A night to somewhat remember

I was thirteen.  Adolescence was not kind to me.  My face was inflamed with acne and my hair hung lank and oily.  I was thin and gawky.  Ashamed of the breasts I had recently developed, I curved my shoulders improbably forward, concaving my chest.

My parents had separated when I was 11 and had reconciled.  I did not rejoice.  My father and I were constantly at odds.  I thought him cruel and insensitive.  He thought me insipid and irresponsible.

That year in school was the first my grades began to slip.  My crippling disease, though yet infantile, had begun to worm its way through my psyche.  I fantasized about death while my friends dreamed of sock hops and honor roll.  Unaware of my crumbling mental state, my parents decided that I was lazy and shiftless and those were the reasons for my less than stellar academic performance.

They started with punishment.  T.V., phone calls, weekend outings... all curtailed.  Yet as I slipped further from reality, they realized their efforts were futile.  Next came the cajoling, the promises, the possible rewards.  As I had no social activities to distract me, I did focus slightly more on my studies.  My father dangled his best carrot; if I could make honor roll, he would take me to The Homestead for dinner.  The irony is that such a proposal left me terrified, yet my grades improved.  Dramatically so.  I made Honor Roll.  My father crowed and picked a night to drive an hour and thirty minutes to dinner with his sullen, forlorn teenage daughter.

I don't remember the drive, aside from the fact that we stopped at East Lexington and picked up a six pack for the trip.  I want to say that it was a startlingly cold, cloudless night, but I am unsure.  I do remember that I was served sorbet in between courses and that I wore a handed down Gunne Sax dress, loaned by my cousin.

I wish that I could recall a magical evening, a turning point, a realization or a reckoning at least.  I imagine now that we drove home in silence.  Perhaps I fell asleep.

As my depression deepened, my grades inevitably sunk lower and lower.  All promises and punishments were rendered idle.  My parents were too absorbed in their own tangled web to notice that possibly something stronger than vapid teenage despair was at hand.

Obviously, I survived.  And now, on an annual pilgrimage, I take my own family to The Homestead for President's Day weekend.  The dining room, though remodeled since  20 odd years, is still the same and sorbet is still served between courses.  I don't think of him much; like Leonard Cohen once beautifully warbled, "That's all.  I don't think of you that often", I recall Sandy every time I set foot in The Homestead.  Never mind that I will never remember a word we said to each other that night; at one time, maybe only even once in my lifetime, Sandy focused on me.  For an entire night.  I wish I could say I felt special.  I wish I could say that one night was enough, that I had a deeper understanding, a connection.  "That's all.  I don't think of you that often".  I always weep when I listen to Leonard Cohen.