the interrogation continued.
"What's for dinner?"
"Potatoes," I replied
“Again? You worthless piece of shit, can't you ever do better than that?"
"Sorry Dad."
Throughout the meal, his complaints about my incompetence continued. My mind wandered beyond the stream of insults. Three years ago it had been different. I remembered his face as I got off the plane in Key West, Florida. His eyes were full of pride. He had run to meet me, after 17 years of separation, and held me so tight, tears streaming down his cheeks. He said he would never let me go and showered me with love and gifts. He cursed my family, who had abandoned me because I was pregnant. He promised to take care of me from now on.
That seemed so long ago. As the disease in his mind and the drug abuse increased, his promises turned cold. Now, like a caged animal, I had lost all hope of change, all hope that he would return to the loving father he'd been. His insults permeated my brain as I clung, desperately, to old memories.
"Are you listening to me?" his anger brought me back to the moment.
After the dishes were washed, I curled up, like a lost child, in the only chair in the room. We were watching TV and I felt relieved by the silence. At some point, he got up to go to the bathroom, but when he came out, he did not return to the bed. Instead, he stood in front of me, a look of seething hatred on his face.
"Now you're gonna find out what it's like for me to be without codeine," he said. He gripped my chin and pulled my face inches from his.
"It's pain -- you understand -- pain!"
Releasing my head, the back of his fist swung into my temple, sending me to the floor. Eric started screaming hysterically and tried to crawl on top of me.
"Put that kid to bed," he ordered.
My hands shook as I snuggled him into his crib. Immediately, he crouched into a fetal position, closed his eyes, and began sucking on his bottle. I wished I could lie down next to him, but resignedly pulled the blanket over the top of the crib, and left the kitchen.
Terrified, I faced my father and received another blow that sent me to the floor again. I tried to crawl into the bathroom, but he chased me, kicking with booted feet. One foot caught me in the eye and I blacked out. When I came to, I was still being beaten, but it had changed. It was like I wasn't really there. I seemed to have separated from my body and was watching from above. I saw myself putting my arms over my head to defend against the blows as he continued kicking my legs and stomach. But I remained distant.
Finally, he stopped. As he left the crumpled heap of my body on the floor, I returned to my senses. Every movement produced stabbing pains. I looked in the bathroom mirror to see the damage. There was blood flowing from my forehead and the bruises and swelling were already starting to show. Waves of nausea gripped me as I tried to clean up. At last, I returned to my place in the chair, hoping he would fall asleep.
Silently, I blamed myself. I blamed myself for not trying harder, for not doing more, for not providing him with a better life. The doubts flooded in. His curses echoed in my mind. And ultimately, I asked myself the question that really plagued me: If my own father can't love me -- who can? In my despair, I thought of leaving, but I had no place to go. Since I'd been with Dad, I'd isolated myself, at his demand, from everyone I once knew. And if he caught me, I was convinced he'd try to kill me, or worse -- kill Eric.
I sat there in that cold, hard chair, knees tucked to my chest and shivered. Well, at least it was over for tonight, I thought. He's got it out of his system.
I was wrong. Suddenly, he sprang out of bed, grabbed the gun he kept hidden under his pillow and jammed it against my already throbbing head, pinning me to the wall.
"You want to leave, don't you?" he demanded.
"No Daddy, I love you. I'll never leave you," I cried.
"No, that's not it, you're trying to hurt me -- not bringing me my drugs, feeding me shit and slumming around all day with pimps and hookers. That's it, isn't it?"
"No Daddy, I swear."
"Look at me."
The cold steel at my temple pressed in harder. Forcing my face around, I suddenly became terrified. The look in his eyes was cold and devastating -- like he was possessed by a demon. In that moment, I knew I faced the insane -- the truly insane. I knew he would kill me. He did not love or hate me. He was just crazy.
"I'm going to kill you," he said.
"I know."
I began praying and waiting for it to happen. Then I thought of Eric, alone with this beast.
"Beg me to save your life!" he yelled.
"Please Daddy, don't kill me. Let me love you. Let me take care of you."
"You call this taking care of me?" he looked around the room.
"I'll do better," I promised, "Tomorrow I'll do better."
"Liar."
"Please, Daddy, please.”
For an instant, time was frozen; his finger poised on the trigger, wanting to shoot, the wild look in his eyes, burning into my memory; the fear and realization that in seconds, I would be dead. I don't know why he pulled back. But when he did, I breathed again.
"Okay," he said, "pack up your things and go."
This was another game. I knew how to play. If I did what he said, I'd be dead for sure.
"No, I don't want to go. I want to stay with you."
"No you don't -- take your ratty kid and leave."
This conversation repeated itself several times before he finally gave up and said, "Okay, have it your way."
With the memory of those crazed eyes blazed into my mind, I knew I couldn't stay any longer. It took two more weeks before I finally got the courage to escape with my son. That was the last time I saw my father. But the memory, the cold, rabid eyes, the nightmare of insanity, these live on.