Caroline Dederich

Word Count 1493

My grandmother told me that she tried everything she could to abort my father when she found out she was pregnant. In 1945, it was considered indecent for good Catholic Italians to get pregnant at the age of forty. It meant she was still having sex with her husband. Besides, she already had two grown children. She contacted the local mid-wife who knew all the old ways of the old country. She fixed potions for her to drink and elixirs to insert. The baby continued to grow.

In desperation, she threw herself down a flight of stairs and, in her words, jumped off the top of the refrigerator. Nine months later, my father was born to a mother who had tried countless times and in countless ways to kill him.

When I was old enough and bold enough, I asked my father why he started shooting heroin as a teenager. “Oh, he said, “ Simple. The first time I shot up, I thought I had found nirvana. All the pain and troubles just melted away. It was a miracle.” I remembered my Grandmother’s story and traced the origin of his pain all the way back to his fragile developing body, floating in amniotic fluid, forming his fingerprints, his limbs, his organs, his beautiful Romanesque face and nose, his heart, his tender heart, which had already been unknowingly rejected.

I once found a picture of my father as a small boy in his neighborhood of east Harlem. His hand is hidden in the front flap of his bulging jacket. He was eleven years old. “Dad,” I asked. “What are you hiding in your jacket?”

 “A gun,” he answered. My father found comfort, camaraderie and acceptance on the streets of New York. Nicknamed Little Caesar, he ran numbers for the men who sat on folding chairs outside the corner store. He formed a little gang of boys who were always truant from school - committing petty thefts and wreaking havoc. When thirsty, he would run into the local Catholic church and drink water out of the marble holy water bowl.

The men made sure he was fed. He would show up to school for rival basketball games; one fortuitous day he looked across the gym and there was my mother wearing her Catholic School uniform, standing against the wall. He said he heard bells ringing! She was well aware of his reputation in the neighborhood but he summoned his irrepressible charm and asked her out. He borrowed a friend’s car and took her to see West Side Story. Swept up in the torment, the romance, the tragedy, the heartbreak of two star-crossed lovers, they made love in the car. My sister was conceived that very night. Our parents were fifteen.

 My older sister learned that our Dad was an addict when she was ten years old. Her friend, Rosemary, told her that she had seen our Dad “nodding out” on a park bench. At first she didn’t know what that meant. But we both knew something was terribly wrong from the time we were little. He would come into our bedroom at night after he thought we were fast asleep and leave the door slightly ajar so that the hallway light would illuminate the way to our dresser. From the top drawer he would remove a bottle, unscrew the cap, and drink it all down. Sometimes he would drink another. We learned later it was codeine infused cough syrup.

My parents did not see each other much after their first date as he was sent to juvenile hall. My mother did not realize she was pregnant with my sister at first. She was to be a bridesmaid at a friend’s wedding and was being fitted for her dress. After the third fitting, the seamstress told her mother that her daughter’s waist seemed to be expanding quite rapidly. Her father sent her to a home for Catholic unwed mothers against my Nana’s wishes. Once my sister was born, she was placed in the home of a family in upstate New York.

 My mother had a six month reprieve before signing the final adoption papers.

She was desperate as her father made it clear he wanted no part in raising an illegitimate child. As the six month deadline drew near, my father returned to the neighborhood and ran into my mother walking home from school. She burst into tears and told him about their daughter. Without hesitation, my father said, “Where is she??? We have to go get her, she is ours! We’ll get married and nobody will ever be able to take our baby away from us.”

This one heroic act - of goodness, of fearlessness, of love, of devotion - bonded my mother to him. For all the hurt and heartache that was soon to follow, he had stepped up when it mattered most. My sister was wanted. We were kids, all of us, under the same roof.

By nineteen, my father had two daughters and a drug habit. I once walked into the apartment after school, and found my Dad sitting in front of the TV with a half-shaved head and a long line of stitches criss-crossing his scalp.

“What happened?”

 “I got in a fight and was hit over the head with a stickball bat,” he answered.

One time he was standing in the living room just staring out the window, motionless. For seconds, minutes, hours. My sister and I whispered to each other. “What is wrong with Dad?” All of a sudden he punched his fist through the window, shattering glass everywhere. Then he resumed his frozen stare.

He would lock himself in the bathroom for hours. “Dad, please open up, we have to go!!” we’d plead. Sometimes, he would be slumped, asleep, on the kitchen floor and my mother would silently mop around him.

My sister and I unknowingly accompanied him on trips to score his drugs. Oftentimes it worked to have two adorable daughters as unwitting accomplices. He would tell the pharmacist that we were sick and that he desperately needed medication for us. We would stand quietly, unsure what to do but certain not to refute his claims. He was so convincing and good at the con. Other times, we were merely a forgotten hindrance. He would drive us to Harlem where he would park on a street and lock us inside, telling us not to move until his return.

The day would turn into night. People would walk by and peer inside the car. My sister placed my small body on the floor of the passenger side and hovered over me, shielding me from their glare. Sometimes we would fall asleep. Always, we would cry. He would eventually return, silently glum, apologetic. I don’t remember if he told us never to tell our mother about these outings but somehow we knew not to say a word. Our tender, confused hearts were alternately traumatized and protective, terrorized and defensive. After all, he had returned to rescue us. In his haze, in his hurt and selfishness, he had returned.

 One day my sister and I discovered that all of the money we had been saving up - in pennies mostly - was missing. We had a large plastic Piggy Bank in our closet and for years we had been squirreling away change, saving up for a big payday. We were so proud of our savings. In our naivete we literally could not figure out what had happened to the money, never suspecting that our father was to blame. This betrayal of our innocence remains one of the most hurtful, enduring legacies of our father’s addiction.

 He eventually entered rehab and had several sober, healthy years. We reunited as a family but the wounds remained. As adult women, my sister and I tended to our father especially in his later years as his health failed. He seemed content and resolved, never blaming anyone else but himself for the choices he made in his life. After he died , his older sister, our beloved Auntie Annie, told us that a methadone clinic had called looking for him as she was listed as his emergency contact. He had not shown up for several weeks. At first my sister and I were devastated because we thought he had left all that dependency behind. But she said they were calling because they deeply missed him. He was a help to the staff, a shoulder to cry on for other patients, a friend to many who welcomed his presence.

It was his community. I hope it is where he found purpose and acceptance. His life is a testament to how being unwanted carries lifelong consequences. It produces pain that can’t be willed or loved away. Eventually, I discovered that compassion is not about finding solutions. There is grace in acceptance of the truth. He left us with painful memories that endure - wounds that have formed into scars - but also forgiveness, mercy, and love.

Caroline is a daughter, sister, wife, mother of twins, retired business owner, and champion of educational endeavors. A lifelong diarist, she has written for friends and family - wedding ceremonies to eulogies! - and is now ready to share her writing with the world.