Lunch

My father suggested we go out for lunch.

He had been in town a couple of days, there to witness my graduation from high school. This is one event he would see, so many others he had missed. My father had declared after my birth, the birth of his third child, that he had made a mistake. He didn’t want to be a father. He promptly packed up his belongings and his favorite mistress, to move to a warmer climate; a climate 1500 miles from me. Cello concerts, report cards, awards, school sporting events, proms, highs, lows – he missed them all. He was a distant relative I spoke with on the phone and visited every once in a while. He had his chosen, better life and I had my life – whether I wanted it or not.

I had barely spoken to my father the first few days of his trip. He then decided, perhaps to bribe me into speaking, that he would buy me a laptop as a graduation gift. We had finished buying the laptop, yet I wasn’t anymore talkative. So, his suggestion was lunch.

We pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant. My stomach somersaulted as my mind began to race with ideas of how to eat lunch without eating lunch. During the past year, I had shed almost 30 lbs from my 5’2” frame. Along with that, I lost energy, hair, my curves that I had loved. As we walked into the restaurant I could see the reflection of my pale, gaunt face in the door of the restaurant.

We sat silently at our table, my father shifting uncomfortably in his chair. He waited for me to speak, for me to be polite, for me to make him feel comfortable. I couldn’t. Not anymore. I couldn’t make him feel better about himself. For years I wondered what was wrong with me. How could he leave so easily? Why wasn’t I enough for him? Why did he have to move all the way across the country? Was I that uninteresting? Was I that plain? Why didn’t he love me?

It was inappropriate to display anger in my family – it would upset my mother. No – it was much more acceptable to walk on eggshells. So I learned. I learned to stuff it so I could take care of my family in the absence of my father. I learned to stuff so I wouldn’t be selfishly consumed with anger. My years of stuffing had done a number on my body. Finally, when I couldn’t stuff the anger anymore, it began to show up in other ways, like my eating (or lack there of). I thought it selfish to direct my anger outward – so I directed it at myself – and took it out on my body.

I decided a few weeks before my father came to visit, that I would tell him about my eating disorder. I worked up all the courage I could while on the phone with him one night. After all, it’s not appropriate to talk openly of uncomfortable subjects in my family. I danced around the topic for nearly half an hour. Finally, as my father began to end the conversation, I was forced to tell. I spoke slowly, pacing around my room. My head started to pound. I was going to do it – I was going to trust him. “Well Dad, what I’m trying to say is, I…I …well, I have an eating disorder.” I waited, holding my breath. Silence. Finally, an eternity later my father said, “Mmm.” I waited another moment. Nothing. I waited a few more moments. I made sure he was done speaking after his grunt of an answer. I said, “Well, I have to go. (pause) bye.” I was mortified, embarrassed, enraged, saddened. Why did he not care? Why does he not love me enough to be concerned. “Mmm.” Nothing more.

When my father first arrived into town for graduation and saw me, 30 lbs lighter, he said nothing. That's not quite true, he did say one thing when he looked at me - "Yeesh, you need to get to a tanning booth."

There we were sitting, my father waiting for me to speak. He started with small talk. I nodded my answers, looking out of the window as he spoke. He stopped. I began to think silently. I thought about the fact that my father and I had never had an open and honest discussion in my lifetime.

My father ended his story of his recent visit to see my uncle. I nodded my head and looked down at the table. He cleared his throat. “You know. This problem you have. Well, I think I might know a little bit about it. You see, I’ve never told you this, but I’m pretty hard on myself. I’m pretty much a perfectionist. That’s okay to a certain extent, but it has really disrupted my life. As I was working my way up the career ladder, I received many different awards. At the end of each month, I’d throw another plaque onto the floor of my closet. I only notice when I don’t get an award at the end of the month. And I obsess over not getting one. I ask myself why I’m so terrible at my job.”

My father went on to say that maybe I got my need for perfection from him. I thought for a moment, paused, then began talking. While I didn’t think the roots of our problems were the same, I appreciated my father’s candor. Finally, candor. I tried to explain my disease to him, as well as someone can who is on one side of an almost incomprehensible disease. I spoke of suppressed feelings. I spoke of subconsciously forcing myself to be the size of a child, because I so wanted to be in a child’s role at least once in my life.

My father listened, his forehead wrinkled, trying to grasp my explanation. I knew he would never fully be able to understand it, but it warmed my heart to know that he was trying to.
Then, my father did something I’ll never forget. He cleared his throat and looked up at me. Teary eyed, he said, “You know….I left you. I picked up and left. You and your brother and your sister.” He wiped his nose with his napkin. “That must have affected you greatly. That must have been very hard for you. “He paused to compose himself. “I’m sorry.” Tears rolled down his cheeks and mine. I reached over and placed my hand atop his. “It’s okay, Dad.”

It was not okay. It wasn’t the best response, but it was the only one I could muster at that moment. I marveled at the apology I had never thought I would receive.