The Artist's Daughter: A Memoir
Alexandra Kuykendall
Language: English
Pages: 256
ISBN: 0800722051
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
A poignant memoir of a woman's struggle to deal with the wounds left by her absent father and the realization of how that loss ultimately does-or does not-define her.
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every night to his own house. We hadn’t lived with a man since the one I’d called Daddy left more than ten years earlier. “We’ve had a great time together.” I nodded again. I didn’t say anything because I was afraid my crying would intensify, and I didn’t want her to think I didn’t like the idea of her getting married. I just knew I was saying good-bye to the “us” of the past. I left my chin down on my chest so my tears could move down my cheeks more easily. I was looking for evidence of good
knowing it could take months to get pregnant. It only took two. Five months after our positive test, I sat on the moving van bench, bouncing up and down as I read names to Derek from a baby name book, and willed my bladder to make it to the next stop. The last few months had been filled with life-altering decisions. I thought my pregnancy would be consumed with lighthearted choices about nursery colors and stroller systems. But Oregon’s job market was named the worst in the country, so we
included awkwardness. I looked down at his hands resting on the table. There were age spots on them. “Would you like something to drink?” he asked me in English that carried a heavy accent. I looked at my mother for permission, and she gave a slight nod, indicating to go ahead and order whatever I wanted. I was thirsty from the heat but knew a Coke would come in a bottle half the size of the United States version, and without ice. Even though a Coke sounded refreshing, I didn’t want to be
consuming? I wondered. Maybe I just needed a hobby. Or an interest. Something to remind me that I was more than a couple of breasts to feed a ten-month-old. ii O Christmas Tree We’d planned this Sunday for months—to drive up to the mountains with a group of friends, Dennis and Jen and Brian and Crystal, to cut down a Christmas tree in the wild. Three families coordinated holiday-packed schedules, Jen purchased date-specific permits from the Forest Service, and we packed thermoses of cocoa
alive, so I wasn’t really shocked by the news he was dead. I should say something, I thought. “Was he sick?” I asked. “I’m sorry. My English is not very good.” Her accent was heavier than I remembered. “He was sick for . . . uh . . . ten years. . . . He could not say many words. . . . But he said your name. . . . Over and over he said, ‘Alexandra. Alexandra.’” I could hear the grief in her voice. And maybe some nervousness about calling me to break this news. I wanted to be sensitive to her
