Love Junkie: Getting high for Daddy
By Anna Marrian
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About this ebook
Anna Marrian
Anna Marrian has written for the New York Times, the Observer, the Daily News, Self, Newsweek, Jane, Glamour, and Behind the Bedroom Door, among others. Anna holds an MFA in creative writing from Hunter and earned fellowships from the Hertog Foundation and Tin House. She teaches at the New School and Hunter College and mentors writers privately and in writing workshops in Brooklyn and Sag Harbor. Anna is currently working on a memoir, This Must Be the Place, a coming-of-age narrative set in London, Kenya, and New York in the ’90s, about family members who repeatedly fail each other and Anna’s subsequent descent into the London squatting scene to find a protector at any cost. Anna is the coeditor of Local Knowledge, an art and literary print magazine. Anna lives in Brooklyn. Find her online at AnnaMarrian.com.
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Love Junkie - Anna Marrian
www.shebooks.net
Love Junkie
The first time I got high was with my father. We were at his house in Kenya, I was 16, and I’d seen him all of ten times since my mother walked out on him when I was only three, leaving London for New York and another man.
Growing up, I kept a single photograph of my father and me on my nightstand, a large color image in a calico frame, taken when I was four on my first visit to London after the divorce. He’s holding me high on his hip, and my small hands are circled around his neck like a lover’s. My blond hair is long, shaggy. His head is bald. Our eyes are the same piercing blue. Heads side by side, we’re both looking at the same spot, smiling. To my darling Anna,
he’d written on the corner of the picture in a black felt tip. All my love, Daddy xo, 1971.
When I was nine or ten, he took me on a road trip in a borrowed midnight-blue Mercedes, which broke down on the way. We’ll just have to make do,
he said, digging out a brown magnetic travel backgammon set from the trunk. We sat on the roadside, and he taught me how to play while we waited for a tow. He let me win a few. You’re a natural,
he said. We shared a tube of sugary fruit pastilles and watched smoke curl toward the sky from an unseen village. Out there, stranded in the middle of nowhere, the taste of sugar and citrus on my tongue, playing a game on the gravel shoulder where we weren’t supposed to be, the last rays of the setting sun lighting up our board—out there felt like home.
Over the years we exchanged letters, and I learned to type so mine would be like his. They arrived in light blue envelopes, PAR AVION inked across the front, a row of wildlife stamps assembled across the top edge. When one came, I would take it to my room, close the door, and read it slowly, following the smudged Courier typeface across the page, trying to locate something that might resemble my feelings for the picture in the calico frame, the memory of backgammon on the side of the road. But the letters were rarely about us. They were about his lunch with so-and-so, his improving golf handicap, his trip to the coast with the such-and-suches. Did I remember them? You met them once in London. I didn’t, yet he described them all with such familiarity that I felt I should remember.
Then the letter came that would change everything. He wanted me to come visit him in Kenya, just the two of us. My mother agreed to it: an entire month, to be spent in tents on safari in the Masai Mara, at the Mombasa coast learning to scuba dive, on tour cruising from the Samburu desert to Treetops, the famous game-viewing lodge set in the Abedare National Park. The letter I’d waited a short lifetime to receive.
He met me at Nairobi Airport. I recognized him right away, tan in his white polo shirt, his little white terry cloth hat protecting his bald head, his blue eyes bright and excited. Darling, so good to see you,
he said, kissing me firmly on both cheeks. I smiled and wiped my damp palms on my jeans and followed him to the car. On the drive to his house, he started telling me about the plans he had for us, but then he looked in his rearview mirror, sighed, and pulled off the road quickly. A cop. My father