After my disastrous arrival in Baltimore at the end of July, August was a nice block of calm. I spent a lot of my time unpacking, or online talking to my sisters (usually about my unpacking). Dad’s house was small and cramped, but I loved my room. It was in the front of the house and a big bay window looked out onto the park. There was just enough room for my double bed, which I shoved against the far wall; two desks, a small one for my computer and a larger one for my art; some bookshelves of varying sizes and widths; and a small bedside dresser for whatever clothes didn’t fit in the closet. I hung plants in the window –spider plants and ivy - and its’ seat was rapidly filled with stuffed toys. The shelves were stocked with books – art books, classic lit, manga and graphic novels, journals, and whatever else had caught my interest - which I organized and reorganized while Artemis laughed at me over the webcam.
I only ventured back outside for two reasons: to fulfill my summer homework obligations and to catch the ice cream truck. I had to make some museum trips and write a 700 word essay about an event in the city. And I was an unrepentant whore for fudge ripple cones and orange dreamcicle. But for the most part, I carried on in my usual introverted fashion. I think I only had a social life at all in New Orleans because of Artemis and Holly. My social habits seemed to have been inherited from dad. Or at least dad before Kansas.
Dad had created an incredibly active social life in the absence of having to be a parent to his children. His job kept him busy during the afternoons and some evenings, but he was buddies with most everyone on the force, so even on the beat, he had people to joke with. When he wasn’t working, he was usually fielding offers to go drinking or meet some chick this other officer knew, yada yada, so on and so forth. This contrasted pretty sharply with how I remembered him as a child. When I was little, Mike Constantine was almost always alone. The sole exception was the string of women who came and went from his apartment. Apparently a mental breakdown can really change a man.
My first week with him, he was edgy and he hovered a lot. He expected me to want his help or his company, which was the exact opposite of what I would ever wish for. What was most insulting was that he seemed to resent me for his own bizarre and unfounded expectations. It was all way too CW prime time for me.
Thankfully, after a few days, it sunk in that I didn’t need a baby sitter. He seemed incredibly relieved to find that, at 17, there were no more pitiful cries of ‘daddy, come play with me’ from his youngest daughter. I was no longer dragging him away from friends or unwittingly activating that guilty conscience of his, sprung from his acute knowledge that he was, in fact, a horrible father. I didn’t like my dad. I didn’t love him. And he felt the same way about me. But as long as neither of us got in each others’ way, this cohabitation would be…tenable, maybe. At least my room was awesome.
