Saturday with Meagan

Saturday. Meagan arrived today. I was nervous and fidgety all day as I waited for her. I couldn’t seem to find comfort. I couldn’t sit down and I couldn’t find anything to do. I tried watching television. I tried reading. I tried writing here and listening to music. But I just couldn’t find peace. She phoned at 3:00 to tell me her mum would drive her here. Meagan said they’d be leaving shortly so I expected them to arrive around 4:00. It was just past six when there came a knock on the door. My girl had arrived.

We had dinner together, she and I. I let her talk about whatever was on her mind, and talk she did. Nearly incessantly. Like her mother and me, Meagan becomes quite loquacious when she’s nervous. She talked about Dan’s latest hospital stay (overnight in the psych ward) and about his week at the drug rehab centre. She talked about going with her mother to visit him at both places and she talked about what she had seen.

“It was bleak, Dad. It just felt like the whole place, both places, and everybody in them … Well it just seemed bleak. Totally hopeless.”

I wondered about Kelly’s judgment, taking a child of twelve or thirteen into an asylum, or into a drug withdrawal facility. Of course, I kept my thoughts to myself. Heaven forbid I should do anything but heap praise and encouragement upon her mother, Ms J. God help me if … OK. I’ll stop my rant before I get started. Maybe it was a good thing to show her what happens to people who abuse drugs.

Anyway, I let the girl talk. I practiced being a good listener. Objective. Open-minded. Compassionate.

It’s clear Meagan is unsure of her identity right now. She’s no different from most girls her age, “loving” this and “hating” that. Inventing new words and phrases to express her individuality. Feeling the pull of the need to be attractive and popular, and to be a member of a popular clique at school. I understand. I do.

She’s taller now. She wore eyeliner and mascara. Lipstick. She’s dyed her beautiful strawberry blond hair. It’s red now. Auburn, I guess. Her eyebrows used to be blond. Nearly invisible. She’s dyed them as well. And she wants to get her navel pierced. She'll turn thirteen on June 2.

I hate it Ms Journal. I abhor it all. Why can’t she keep things the way God made her? That’s what I love. That’s my Meagan.

But no. I’m wrong, aren’t I? No matter what she looks like, no matter how often or where or what she gets pierced, no matter how tall or thin or fat she is, she’ll still be my Meagan. Hell, she won’t always be my Meagan. But I will always be her daddy. And I will always love her.

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