Falling Inward

The phone. Ringing and ringing, the sound was more insistent than usual, my mother's "Hello" stunted and pinched. I looked on vaguely aware of a world about to change.

My mom. She broke into near hysteria as soon as the phone hit the cradle. I wanted to run, fast, to get away from that scene; I hated seeing her cry, but more than that, I was preoccupied by figuring out what to wear to my Junior Prom. I didn't want her hysteria to overshadow my happiness.

Through sobs and gasps, I was able to gather that my father had had some sort of accident with his car. She said the word "pills" and "gin" a few times and then I heard the word "Jail." I waited to hear what the impact on me would be. If there was a problem, hopefully she could go take care of it.

The car. I sat in the driver's seat angrily staring out the windshield. Mom stood at the door waving at my urgently to start the car and get moving. Somehow I had been drafted into this family drama in spite of my resistance. My mother had quivered in fear, her sobs coming hard and fast and I felt pity and disgust in equal measures. She explained that my father had hit someone with his car after drinking too much and taking some sort of tranquilizer pills. No one had been hurt, fortunately, but the police came and found my father slumped over at the wheel. He was revived by an EMT crew and sent off to the local precinct cell to dry out overnight. Now here I was in the car left with the task to pick up my father's belongings from jail and to gather his things from his car, which was behind the police station.

I finally shoved the car into reverse and peeled out of the driveway in a showy display of anger. I can only wonder what my mother thought as she watched me drive away. I was enraged at this latest insult by my father to bring shame to our family, the latest in a long string of drunken and outrageous behavoir that made our suburban-family life appear too torrid for me to tolerate.

Jail.

"I cannot believe this." I thought, as I pulled into the police station and got out of the car. Suddenly, the reality of what was happening poured down on me and I broke into a cold sweat. Shaking, I reached the door and walked inside. I felt conspicuous, like a criminal myself. I didn't even need to explain who I was when I arrived.

"Mr. Joe?" the duty cop nodded to me. "I'll get his things."

He was off without even waiting for an answer. What if I was just a regular high school girl wanting to sell ads for the lacrosse team? How did he know that was my dad? I went cold with embarrassment.

As the cop walked back through the double doors with the plastic tie-top bag, I could hear yelling and a horrible inhuman moaning coming from the next room. The cop and I looked at each other pretending not to notice; I was trying hard not to contemplate the fact that the noise was my father.

The bag. Inside the bag was my father's belt (so he couldn't hang himself, according to my morose little sister), his wallet, his keys and his handkerchief. I rolled the bag tightly into my fists and walked around back to his car. The bag clung to my sweaty palms and I almost couldn't unclench it to remove the keys, which I forgot were inside. I didn't want to reach inside the bag. I felt like an invader, taking my father's freedom from him, even though upon later reflection, I realize that was something he did to himself. But at the time, that bag and its contents WERE my father, all that remained of him at the moment, frozen in time, when he surrendered and passed on the responsibility for his freedom to his eldest daughter.