Dinosaurs

I never really knew that my childhood was that different; the parallel spheres of father and mother only ever intersected at the gas station three hours away from his house and two-and-a-half away from hers. The only time that one would recognize the other was at the drop-off, where my brother and I would take our beaten up, neon travel bags from the trunk of one car to another, exhaust fumes filling our noses. Neither liked to give us up—my mother because she saw us so often, and my father because he saw us so little. I was Sebastian during the week, and Bobby—my middle name is Robert—during the weekends. Holidays were a trade-off deal, and I can never remember a Fourth of July without my father there, forcing me to light a firework I’d rather not approach. I think that upset him about me—I was small for my age, and very shy.

I remember one time when he had us for a whole week. He was excited, but the prospect of leaving my mother was too much for me to bear. I clung to her leg, screaming, as they tried to drag me off to the car. Child lock was the only way to keep me from opening my door, jumping out, and running back to my mother. It must have made my father feel awful, but try explaining to a little kid why he had to stay with this man he knew so little.

We got to my fathers apartment, and Weston and I dropped off our bags in our room. It was small, the size of a bathroom, with a bunk bed squeezed into one end of the room, and a cardboard box filled with broken toys and worn-out picture books by the window. My father was stingy, and all the money he’d ever given me was stored in a tin bank with pictures of animals on it that we got at the zoo. Weston stole from that bank, I later realized, but back then, I never counted it up.

It was about seven when we got to his place, and we were all hungry. We ate microwaved fish sticks on the kitchen table. The fridge had a picture of an easter egg I did once in a coloring book taped to it, and was empty, except for a flat 2-litre of coke and a package of tortillas. After dinner we went out for ice cream—a rarity—and when we came back home, we sat on the old couch I’d recognize in family photos, and played Monopoly on the coffee table—a sawed-off door laying on his old army chest. The only things we’d ever do together was watch TV and play board games; his apartment hardly had a lawn, and there wasn’t a park nearby. Sometimes my uncle would come and play games with us. I think I embarrassed my dad with my temper-tantrums. Try getting a little kid to understand Risk. We all shared a bathroom, and after brushing my teeth, my brother and I went to bed. He always got the bottom bunk.

“Hey Bobby,” he said. “Do y’know why we’re here? Do you know why mom and dad hate each other? It’s because of you. They loved each other until you were born.”

“Stop it,” I whined. He’d always do that to me. Always blame me for his problems. After minutes of taunting, I started to cry, and he wouldn’t let up until he fell asleep. I had a nightmare that night. Something about being chased through my dad’s place. All I know is that I woke up really early. I snuck out to the living room, sat down on the couch, and watched Ren and Stimpy until my dad got up and cooked us cinnamon rolls from a can.

He had to work most that week, so he left me and my brother alone. It’s crazy the number of ways that a nine year old can taunt a five year old. Weston must have used them all those four days. Friday was the day before he had to send us back, so he took it off, and he got a wood model for us to do. But somehow, my brother ticked him off, and I remember shrinking back into the corner as my dad beat Weston with a frisbee. He must have been taking out his aggression against my mother into us. I started to cry just from watching it, and ran back into my room. I hid under the bed, and picked holes through the blue power rangers mattress that my dad had bought at the goodwill. I must’ve stayed there for hours, until my brother came in and told me that it was time for dinner. My father went out and got us a pizza, and when he got back he told us he felt bad for getting mad at us, and had bought us some presents.

Weston got an electrical kit—he was obsessed with anything that blinked and moved—and I got a wooden dinosaur kit, and one of those washcloths compressed into a cylinder. We ate the pizza and watched a horror movie that my brother picked out, and then it was time for bed. I took a bath, and watched with quarter-sized-eyes as my washcloth grew into a stegosaurus, and after the bath I went to bed. I had trouble sleeping, so I played with the popcorn on the ceiling, making a little flat spot to the right of my bed. We only had sheets and loosely knitted blankets, and I woke up early again, cold and bored. I dragged my blanket to the living room and played with legos and the bonsai tree my dad obsessed over.

After he had woken up and cooked us breakfast, it was time to go. He made me leave my model, telling me that we could put it together next time I spent time with him. I put it in the closet, next to the christmas stockings with the plastic beads hot glued on in the shape of a christmas tree, and went to my room to pack. I made sure to take my stegosaurus washcloth with me. I dragged my bag to the old red mustang that had been my parents’ wedding gift, and made sure not to leave anything important at his place.

When we got to the half-way, 20 minutes late, we saw my mother leaning against her car, looking annoyed. As soon as my door was opened, I tore out of the car, giving my mom the biggest hug my little arms would accommodate. I lugged my bag to my mom’s car, and told my dad goodbye. I could hardly muster up the same hug for him as I had for my mother. He went in to the gas station to use the bathroom, and my mom, brother, and I pulled out, and began the ride back home.

A few weeks later it was time to go back to my dad’s house. As I was packing, I couldn’t find my stegosaurus washcloth anywhere. I asked my mom where it was, and she told me that she had thrown it away. I ran to the garage and found it in the garbage can, but it was smelly and dirty, and, sobbing, I threw it back away.

We drove out to the gas station to meet my father, but he was late. Not unusual, but it annoyed my mother, and today she just wouldn’t take it. After 38 minutes of waiting, she turned around, and brought us back home. We were sitting down to dinner the next day when the phone rang. It was my grandparents calling. They sounded sad, and wanted to talk to my mother. I handed her the phone, and she told me to leave the room. I went to my room, and was playing with my blocks—big cardboard ones, the size of shoe boxes—when she came into my room solemnly.

She sat down on my bed, and patted the comforter next to her, telling me to sit down. She asked if I had any idea why my dad didn’t show up yesterday. I told her I didn’t, and she told me that his car had been hit. He was in the hospital, and in bad condition, but she hoped he would live. She told me that next weekend she would drive Weston and me down to see him at the hospital.

Saturday came, but we never got to see him. He passed away late friday night, and by the time we arrived, his parents were starting to plan the funeral.

Mom took us by his place so we could get our stuff. I made sure to get the christmas stockings and the box with my dinosaur model, but when we got home, my mom made us put the toys in the closet. I was clearing out my room a few weeks ago, getting ready to move out, when I found that box. I had half a mind to put the model together, for old times’ sake, but somehow dinosaurs just didn’t seem right without my father gluing them together.