Guitar Man’s Daughter

It’s about four in the morning when I hear him stumble into the house after yet another drunken Friday night gig; tonight’s show was at the Old Triangle. So, like clockwork, I head down the rickety stairs of our old house to get him ready for bed, but I guess the couch is his bed because that’s where he always passes out after playing music at the local bars of Charlottetown. As I enter the living room, he’s mumbling the lyrics of Matt Mays’ “City of Lakes,” while kicking off his Chuck Taylor’s and tossing himself down on the couch.

“Hello, Martha, my dear!” he says.

If you didn’t catch that, I am indeed named after the Beatles song “Martha My Dear.” Dad and Mom were big fans back in the day when they were still together. So much so that they would even sing songs like “And I Love Her” and “Blackbird” to help me fall asleep when I was a little girl.

“Hey Dad, how was the show tonight?”

I don’t get a clear response, as his words are drowning in the Johnnie Walker and marijuana he has most certainly consumed while performing earlier in the night. I’ve done this so often now, that I can easily identify what quart he’s polished off by the smell of his breath. I take his Next Blue cigarettes out of the fold of his Beatles tee, take off his sleeveless jean jacket, throw the blanket over him, and say goodnight. Now I can finally sleep because the eerie feeling of him not being safe at home has evaporated, along with the oozing smell of alcohol evaporating out of the Guitar Man’s pores.

. . .

When I was younger, my dad Henry, my mom Margaret, and myself lived in the Hillsborough Development trailer park. We didn’t have much money because Dad was only bringing in as much money as music gigs on Prince Edward Island can make. Not to mention, he pissed most of it away on drugs and alcohol anyway. At the same time, Mom served at a couple of different restaurants around town, but she only made good money during the summer. So yeah, the summer months were okay because restaurants were busy with tourists. Come the wintertime, though, our house was cold as fuck. During that time, I didn’t know Dad struggled with drug and alcohol abuse; Mom somehow always managed to hide it from me. She kept it that way until I was about 11 years old. Mom was working late, and Dad came home intoxicated as hell to me and my babysitter. He crashed through the front door, likely experiencing a coke drip, and broke every bit of glass we owned in the kitchen with his fists. I watched it all unfold with my eyes shedding water as if they were a dark cloud spitting rainfall over the Confederation Bridge. I’ll never forget that moment. From there on out it seemed as though our McLean residence experienced nothing but tempestuous waves. Mom couldn’t forgive Dad for the damage his addictions were causing not only to their relationship, but to our family, and especially to their little girl. About ten months later she left us on a whim. On April 14th, 2012, my father and I woke up to an envelope on our bedside tables. I didn’t know what his said, and I never did find out, but mine read:

Martha my dear,

It is with great sadness that I am writing you this goodbye. I couldn’t bear arguing and fighting with your father any longer and you didn’t deserve to be witnessing it either. I wish I could take you with me but where I’m going it just wouldn’t be right. Keep your dad in line (I know you can).  Follow your dreams and enjoy every moment of your life.

All my love,

Mom

Gripping the letter in my hands, I could feel tears streaming down my face as Q93 played “My Hero” by Foo Fighters down on the kitchen radio. At the time, the music ironically spoke to my thoughts as Dave Grohl belted out “there goes my hero.” I couldn’t imagine a life without my mom.

. . .

April 14th, 2019: I open my eyes to face the hardest day of the year. Today is the 7th anniversary of Mom’s unexpected departure, which also happens to be the day before her 39th birthday. To this day, we still haven’t heard from her. Today will likely be one of those days where Dad drinks even more than he already does, then disappears to the bar to drink more in the evening. I guess it isn’t anything new, but it just hits harder on a day like today. On a tough day like this, I just wish I had someone to talk to – someone who understands me.

I put on my tough girl pants and head down to the kitchen where he sits with a smoke and a bottle of Grey Goose vodka at 8:03 in the morning. Last year, we went on a long drive around Charlottetown and out to the North Shore while reminiscing about Mom and all the memories we both had of her. But every year on this day it has been hit or miss with Dad, so who knows what this day will bring. “Goin’ for a drive today, Dad?” I ask him.

“I don’t know Martha!” he screams. “Are you gonna bitch and moan at me or give me a goddamn second to enjoy my cigarette?!”

I don’t take it to heart because today is just as heart-wrenching for him as it is for myself. I turn around and head back upstairs to get cleaned up. Since I am probably not going out in public today, I throw on one of Mom’s authentic Led Zeppelin rock tees and some Nike shorts, and put my hair up in a messy bun. I sit and stare in the mirror with my guitar in hand while strumming random chords, thinking about Mom and where she could be.

“You wanna sing a couple tunes?” Dad asks while opening my bedroom door.

“I would love to,” I quickly respond.

So we sit there and sing together while playing the chords to songs by Adam Baldwin, The Glorious Sons, and Lawrence Maxwell. I enjoy these moments because they don’t happen all too often with the Guitar Man, but when we get lost in the music I can finally forget all the shitty things in my life. When we finish playing, Dad gets up, likely to head downstairs for another drink. Before he leaves, he turns to me and says, “Y’know kid, I love you and this too shall pass. Ya just gotta find yer strategy to forget about it all.” That was the first time in seven or more years that he’s told me he loves me.

“I love you too Dad,” I respond in disbelief.

. . .

It’s another late night and I’m starting to worry about Dad. He’s normally home by 4:30 at the latest, but it’s 5:13 in the morning and I have no clue where he is. He doesn’t even have a phone for me to call him on because technology isn’t his strong suit. Just before I grab my cell to call the bar, he topples in the door and falls face first. From the ground, he says, “Martha! Martha! I got us some tickets to see Pearl Jam over across!”

As I help him up and sit him on the couch, he says he went to a party to play poker after his gig and ended up winning two free tickets to Pearl Jam in Halifax tomorrow. It’s a lot to take in as my adrenaline is still pumping at the thought of him drunk in a ditch. I have never been off the Island before– at least from what I remember, anyway. And although I am excited, I don’t let it distract me from the routine I’ve been doing for far too long as a daughter: getting my father’s drunk ass ready and into bed. I do so and then head off to my bed for a short sleep.

The next afternoon we get up and begin our road trip to Halifax. While I am driving, Dad has his seat laid back, chain-smoking cigarettes and sipping his favourite apple pie moonshine. We sing, shred the air guitar, and it is the happiest I’ve felt in so long. The happy vibes continue as we witness the beautiful mid-summer scenery from PEI to New Brunswick. We roll into downtown Halifax as the sun is setting. We check into the hotel, then hustle down Brunswick Street and up to our entrance of the Scotiabank Centre on Carmichael. As I enter the arena, I can’t contain my excitement to see Pearl Jam, partly because their song “Black” was the first song I learned on the guitar. But they aren’t starting right at 8 pm as they have Ladies 19 opening for them, so I have to wait a little longer to hear that song.

The opening band begins their first song before they are even on the stage. One by one, the four of them run out sliding on their knees, and their guitarist starts to shred a solo while whipping her hair all over the place. She even impresses Dad, and that’s a hard thing to do. She then stands up, flips her hair out of her face, and stares into the crowd. With a double-take, I can’t believe my eyes. I’m not just the Guitar Man’s daughter. I’m the Guitar Woman’s daughter, too.