Donorboy Read online

  You are right about bingo. Next time I am putting “down the road” like three times. Unless next time actually is down the road, in which case I don’t know what he would say. That is a conundrum. I will ponder and get back to you.

  4/15/94

  Dear Sean:

  Here’s a copy of Rosalind’s preschool picture. She is doing wonderfully well—still a little shy with the other kids, but the teachers love her, and she does have a couple of good friends in her class. They come over here for play dates sometimes and play house for hours. It is very cute and also a little scary to hear our words coming out of her mouth when she is being “mommy.” “Now, honey, you are getting all wound up! Do you need a time-out?”

  She has a bike with training wheels that she likes to ride, but she is still afraid to go down hills. So we have to put the bike in the car and drive to the Arboretum where it’s flat.

  She will begin kindergarten in the fall, but after two years of preschool, I don’t think it will be too much of an adjustment. I do worry about her being shy in new situations, but both Sandy and I were shy too, and we turned out okay.

  Finally, she always makes up songs that make us howl with laughter. Yesterday she sang this one that went something like, “Oh, when we go to P-town this year … I hope we don’t have a house with a leaky roof … that Mom will say I can’t believe what we paid for this fleabag flophouse … and it doesn’t rain every day … because I hate playing Sorry.”

  I have no idea if that’s funny if you can’t hear her singing it. In any case, she is a delight, and she makes us laugh every day.

  Love,

  S&E

  Dear Journal de dolor:

  Good news, I think, which is that I randomly opened the black photo album and read some thing about when I was four and I cried and cried for like twenty minutes, big loud crying like the neighbors probably could hear, and I am still really sad which feels horrible but better than feeling nothing at all.

  I miss them so much so much so much. I really really want them back right now. I feel the great big horrible hole that is like right in my stomach where they used to be or where I used to keep the love they gave me or something, but it hurts, and that is partly because my throat hurts from crying and my stomach hurts because I was bending over, and my shirt has snot on it because it was roping out of my nose and I didn’t care, just kept crying and crying. I felt horrible and I still feel horrible, and I know I wanted this but I don’t like this either.

  I know it’s stupid to ask why why did this happen, why me, why them, I don’t understand why they died, I don’t understand why I didn’t. If I came along would I be dead too, or would we all be alive because they waited for me to put my shoes on or something, and the turducken truck killed somebody else or better yet nobody.

  Nothing makes any sense. Lisa tells me I can’t think about what ifs, that I will drive myself crazy, but if you could die because of some stupid decision, how can anything be important ever? Or not important? How do you ever know if you are making the choice that is going to kill you?

  I guess you just choose things that feel good and say fuck it. Except nothing feels good right now, nothing at all feels good. I HATE THIS! HATE IT! Crying again, I hate my life, I hate everything, I hate everybody I hate this stupid fucking horrible sad life and I want my real life with my moms who love me back! Why can’t I have it back?

  Dear Fluffy:

  I told Lisa about how corny the idea of a grief journal was, and she agreed that that was a pretty stupid name but said it sounded like it was good for me to write in it, so I could call it whatever I wanted. So I chose Fluffy. Mom’s friend Rick had a lizard he called Fluffy and I always thought that was kind of funny, and so here we are with me and Fluffy, which maybe is lizardlike because it is ugly and unpleasant but I kind of like it.

  So I don’t know what to do about the black photo album. The black album. I think that’s a Metallica record, or that’s what Kate the Shoplifter said, but she said she likes Ride the Lightning better. Which I don’t care about but I am writing so I won’t have to think about my black album and whether I should read any more of what Mom and Mommy wrote about me, which I kind of want to but also don’t. It made me too sad but I know there are thirteen more of them in there and I really want to read them all but it’s like picking a scab or something. It’s kind of fun, but sometimes you don’t feel like bleeding again. Ooo, I am poetic. That is what you call an extended metaphor, and I know that so I am not failing English. Nobody really mentioned that I am getting a C-because I ace all the terms and vocabulary tests without studying but I never write the papers because who the hell wants to do that?

  Anyway, besides the Black Album, I am invited to a party this weekend, because Sara’s parents are going out of town, and Sasha came over with Kristen to invite me and they were all we really miss you and we’re sorry if we made you mad or whatever and I felt bad for ignoring them and writing all kinds of mean shit about them because it looks like they at least care about me even if they bug me sometimes, and we had this big girly crying hug which was corny but felt nice anyway.

  Of course Sara’s house is in east buttfuck and I don’t want to hitch a ride with some drunk person who will crash and kill us both or get us arrested or whatever. I should probably just tell Sean I am spending the night at my friend Sara’s house, but I don’t know what he would do or if he would want to call or something queer like that which would be mad embarrassing, so I think I am going to sneak out and go to Kristen’s and have her sister drive us because he never comes in here once I lock myself in, so it should be all good.

  I hope. I don’t know how it’s going to feel hanging out with them again. More like me, or more like who I used to be? I don’t know but lunching with BWP is nice because they don’t ask me about stuff but all the same it might be nice to hang out with some people who are happy sometimes too.

  Dear Fluffy:

  I am in some deep shit, and I guess I don’t care. Apparently Sean knocked on my door last night because he saw something about Mom on TV, not like I wanted to see that shit anyway, some kind of tragic update on E! about how a former sitcom star was killed by turduckens, but anyway, he called Karen, he called the police, and when I got home this morning all I wanted to do was puke and sleep and I had to listen to him yelling at me about how he had the police out here and how worried he was and why didn’t I just ask him and blah blah blah.

  He called Karen and she wanted to put me on the phone and she bitched me out too, all did I know how worried she was and on top of Mom and Mommy dying she doesn’t want to lose me too, and blah blah blah and I was like it’s all about you, but I didn’t say that, I just said sorry to her, which I didn’t say to Sean even though maybe I should have because he looked bad like he did really worry about me but if he didn’t knock on my stupid door he wouldn’t have even known I wasn’t there, and I need a better lock for my door or something because you can pick those doorknob locks with a bobby pin, which he didn’t have but I guess he found something.

  Whatever whatever, I am a big disappointment, I am a big pain in the ass, I hurt people’s feelings, I am a horrible person, well, so what anyway, I had a really good time.

  Everybody was there, and unlike last summer I was not too scared to drink so I drank something clear that tasted kind of like a nasty Sprite or something, but I guess I was pretty drunk because I did pass out last night or fall asleep or whatever, and then I woke up this morning with my legs all achey and I had to puke and Sasha held my hair like I did for her last summer and it was like old times or something. I guess I also had some elf in my brain with a hammer or whatever Sean’s dorky hangover joke was. It is now four in the afternoon and I am just starting to feel normal, or sort of normal, but I didn’t like the way I felt this morning but I felt really good last night, like I was really happy and my head was going to float off my body or something and I didn’t think about being sad or feeling sad or anything. It was just like I was right there
the whole time and I didn’t have to worry or be sad about anything and I could laugh and laugh which I haven’t done in a long time.

  I talked to this guy Chris for a while. He is a junior and he is some kind of skateboarder or something, which I always see those guys trying to go down the railing by the library and laugh because they always fall on their butts, but he was cute and nice and he gave me some stickers that he and his friends made. Once he gave them to me I recognized them from being on every pole and I asked him what the design was, kind of expecting him to say something stupid about freedom or his skateboard or something, but he just said he thought it looked cool.

  I’m not sure if I wanted to kiss him, but maybe I would have if I hadn’t passed out. So I maybe want to kiss him but not really spend all my time with him because that would mean less time with Jen who hasn’t exactly invited me to a party and told me she cares about me but who I still want to hang out with all the time. I don’t know where that puts me on the lesb-o-meter. But whatever, I don’t have to decide, I can kiss whoever I want and that is pretty cool I guess.

  I want to get drunk again, but maybe not that drunk because I hated the way I felt today, but I felt better last night than I have since … But now I am grounded or whatever, but I don’t really know how he can stop me from sneaking out my window. And he unhooked my internet, all, you can’t send IM’s anymore and I was like who cares.

  I am going to take a nap which I haven’t done since I was like four years old but I am tired from everything.

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Subject: Failing

  Dave—Jesus, but we had a horrible horrible weekend. I actually did try to call you, but apparently your cell phone was out of range. I hope you had a good time at the wedding. In any case, my subject line here refers to my progress as a father.

  Rosalind disappeared into her room as usual on Saturday night, and I really thought nothing of it. At about nine-thirty, I was flicking around the channels, and I came across some little report about Eva, just a little video obit, so I TiVoed it and called to Rosalind. I wasn’t sure if she’d want to watch it, but I thought I should give her the option.

  She didn’t answer me, so I knocked on her door, and she still didn’t answer. Eventually I picked the lock and went into her room. I have no idea if that is ethical or not. In any case, she wasn’t there.

  I called Karen, who took the opportunity to verbally abuse me, and some friend of Rosalind’s, whose mother, after asking if I was That Shaun Cassidy and confessing a teen crush on That Shaun Cassidy told me she thought her daughter was at my house. Wonderful.

  I panicked and called the police, which made me feel like I was doing something. The cop came out and filed a report and told me she had probably sneaked out, “to meet up with some boyfriend or other, don’t panic, my daughter did it too, which is why I’m forty-eight with a ten-year-old grandson, ha ha, but we got through it.” I believe he was actually trying to reassure me.

  Finally she showed up at eight in the morning obviously hung over. I yelled at her, which did not seem terribly effective, so I called Karen and got her to yell at her, and she at least got an apology out of her, which seemed like a victory, though of course I was angry and jealous that she hadn’t apologized to me.

  I already drove a couple of screws into the window frame so it won’t open wide enough to allow her to escape. Thank you again, by the way, for the cordless drill, which helped immensely. I did this at four a.m. in a fit of pique when I was convinced she had sneaked out. At five I was convinced she was dead, and I cried.

  I don’t know what I should be doing differently. I actually thought things were starting to turn around. Since our big breakthrough enchilada conversation we have what I suppose is almost normal parent-teen interaction, which is to say we talk briefly about the logistics of daily life. “Does this smell funny to you?” and “We’re out of Frosted Mini-Wheats.” We’ve talked briefly about our shared hatred of her school, and the other day she actually sat with me to watch TV. There was some commercial with a mother and son holding hands in the sunset or some such nonsense, and my eyes began to fill up as they always do at mother-son commercials, and she saw me and said, “So you weren’t kidding. It really never stops.” And I said, “Well, I can usually restrain it to the trickle down the cheek these days, which is actually a significant improvement.” And she said, “Well, hey, life may suck now, but it looks like I’ve got a lot to look forward to.” And we both laughed. We laughed together!

  I know, I know, cue the strings and the shot of us gamboling into the sunset, but it was really a wonderful moment.

  And now I have to be the prison warden. At 3:43 I was actually considering driving to the twenty-four-hour Home Despot to see if they had any razor wire. I settled on the screws instead.

  I am a horrible father and I don’t know what to do.

  Thank you for your attention.

  —Sean

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Subject: Re: Failing

  Oh my God, she snuck out and got drunk? Anybody would think you’ve got a teenager on your hands!

  Seriously, man, relax a little bit. I see a lot of teens and the one thing I have learned is that they all drink and have sex, except the ones who smoke weed and have sex. The first few times I was surprised when I would overhear something or find a note or whatever, but now I am always surprised if I find out they don’t do that stuff.

  You’re trying, which, believe me, is a lot more than a lot of people do. I’m sorry it’s so hard, though. She will be fine. She is going to do some stupid shit, because she’s a teenager and that’s what teenagers are supposed to do. Of course, when Max hits his teen years I am fitting him with one of those tracking ankle bracelets and putting saltpeter in his food. And yes, professor, I know that doesn’t really work.

  I don’t know what to tell you except that the fact that she went to a party and got drunk just shows that she’s fourteen and not that you are a terrible dad. I mean, you may actually be a terrible dad, but this doesn’t count as evidence.

  Congrats on the laughter, dude. That is actually huge, so I won’t bust your balls about how you are a sentimental ninny.

  —D

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Subject: Re: Re: Failing

  Sentimental ninny, eh? Let us not forget the conversation we had after Max’s birth. Just in case you might have forgotten it, I have the transcript here somewhere … Let’s see … “I can’t see from crying, I’m just so fucking happy, it was so fucking incredible …” “Most important thing I will ever be a part of …”

  In any case, Rosalind appears to be contrite for her drunken escapades, or something, because I have seen much more of her in the last few days and she has actually been overall quite pleasant. Please don’t tell me that means she is plotting something, because I have already thought of it and I am choosing to take the more pleasant, less cynical interpretation.

  I expected her to be angry about the screws in her window, but instead she seems to find it funny and has taken to calling me “Warden,” but in a way that feels kind of affectionate.

  Last night we had what I believe to be the first real conversation of our lives together. She said, “So, Warden, where are the ladies? I mean, you know, there don’t seem to be any ladies coming around. Did I scare ’em off?” It appeared to me that she hoped that was the case.

  And so I explained how Marcia left, though I downplayed that the fact that I had fathered a daughter by another woman appeared to have been the catalyst, or rather the issue that caused her to reject my proposal. I further explained how my luck since then has been abysmal for reasons I don’t fully understand, even though you keep telling me that I keep falling for Marcia over and over in different guises.

  Before I even knew what was
happening, I very cheesily asked if she had someone special at school. She looked at me as though that was the corniest, most embarrassing, most awful thing I could have possibly asked her, and this shot me back to my dad asking me something similar when I was her age, and how I screamed at him and slammed my door. Fortunately, she did neither, but said, “Well, you know, I have kinda had other things on my mind lately.”

  I am not buying that for ten seconds, but I was impressed with the graceful escape. She is an impressive kid. We have actually had several conversations since then that feel a great deal like real conversations.

  I would very much like to get to know her better, and I am therefore currently in search of some sort of bonding activity. Since cleaning vomit out of the bathtub was about the extent of my adolescent bonding with Dad, I am hoping you might have some suggestions. Did you and your father stick up liquor stores together, or share steroid needles or something?

  I am feeling good enough to bust your balls, so I suppose that means that things are looking up.

  —S

  New text message!

  From: Rosalind cell

  12:34 pm

  IN TRBL. NT MY FAULT. PRNCPL CLLING U. HES A TOOL. WILL MAKE U BNGO CARD.

  CHARLESBOROUGH HIGH SCHOOL 10/27/04.

  INFORMAL MEETING.

  Participants: Principal Steve Vanian, Sean Cassidy, Rosalind Butterfield.

  SEAN CASSIDY: Do you mind if I record this? It’s just one of those lawyer things.

  STEVE VANIAN: Well, as we discussed on the phone, this is not a formal hearing, that will take place in three days, uh, this is more—

  SC: Yes, I understand. But I’d like to record this all the same, if that’s okay with you.

  SV: I suppose that’s fine. Is that a minidisc?

  SC: Yeah, I—

  SV: Yes, I thought so. That’s what Scott Simon from NPR used when he was here last year. Maybe you heard the series?