The Blame Game

I don't blame my dad for leaving when I was two years old. Marriages fall apart. I blame him for the gaps between years that we never saw or spoke to him. I blame him for the lies my mother had to tell to protect us from the ugliness that tangled their marriage. I blame him for the nights I cried myself to sleep wondering why he wasn't there when I wanted to talk to him and be a part of his life. I blame him for not choosing us.
He has remarried three different times since and never had anymore children. He has step-children that have consumed his life since I was 10. His first marriage, Elizabeth LeBeach, or as known by mom, Elizabeth LeBitch, was the epitome of an evil step mother. I was only three, but I remember her well. She had long black hair, was young - twenty I think - with long red fingernails.
It was her idea to have my father give up parental rights,though I cannot deny responsibility for the final say so to my dad.
I was four. My mom had remarried and he came to my step-dad and asked him to adopt us. We legally took our new last name shortly after.
I remember the next few years. I can clearly see his truck parked out front of our two story brick house with a pale yellow balcony. I remember running down the front walk of our home and jumping into his arms. I don't remember LeBitch in those years. By that time, he divorced her, and in turn she took everything: his big yellow jeep, the house on the lake, and even his dog, Sambo.
I was 10 and in the hospital. I had been admitted for tests because of headaches I would often get. As I lay in the hospital bed, my mom was sitting in the chair next to me. I saw my dad come in. Behind him was a woman I had never seen. Initially, it was a flashback to LeBitch because all I could focus on was the long black hair. My mom jolted up and stood ready for a confrontation, but quickly realized it was not the woman that had thrown all of our toys away or would call in the middle of the night to harass my mother. Instead, this was Debbie.
She was my favorite. She was kind and soft spoken, and cared for us like we were her own. She had a daughter, Ashley, that was four years younger than us.
My mom and step-dad moved us to Florida not long after so he did not call or see us much.
We spent the next four years sporadically keeping in touch and visiting him in Mississippi during a few summers. During those summers we would stay for weeks. He worked at Meridian Aviation, managing the Linemen. It was a small, private airport that stood adjacent to the larger, Meridian Airport.
Some days we would spend the day with him at work, hanging out in the Pilot's lounge, but mostly we would spend our time with Debbie and Ashley. We rode horses a lot. He had four: Sundance, Willie, Sport, and Bandit.
Debbie rode Willie, a blond Palomino, and we would take turns riding Sundance, a mellow brown Quarter that had an affinity for Mountain Dew. Sport was a young buck who spooked easily, a lesson I learned while on a ride that ended with three cracked ribs.
I was 14 when they divorced. I missed her terribly and still kept in touch, though I have not seen or spoken to her in over 8 years.
He married Barbara when I was 15. She has three children, Jennifer, Amy, and Chris. They still remain married, but our time with him faded as he became more and more consumed with his new life.
I have three children of my own now. Allison and Marshall haven't seen him for almost seven years, and Cameron has never met him. He now has grandchildren through Barbara's children.
Recently, Barbara's youngest child, Chris took my dad's last name as a gesture of appreciation to him for being the father he never had. Chris has a son, who now shares my dad's last name as well. A legacy to the bloodline he will never physically share.
I am angry and hurt. I am angry because we were never given the choice to choose our name. I am hurt because I feel erased. I feel forgotten. I feel like an outsider to his life.
I have fewer memories and more regret. Of all the things I regret most, are the gaps in my memory. The spans of time left dangling between the years we saw or spoke to him. I was too young to remember much of it; the pieces of those years float in my memory like foam on the waves of the ocean. They come together, but quickly disperse before making a discernible form. I want to keep them because that is all I have been given.
He has been making an attempt to reconnect the bonds he let deteriorate between us, and I want that. I want to be a part of his life, but it feels superficial. It feels like trying to reconnect with a stranger. A stranger who's eyes and nose I have. A stranger who's sense of humor I have. A stranger who's blood runs through my veins. A stranger that I call Daddy.