Erased From Memory Read Free

demoted.”
    Meanwhile I’m trying to wrench myself free.
    “Dad, Dad, don’t let them take you. Go limp. Flop down. Sag on the floor.”
    Of course, he has no idea what I’m talking about. “That hurts a little,” I think he’s saying.
    “He’s sick; he has a heart condition”—as far as I know this isn’t true—“he needs medication; I’ll sue.” The goon holds me tighter each time I speak.
    My father somehow manages to look brave, shoulders back, turning his head inquiringly, like a little bird.
     
 
Eventually I resort to Rape Defense.
    The main move in Rape Defense, in which I took a one-day Santa Cruz course, is the knee in the groin. I apply this move now, up and hard, and the goon precipitately lets go of me to bend over saying, “Jesus Christ, you fucking bitch,” and grab his testicles.
    While I stand free in time to watch my poor dad be hustled away, stumbling slightly, murmuring something indistinct.

Chapter 2
    My father and I have a complicated history.
    He’s not now the concerned, responsible father that some women dream about. But then, he never was.
    “My dear,” he would say, looking at me in puzzlement when I had some early grief—a lost pet, a classroom argument. “ Why , my dear.” He would stare, puzzled; he would frown for a while. And then do the best he could. His idea of how to take an eight-year-old’s mind off her troubles was to teach her some Egyptian archaeology. “This is the way they did the face,” he’d say, showing me a photograph of a mummy. “With a plaster mask. They painted it to look like the dead person.” He surveyed the photo, a gray, smeared encyclopedia reproduction. “Sometimes a little better than the dead person, wouldn’t you think?”
    After all, Daddy was old to be the parent of a third-grade child; he had been sixty when I was born. He seemed fairly baffled that I existed at all, but he also gave me the feeling that he liked me. In fact, despite his confusion about how it had all happened, that he loved me.
    My mother didn’t make me feel loved. She was the opposite of my father. Almost completely. Reserved where he was responsive. Organized where he was scattered. Ambitious where he was indifferent. So unlike him that I often wondered how they had gotten together. Except for the fact that they were both archaeologists, they had little in common. My mother was programmed, calm, and, the archaeology journals said, brilliant. She was also very handsome, which didn’t interest her at all. Removed was the word for her.
    Not that she was neglectful of me, exactly.
    She would lower her book, watch me analytically, and suggest some noninterventionist remedy. The library? A long walk? Thinking about it further?
    I had clean dresses and adequate meals. When Mother was away, there was a capable child-care person, a nice lady, I am told. I don’t remember her.
    Actually, Mother was away an awful lot. She was off at conferences in London, Paris, Rome, Helsinki, where she debated the dates and authenticities of the markings on the Phrygian brass pots that were her specialty. She was off at archaeological digs in Turkey, working carefully with a small spade and whisk broom to uncover more pots. When I was ten years old, she simply remained in Turkey. There was a productive site and a colleague named Dr. Hakim Kasapligl. I think she is still there, in Turkey, digging up her pots, although perhaps Dr. Kasapligl has been dismissed.
    So for most of my life my household consisted of me and my father. Daddy tried to take care of me and I tried to take care of him. “You are so capable, Carla. I do admire that quality.” And if I didn’t deflect him, he would go on to talk about Hatshepshut, the Egyptian queen who was indeed capable, so much so that she combined the offices of king and queen. “I do appreciate your helping me, darling,” and he’d reach out to squeeze my wrist.
    We went to Egypt together a lot. That was something else he thought of to