GODDAMN VIRGIN ANGEL BABY

MEMOIR

CHAPTER ONE: I DON’T KNOW JACK ABOUT JACK

“But Mama, what’s he like?” I ask.

“You’re askin’ me? Good Lord, Becky!" Mama exclaims. 

Mama loves the Lord. She loves the Lord so much that we sped out of a McDonald’s once and left our Big Mac, Happy Meal, and McFlurry when the total came to $6.66. And this Sunday, like every whole day of obligation, like almost every day, Mama is at Mass in the suburbs of Marietta, Georgia. I’m joining her while I’m in town from Los Angeles and I’m attempting to play by her rules. The Mass has ended, the other churchgoers have cleared out, and yet, we’re still praying.

“Come on, Mom. What’s he like?” I insist. 

“Apparently you’re going to find out for yourself, Rebecca, when you meet him.” She grits her teeth as she whispers, “You won’t find him around here, can tell you that much.”

‘Him’ refers to my biological father, Jack, and ‘around here’ means the Catholic Church. I guess he was raised non-denominational and that might as well mean he’s a devil worshiper in her eyes. In her defense, non-denominational almost has the word demon in it.

See, my mom converted to Catholicism as an adult. Then she ‘converted’ my real father to Catholicism and got married to him in the church. Then she divorced him and remarried my stepfather, ‘converted’ him, and had some ceremony in the Catholic Church. Then she bought a two hundred pound statue of the Virgin Mary and had it craned into our front yard.

We’re both silent, too silent. Even for church, even for prayers. There’s a tension I desperately need to cut through. I decide to open my mouth and say it, what my mom wants to hear. 

“Mom. Just ‘cause I’m meeting up with him, that doesn’t make him my dad.” 

And it doesn’t. My loyalty is obviously with her. The woman who raised us as a single mom for several years with no family support. Who took six or seven jobs to put a roof over our heads and food on the table when she couldn’t get a scrap of child support from my father. Who was a Special Education Parapro and a School Nurse just so we could get a good education in certain school systems. The woman who has never been perfect, but who has always been there.

As my mother clenches her eyes to signal she’s praying and ignoring my comment, I want to ask if she’s been as difficult with Glennjamin about the prospect of Jack in his life. Glennjamin’s my brother, Glenn. I call him Glenny or Glennjamin. He’s twenty-four, almost two years older than I am, and one of the most complicated human beings I’ve ever known.

He used to give away all his lunch money to kids who said they didn’t have money for food. He physically got in the middle of a fight at school between a pregnant girl wielding a brush, the supposed mistress, and the baby daddy in question. He's never had to try to understand math, somehow he's always understood. But for having a heart of platinum, the strength of Hercules, and a brain of really smart stuff, he lacks social graces. And self-confidence. So now he’s an unemployed recluse. He barricades himself in his room, plays video games, and does not attend Mass. When I lived at home in Georgia, I was lucky if I saw him once a week. 

I don’t ask Mama the question about Glennjamin because I already know the answer. Of course, Glenny doesn’t have the same difficulty. He’s a boy, looking for his dad, and boys get passes on stuff. Naturally, boys can do lots of things I’ve considered doing but have been told vehemently I can’t. Become a priest. Be a bat boy for Major League Baseball. Go to space. Write books. Do math. Fuck.

Mama genuflects, kicks her kneeler back in place, and motions to me to finally leave. “You’re just lucky you have a real father in your life and not that sperm donor,” Mama utters.

As we exit our church, I don’t say to my mother that he’s not my father. Even though I call him Dad, he’s my stepfather. A busy doctor, an MD-PhD who continues his studies at Harvard, abstains from Mass, and swears my focus should be on my career, not boys.

Mama and him make an interesting pair because she’s the life of the party and he’s the wallflower. She’s the devout Catholic and he’s the closeted atheist. She doesn’t take shit and he doesn’t make a fuss. She can barely go a full sentence without a cuss word and he never swears. She drinks booze to hydrate and he rarely wets his whistle. 

And my father? No, not the Lord in heaven. My biological father. The one who I’m asking about. The one I’m flying from California to Georgia to Virginia to meet. The one I haven’t seen in at least sixteen years. 

I don’t know the guy. Not really. I don’t know the other half of who I am.

***

Do I hate myself because my biological father hates me? It’d be preferable to have someone to blame! I mean, he seems to hate me, even though I don't know jack about him. Well, not much.

His name is Jack Clifford Goodman, to be exact. Apparently, he hates the name Clifford, so my mom would call him that to piss him off. I know that he liked the finer things in life, like drag racing, fight nights, Mountain Dew, Yoo-hoo, grilled cheese sandwiches, driving with his knees, and slanging drugs. I don’t know whether he was using the drugas himself, but he did go to jail for selling the yicky-yack. My mother never told me this, but my cousin did at ten, which my Uncle Pat proceeded to confirm. I guess Jack also went to jail for fighting. That didn’t leave a ton of time to parent or husband. I’m choosing to use husband as a verb because it probably should be. 

Other things I know: Jack was supposed to inherit a lucrative construction business from his father, but refused to work. So he didn’t. Jack’s father was a basket baby left on the doorstep of a Hasidic Jewish family and they raised him. Jack’s parents had four times as many broken cars laying around on their acreage as working ones and seven or eight some children. The first time my mother went over to Jack’s family house they served her squirrel for dinner. ‘Love Shack’ used to be their song and ‘Pookie’ used to be their pet name for each other. I'm forbidden from singing or saying either. On their wedding day, Jack’s groomsmen sang a celebratory ‘Brown Eyed Girl’ to my mother, but her eyes are bright green. 

But that’s all I know. What I don’t know? Why he left me. Why he hates me. Why I am so unlovable. Why I feel sorry for myself to this degree.

My mother didn’t often talk about my bio father, but when she did, he was referred to as my sperm donor, or Jack, which meant any story or reference to him I held onto like my identity depended on it. 

Because it did. It does. Kind of. Jack is the other half of me. I feel like if I know more about him, I know more about myself.

I guess my brother shared the sentiment because he randomly showed up in Virginia on our real father’s doorstep and said, Hey, I’m your son. They’ve since developed a relationship over this past year, and my real father’s expressed interest in getting to know me, too. It only took him twenty-two years.

Mama says he’s resurfaced now because Jack’s nephew, my biological cousin, had a freak accident on a jet ski. A boat hit him because the boat’s driver was under the influence. Both of my cousin's legs had to be amputated, but that didn’t matter to him. He said he was just happy to be alive, so happy he lived through it. A few days later, a blood clot killed him.

Mama thinks Jack thinks I’m going to die in a freak jet ski accident, so he wants to make his peace. “This is all about him. Where the hell’s he been the past sixteen years, Becky?” Mama questions.

I see where I get it from.

This time is different, though. Instead of having his girlfriend send a card or call our house on his behalf, Jack has invited my brother and me to stay over at his house. I’m not quite sure what’s gotten into me, but I’m going with Glenny. Once and for all, I want to meet him. I want to see my dad, face-to-face. 

I’ve always had an idea of what it’d be like to have a dad. I mean, what girl doesn’t want a dad to protect them and care for them? A dad to save the day. A dad who knows what to say to his angel, his baby. I’m a woman now, but that basic want hasn’t gone away. My dad.

“He doesn’t have his front teeth, Becky. It was a construction accident and he’s worried you’ll judge him,” Glenny warns me. 

“I think his teeth are going to be the last thing I judge him on.”

“Go easy on him, Becky.” I don’t know why my brother is overprotective of my real father. Maybe it’s because he sees himself in Jack. 

I have no intention of going easy on Jack or hard on him. I don’t feel like I owe him anything. He wanted me to come to see him. I agreed. He should be glad. 

Let it be known, I’m not staying at Jack’s house. No way. We’re meeting at an aunt’s house, where tons of other Goodman’s are coming to see us, but we’re physically staying at my Uncle Pat’s. He's my uncle on my mom’s side and I’ve known him, and his kids, my whole life. I feel safe there.

My mom is less than thrilled. She’s made that known. But I have to do this. 

And also, I have a half-sister. My mom said Jack was unfaithful. He said that’s not true. She’s a few years younger than I am. Her name is Dana. I know she’s a tough cookie and she likes hunting, fishing, and mudding. I’ve always wanted a sister, especially a strong sister, and I’m more hopeful than ever that maybe we could have a relationship. 

 ***

We're here in Virginia and Glenny has agreed to drive to the Goodman reunion, which is convenient considering my mind’s racing in a million different directions. I couldn’t focus on the road if I had to. I'm scared to meet Jack. My real father.

When we pull off the paved road to the gravel road to a tract house with a front porch, we see tons of cars parked out front. It looks like a lot of people, a lot of relatives, are here to meet us. 

I want to grab Glenny’s hand and squeeze it as tight as possible as we walk up, but I don’t think he’d like that. Instead, I get really close behind him, using him as a human shield to do all the introductions. My plan, for now, is to wave and nod.

The door opens and I see tons of people with smiling faces. At least five females crowd around the front door, arms open. They all know Glenny’s name and my name, as well. I’m Rebecca, but everyone calls me Becky. Someone even pronounces my middle name correctly as Lee- as both Lee and Lea are pronounced the same in the South, the first being for a boy and the latter being for a girl- and not Le-uh. Praise! Even though I have no idea who they are. 

“You remember Aunt Trisch, right, Becky Lea?” Nope. Definitely don’t. I smile and nod. 

I’m not taking in any of these faces or names. I don’t care if I’ve met them or not. I’m confident I’ll never see them again. I’m here for my father. And my sister. I have a sister. 

When I see him, when he shows up thirty minutes late, I know exactly who he is. There was a doubt in me if I’d even be able to pick him out of a lineup. But he looks like me, he really does.

“Becky!” He opens his arms and cradles me. It feels monumental. He’s tall, 6 '2, with wavy brown hair and brown eyes. They look like mine. He has a longer chin and I immediately know where I get it from. He hasn’t smiled, he only smirks, so I can’t confirm if he’s missing his two front teeth or not. He doesn't seem like all the names my mom has called him. He seems, fragile.

“And this is your sister, Dana, do you remember her?” Jack says.

Of course, I remember her. If I thought I bore resemblance to my real father, looking at Dana is like looking into a mirror. Same wavy, mousy, strawberry blonde hair. Same big, brown eyes. Similar nose. Granted mine is more bulbous, but it’s similar. Same strong chin. While I have an average body type at 5’4” with muscular tendencies, she’s a little taller than me and very thin. She doesn’t look like my half-sister. She looks like my sister. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it definitely wasn’t a doppelganger. This is weird. 

But it only gets weirder. Talking to my real father when we know nothing about each other, avoiding the fact that he’s been out of my life for my entire life, makes this conversation surprisingly difficult. Jack keeps asking questions that were relevant when I was six. My brother keeps trying to cover for him.

“So, you’ve been running? Are you still fast?” Jack inquires. I always felt that was where my worth was, for the longest time, because of his fixation on my athleticism.

“I don’t run. I haven’t been fast since I got boobs.” Which was in fifth grade.

“Yeah, but she chased after her mugger in Barcelona and tackled him and got her purse back!” Glenny chimes in. Forever my biggest fan. Side note, I didn't get my purse back. I just got some of the stuff inside of it back, six months later, in the mail.

Glenny knew my real father would think it was the greatest thing ever, though. And he does. In Jack’s eyes, I tackled my mugger “like a true Goodman. That’s what Goodman’s do,” he says. I want to say I did what a crazy person would do, and that my mom is also a little... erratic, so it’s hard to say exactly where the gene’s coming from. But I refrain because he seems so proud of me for attacking my attacker. It feels foreign. It feels nice.

My real father also asks about my mom. He asks how she’s doing. It’s by far the strangest part of our conversation, which is saying something. I can tell he hates my mom as much as she hates him, which I think boils down to the fact that they were madly in love at one point. Why else would they still care this much? I think a part of my mom’s still in love with my real father if I’m being honest. But I’d never say that out loud. Never in a million. 

I feel relieved when it’s finally time for dinner. I can do something with my hands, and when I don’t want to speak, I can shove something down my gullet. That is until I realize what I’m eating, what only I’m eating, and I feel like Miss Big City Livin’. The NYU Graduate living in Los Angeles now pursuing a career in acting. Talk about privilege. The Goodman’s have prepared a feast for Glenn and me: chicken, beef, pork, all of which I despise. It’s the texture of the flesh in my mouth that repulses me. The only meat I’ll eat at this point is shellfish. But Glenny let them know that in advance, so they’ve prepared a special fish, one singular fish, just for me. 

How did I become the diva? I would’ve shoved some pork down my gullet. Hell, I would've eaten squirrel! I’m not above it. I’m not trying to inconvenience them, not eat what they’re eating, cost them an arm and a leg. I wish they wouldn’t have known. I feel hopelessly out of place and now there’s a physical marker for it I have to carry around and eat. I don’t belong in my own family. The solitary fish on the serving table looks as lonely as I feel.

I try to sit with my fish by Dana, my sister, I have a sister. I keep trying to hold a conversation with her, about interests that I know she has, but she keeps dodging me. I’m chasing after her, fish in hand, and she’s chasing after Jack. The more Jack moves around, talking to other family members he presumably hasn’t seen in a while, the more she’s stuck to him like Krazy glue. 

And then it hits me. I didn’t think of it until now, but it makes perfect sense. That’s her daddy. She’s been the only little girl in his life her entire life. She’s afraid I’m going to take him away. She doesn’t want a sister. She wants her daddy to herself. 

I want to let her know she’s got nothing to worry about! He could’ve been my dad at any point. He could’ve stepped up to somewhat parent, could’ve at least made a phone call or two, or sent birthday cards, but he didn’t do any of that. He doesn’t want me as a little girl. He wants you, Dana. You’re Daddy’s girl and I’m no one’s daughter. Someone cue the tiny violin, please.

The rest of the night Glenny, Jack, and Dana talk. About what, who knows? I mainly nod my head and juke other family questions. I don’t belong here. Glenny does, he feels connected, and I’m happy for him that he does. The only son. But I don’t.

By the time night arrives, I’m ready to bail, and apparently so is my real father. He says he needs to get home. He has work in the morning. He offers one more time for us to stay with him and I decline politely for Glenny and me. I'm not a fan of sleepovers with almost strangers.

Glenny and I walk him out to his truck and give our hugs goodbye, but when Jack opens the door to leave, something goes off in me, something I didn’t expect. Emotion. Overwhelming emotion. This is my father. I may never see him again. I have to tell him what’s in my heart. 

While I don’t know what’s in my heart, or my head, something’s there and I will regret it for life if I don’t speak. I feel it in my throat. My trademark word vomit is about to spew.

“Why did you leave me? I was a little girl and I just wanted you to love me and you didn’t even care. You didn’t even call me or try to visit and, I need you. I needed a father. You have no idea how much I needed you and you weren’t there. Did you ever love me?”

I’m crying through the words, looking up to him for something. An explanation for my abandonment. A way to earn his love. Something. A look passes through his eyes and I mind read his thought. That while I think I look like my father, he thinks I look like my mother. A spitting image. The same way he’s looking at me now, he must have looked at my mother when she cried. He looks ashamed. Sad. He looks like he doesn’t understand.

“Of course I loved you. I love you now," he says.

“Then why did you leave me?”

“I didn’t want to. I never wanted to leave you.”

But the words feel hollow. Not because he seems disingenuous, but because he feels uncomfortable. He just wants to leave. He doesn’t know what to do with my emotions or his. He doesn’t know how to make it better. He just wants it to stop.

And I cry even harder as I hug him goodbye because I know he’ll never be able to protect me. He’ll never be able to care for me. He’s the same man today as he was then. Not a bad man, not this villain I’ve made him in my head, just a flawed one. And somehow, that hurts even more.

I watch my real father drive away with his daughter, my sister. Glenny holds onto my hand. I said what I needed to. I got some answers. Turns out my father is just another imperfect, lovable human. He’s doing the best he can. He did the best he could. What more could a gal ask for?

***