"I hope you get Senegal out of your system!"

To say I was hesitating to tell my Dad about the move to Africa would be an understatement.  I was outright stalling. It wasn’t out of pure fear of what he would say. It was having to deal with the impact of his words that kept me meandering.  My Dad knew that Senegal was on the radar, it hadn’t been but a few months earlier that he asked me if we were getting close, and to let him know so that he could have time to wrap his mind around it.  As we continued to make our plans tickets, renting storage and such, I felt guilty. I was guilty. But, in reality, there is only so much negativity that one can take when in the midst of an already incredibly highly stressful situation.

Even after telling my mother, I thought that she would give me a way out of having to face my father.  Once the dust had finally settled with her, I asked her directly if she was going to tell him. Why wouldn't’ she?  In general, she loves to gossip and cannot hold water so I was sure that if the initial blow came from her, it would be easier for me to do damage control versus start an all-out war.   To my dismay, she declined. My mother said, “it is not my news to tell.” Which was telling that to some degree, she thought it would not go over well.

Her knowledge of our departure plans and her agreement or refusal not to tell my father created a sense of urgency I was not prepared to deal with on that particular day. It meant that I would have to tell him immediately.  As in leave her house and drive to his home and tell him in person as well. In hindsight, I started to regret how I had strayed from the original plan. The original plan involved my husband and I telling them together. I could say a lot about why I diverted from that plan, but in the minutes it took me to get to my father’s residence, I couldn’t help but think how much easier it would go if the hubby were by my side.

Telling my Dad was everything I thought it would be.  If my mother wasn’t going to ask any questions or be mindful not to upset me for fear of repercussions, my father did not get that memo.  I won’t say he was relentless, but he did ask a lot of questions. Not questions out of pure curiosity, of course, but the kind of questions a detective asks a potential suspect.  The questions that would help him determine the truth from the lies.

It reminded me of my first car accident when I was in high school.  It was the weekend and the fall of 1997. I remember I was flying down the highway in my blue 1989 Honda Civic. Of course, I was flying I was young, free, and I was with my boyfriend when my little brother hit me on my beeper that he wanted me to drop him and his friends off at the movies.  I wanted to help him so he wouldn’t have to ask one of my parents but I also wanted to do it quickly so that my evening out could continue. Well, that didn’t work out. I was speeding, hit a thick patch of traffic and lost control of my little car. I still remember the feeling of spinning out of control and the awareness that death was a possibility. I can say now it was indeed one of my first paranormal experiences.  The perception of death and the absence of fear but also a distinct feeling of a presence with me. It turns out whoever was with me for those few minutes in the car may have spared my life but not my bruised ribs. And by the time my parents showed up my father was in a state of disgust and complete investigation. He didn’t ask immediately if I was ok, but if I had been drinking... shameless. I remember overhearing him at the ER behind one of those little curtains telling my mother, “I believe it was an accident because I didn’t smell any alcohol on her.”  In those days, I could say it takes one to know one.

I must have checked out at some point talking to my Dad about Senegal because it was so negative. Though my Dad pulled my awareness back to the conversation when he said, “ I hope you get Senegal out of your system.”  I didn’t even look in his direction when he said it. I caught myself telling him, “Senegal is not a bad place. It could be any place; it just happens to be in Africa.” He wasn’t picking up what I was putting down but resolved to the fact that it was my life and that I was married and had my own family and therefore free to live wherever we desired.   I only wished it had sounded less snarky when he said it; it might have provided a bit of comfort.

I certainly did my part trying to comfort him.  I did. I deemed my father’s fears urgent and more real than my mother’s.   My father is in fact on a limited income and only took his first flight to attend our wedding in D.C. a few years ago.  I couldn’t envision him getting a passport and flying nine hours to come to see us. Not to mention, my father hasn’t been in good health for many years, it's now a matter of a good day or a not so good day.  It’s never the best day and never will it be an entirely recovered day. It’s because of that, all that he wasn’t saying, that I tried harder with him than with my mother to reassure him it wasn’t forever. I told him more about what I had coming up for work and in fact by springtime; my work most likely take us to Portland temporarily.  His eyes lit up, it was something for him to hold on to. In fact, he made his travel plans out loud while we were both still sitting in his living room. He figured it would be a nice trip and that my mother and brother would all come and visit us in Portland. Portland gave him hope, gave him the confidence that he would see us, and his granddaughter again in the very near future.

It was a great thought and a high intention on my behalf.  Except it is spring, and through no fault of my own, Portland has not materialized.  Now every time we speak, it is Portland that has become the lie.