Daddy was a trucker.
An overhaul, large freight, tractor-trailer. He hauled large pieces of equipment and supplies for major corporations; once, he even transported a "top-secret", super expensive car for a blockbuster action movie. No matter the cargo, Daddy hauled it across 48 states. Y-E-L-L-O-W was what I'd spell when teachers asked what my Daddy did for a living. You see, he drove for Yellow trucking company, and those letters were emblazoned in large orange letters on the top and sides of his truck. I’m pretty sure YELLOW was one of my first words.
Daddy would be gone for weeks at a time working, so that left me and Mama alone a lot. But whenever Daddy was heading home—after dumping his freight across the country—he’d call the house to let me know. The moment the phone rang, I always knew it was him. I'd drop whatever I was doing and rush to the kitchen, clawing at Mama's skirt until she handed the receiver down to me. "Here’s my ETA, baby girl," he'd say, letting me know the exact time he'd be pulling back into town. Our house was only a few blocks from the highway and right before the interstate exit for our town. There was a spot in the highway where the sound barrier had cracked and a small opening was visible from the road. Daddy showed it to me once, and it was there that I returned once a month.
On those days, I'd watch the clock on our kitchen wall like a hawk. I hovered in the kitchen, running back and forth from my room numerous times and willing time to speed up. At the appointed hour, I'd rush out to the garage, jump on my big-wheel and paddle out onto the street, heading towards the highway—my feet never pumping hard enough.
Butterflies lifted my heart to the heavens and my stomach felt all warm and cozy. I thought about his face and smile and paddled faster; all I wanted was to be wrapped in his arms. Being away from him for so long was cruel torture.
The trees would thin and I could see the sound barrier stretching in front of me. I could hear the roar of the highway as I got closer and I slowed down my big-wheel. I pulled over on the side of the road, jumped off my ride and climbed over the highway safety fence. Sodden with grass and weeds, I inched through the crack in the sound barrier, and the wind from the open highway whipped my face.
Horns blared; heat rose from the asphalt, and the smell of gasoline engrossed me. But my attention was to the north, where Daddy's truck would be any minute. I eagerly looked for him, excitement building.
And right on time—as he always was—YELLOW appeared on the horizon. Daddy was a mere half mile from me. My heart leaped. I hooted and hollered, and waved my Daddy into the home stretch. He knew exactly where to look for me, and as soon as our eyes met he leaned into his horn.
BEEP!BEEP!BEEP!BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!
That was his welcome, for me and only me. It was the sound of his love. With one hand baring down on the horn, I could see his other hand waving—so hard his hand was liable to fly right off.
It was our tradition; our way of greeting each other after weeks of separation. It was a special moment and something I lived for every month. Mama hated it, saying I was liable to get hit by a car or worse. Every time I left the house she rolled her eyes and told me to be careful. I always was and trusted Daddy with all my heart.
As soon as he passed me on the highway, I was back, carefully sliding through the crack and then hopping the fence. I'd race home with the adrenaline of a full grown man. I always waited for Daddy in the same spot—on the second step of our front porch. Even if it took all night, I'd wait and wait for that first embrace. Daddy needed to unload his truck, return supplies, collect his pay, and sometimes he stayed after to speak to some of his buddies—which sometimes was an all night affair and Mama would have to tuck my sleeping form into bed. Most nights, though, he'd dash down the street like a bat out of hell, barely parking the car in our driveway. No matter how tired he was he'd burst from the car and we'd rush to each other. He'd swing me around in a tight embrace, my high-pitched giggles engrossing the stillness of the night. After, we'd sit down on the porch—cradled in his arms—and he'd tell me all about his latest adventure.
"I drove all the way to California, Libby. Do you know where that is?" he'd ask.
"Tell me, Daddy," I'd say even thought I knew perfectly well where California was.
"It's clear on the other side of the country. Had to drive through 9 states just to get there. It's where all the pretty movie stars live."
"Prettier than me, Daddy?'
"No one is prettier than you, baby girl."
I'd smile and lean back into his arms, as he continued to talk.
It was in those moments that I knew how much Daddy loved me and never wanted to leave. The separation was torture for him, too. The visits were always short—never more than a week—and eventually Daddy was back out on the road. But I knew our tradition would keep me with him always.
Eventually, the road-trips got longer, the phone calls got shorter, and his days home were virtually nonexistent. I heard them fighting a lot—Mama and Daddy. On the phone, in person, the screaming was constant. Then the front door would slam and the house would be silent again. Mama cried herself to sleep almost every night and Daddy started sleeping on the couch. His affection never waned for me; he was as attentive and loving as he'd always been. But our house became uneasy and the air was hot with tension. Something was changing. My family was changing.
Then one day, after an extremely long and loud night, Daddy didn't come home. Not for breakfast. Not for lunch. Not even dinner. Days passed and he never called or came to pick up clean clothes. I waited on the porch all day, knowing he'd be back any moment.
Daddy never came home after that. Never came back to us or his house. Mama told me he’d left us for his other family.
"Other family?" I asked.
She looked at me long and hard and answered, truthfully. "Daddy has another family, Libby. Another little girl with another Mama. In Oregon."
She kept talking, crying eventually and then clinging to me like I was the adult. I didn't understand. I didn't understand how Daddy could have another family. I comforted Mama as best I could but I was far from understanding what it all meant.
I convinced myself that Mama was wrong and that Daddy was just on an extra long haul. He'd be home any day—jumping from his car and swinging me around in a warm embrace. I started staking out the crack in the highway—our special place and where I always felt most secure. That's where I spent my Saturdays and my after school hours. I peered down the highway until my eyes hurt from the strain.
"Any minute now," I'd whisper to myself, kind of like a prayer. I willed him to appear.
But he never came back.
As it got dark, Mama would come get me from the highway. She'd beep the horn and I'd wordlessly admit my defeat and retreat back to her car. Never once did she roll her eyes as I climbed into the passenger seat. She was silent and barely looked at me. I know in her heart she was hoping YELLOW pulled onto the highway that day, but she never said a word. She just kept her eyes ahead, looking stoically at the road ahead of us.
The last time I saw Daddy was 10 years ago. He would call every once in awhile—on weekends, birthdays, Christmas. But eventually those calls happened less and less. He made a lot of empty promises about bringing me out to see him. I cried to him, begged him to come home and love my Mama again. To love me again. He always said he loved me from the top of his head down to the tip of his toes, and that I'd understand one day why he couldn't come home.
But I never learned to understand. Understand why my Mama and me weren't enough. Why he would never sweep me into his arms again. Why our love didn't fill him the way his other family did.
I’ve never stopped looking for him. To this day, every time I pass a big-rig on the highway I steal a glance at the driver, hoping to find Daddy.
And Y-E-L-L-O-W still makes my heart skip a beat