Without Fixed Address 2

My first few weeks with my father seemed nearly idyllic.  Neither of us was well but there seemed at first enough mutual goodwill between us for us to maintain a fragile balance.  I stayed with him during the week, usually for up to four days, then I would leave for Vancouver Friday and stay away till Monday or so.  I slept in the guest room of the cabin he rented very cheaply on the property of a very kind old woman who apparently had the hots for my dear old dad, already seventy to her eighty years.  There was much forest and ocean in the neighbourhood and I was never at a loss for interesting and enjoyable long hikes.

I wasn't looking for a job though I did have work.  I was still cleaning for Doreen every Friday, for which reason I was always careful to arrive in Vancouver by midday Friday to clean her apartment for her.  I was also still painting and had lucked into several venues on the Sunshine Coast where I could show my art.  The art show was still on in the photo studio of my friend in Vancouver, Mark, and I did manage a few sales and commissions.  I also found another restaurant in Vancouver where I could show my paintings.

As I mentioned, I was able to store paintings in the homes of some of my friends and I could access them any time I needed them to put up a show.  I also managed to salvage my art materials so I could set up a studio at my father's.  He did not like my art, by the way, and as our relationship began to deteriorate so he would let fly with some very unkind and downright nasty comments about my painting.  Yet he was impressed, and I think even secretly proud, that people actually wanted to buy my work.

Our relationship began to unravel within a few short weeks.  It started in the middle of the night when from time to time I was woken by nearly bloodcurdling screams coming from my father's bedroom.  He never gave me a real explanation but said that he was having nightmares.  Then came the covert verbal abuse.  He would never let it fly until late at night when he was safely in bed behind his closed bedroom door.  He would scream at me in a high pitched whiney miserable little old man kind of voice of what a complete loser I was and that he wished I would either go away or die or both and other such kind lovely things.  He wouldn't discuss any of this the morning after.  I soon began to feel very unsafe there.