When I was four years old, my mom died in an automobile accident. I had no brothers or sisters; it was just my dad and I. Both of my grandparents passed away when I was in my early teens. My dad was an only child and my mom had a brother and sister, neither of whom my dad particularly cared for. So, in the end, it was just the two of us.
For as long as I can remember, he taught English Literature, starting out at community colleges and steadily working his way to the university level. On the side, he also wrote extensively.
His job took us all over the country, sometimes living in one place for two or three years, and then packing up to move to another town and another college where he would teach. Throughout it all, I managed to get by well enough, even with the lack of long-term friendships. To be sure, I did have friends, but always in the back of my mind was the prospect of having to pack up and resettle in a new school and start over again. I enjoyed it somewhat, however. I met a lot of people and saw places I probably would otherwise have never visited.
The one constant in my life was my dad. He was always very attentive and knew the moving was hard on me, so we did many things together. And all these years later, I look back and can see just what a wonderful father he was.
Right after my mom died, I spent a lot of time sleeping in their bed. Soon it became a regular habit and lasted until I was about twelve years old. I was entering my teen years and spent more time in my own bedroom, chatting with what few friends I had on the phone, talking about boys, movies, and all the nonsensical things teenage girls enjoy gabbing about.
When my dad wasn't at school, he was tucked away in his study in front of his typewriter, and then later his computer, spending many long hours writing and editing. I'd sometimes come in and pester him; just sitting on the floor talking about how my day went and asking him about his. He'd type away, lean in and stare at whatever he was working on, smile and nod, and ask me questions. I knew I was being a bother, but he never said anything otherwise. He seemed to enjoy the company, even if it was a distraction.
***
I had my first date with a boy when I was fourteen. I was very excited that evening, running around the house, frantically getting myself ready. My dad would follow me around, trying to keep me calm, but never quite succeeding. And when my young suitor arrived, he walked me downtown to the movie theater - neither of us old enough to drive. On the way home that night, he gave me my first kiss. It was a romantic Saturday evening in May, and I had goose bumps the entire way home.
I told my dad all about my date when I got home, and he was nearly as happy as myself. When I explained how the young man had kissed me, he tilted his head down and gave me a stern expression, although the smile growing on his face betrayed his thoughts. He was genuinely happy for me. But I could sense he was perhaps a little sad, too. His little girl was growing up.
That night lying in bed, I searched my mind, trying to recall every detail of my date. I recalled the expression my dad gave me when I told him about that first kiss. There was just a hint of disappointment, when I gleefully exclaimed how I was becoming a woman before his very eyes. And then I thought about how he never dated. I'd never put too much consideration into it before, but now that I was beginning to date, I wondered why he didn't. I thought it might be because of my mom. Although I only have vague memories of her, I still have pictures; of her and me, her and Dad at their wedding, the both of them together in college. She was a beautiful woman and, going by how highly my dad spoke of her, she must have been a wonderful person. So growing up, I tried to be just as good for my dad, as she was for him. I did everything for him, as my age would allow; making dinner, keeping the house neat and orderly, and doing the laundry. It was hard enough being a single parent, let alone one with a fulltime job, so I did my part to make life at home easier for him.
When I had my second date with this same boy a week later, I felt a twinge of regret at leaving my dad home alone. In fact, as the night wore on, I found myself wanting more and more to be at home with him. And by the end of the evening, I couldn't get in the house quick enough. I ran to my dad's study and burst in, while he sat his desk, working on a manuscript. He turned to me with a big smile, as I grinned, standing in the doorway breathing hard. Then he turned off his computer, stood, and walked me out to the kitchen where he got us two bowls of ice cream and asked me all about my evening.
That night, when we went to bed, I was standing in my room about to crawl under the covers. I paused, and then walked out of my room and over to Dad's, knocking softly on his door.
"C'mon in," he said.
I opened the door and found him sitting up in bed reading. He put a hand in his book and closed it, smiling at me.
"What's up?" he asked.
I stepped in and asked if I could sleep in his bed. It had been quite a while since I had and seemed to take him by surprise, but he nodded and pulled back the covers. I grinned and hopped in next to him, and we sat there for a moment, both of us silent, and me grinning from ear to ear.
"Whatcha readin'?" I asked.
"Oh, uh..." Then he held up the cover so I could see it. "Probably something you'd find boring," he said.
I craned my neck to get a closer look, and then curled my lip.
"Yeah, probably," I replied.
I sat there under the covers with my hands on my lap, not quite sure what to say, but happy all the same to be there with him. He finally glanced at me, saying, "So, uh... you mind if I...?" And he held up his book.
"Nah, go ahead," I chirped.
He gave me a warm smile and opened his book.
From that night on, not every night, but on occasion, I asked if I could sleep in his bed. I'd done it for most of my life and, in a manner, missed the closeness. And now, in my naive way of looking at it, I was doing it because I didn't want him to be lonely.
