Fiction and Drama

Andrea More

Torn father has skin canner

I’ve never known my biological father. I grew up in the same house as him and he’s still married to my mom — he’s just autistic. It took me a long time to realize this because he’s also Israeli. I thought that was why he could never make eye contact with Palestinians. When I gave my dad my armchair diagnosis all he said was, “OK.” As far as we know, my mom is not autistic, so according to the Jewish tradition neither am I.

I was in an argument with my neighbor across the street when my mom broke the news via text. I was trying to explain to this woman, without sounding pedagogical, that using a leaf blower for one hour produces the same amount of air pollution as driving from Los Angeles, where we were currently standing, to Denver, which was quite far from where we were standing. It wasn’t the gardeners’ fault. Couldn’t my neighbor, with her electric SUV and good intentions, ask them to just let the leaves be? When exactly was it that we decided to turn our backs on the rake?

I have a vivid memory of my dad driving me to school and us passing a roaring leaf blower. I am no older than 6. My dad wags his finger at the man with the gas-powered backpack. Not so that the man can see but so that I can. “Nasty machines,” he declares. When my dad speaks, you listen, because you don’t know when he might speak again.

“The workers are just doing their job,” my neighbor said, invoking an excuse I’d heard before.

“Right, but you’re the one who hired them,” I said. “So, you get to decide whether or not we all get exposed to all these carcinogens. Like — you’re the boss here. A female boss, which is even cooler. You know what I’m trying to say?” In the various fantasies I’d cultivated leading up to this moment, our interaction had gone more smoothly.