My parents had me at 17. I know that was rough for all of us. I almost wrote they never married, but that's not true. Memory is a funny thing, huh? But yes, they did for a while, back when we used to live across the puddle. What I remember most clearly was a carnival mum and dad fought, I'm not really sure why. Mum was dressing me in a hula costume and dad came, only a towel in his waist, he posed, arms against our bedroom door frame; she took a picture of him and asked him to hurry up so we could go. Right there, a fight broke off, up until she grabbed my hands and hoisted me off the apartment shouting. We went to the street alone, just the two of us. There's many photos of this day, and my dad is in only one of them, towel in waist, pressing against the door.
Early on they broke up and me and mum moved to our grandma's. We couldn't afford a sitter or a daycare. Mum worked in commerce all her life and that's a busy line of work, so I mostly followed grandma to church. I don't know what my dad did.
Grandma's church was funny. The mass was in Japanese (I didn't know that) and their main activities included taking care of vegetables, fruits and making floral arrangements. The minister was a close friend of grandma named Toni and I liked him a lot, he'd always play with me and teach what everything meant, from the words at mass to the meaning of each flower or ceremonial carved box. One day church was so full of sad people, crying and hugging, like I've never seen before. They were talking how he was so young to be dead and I thought I knew what "dead" meant, but it was still confusing when at 8 p.m. there was somebody else presiding mass. We stopped going to church after that.
I don't know who liked Tweety first. Dad took a job out of town for what seemed like forever. My grandparents told me he went there to send more money back to us and I thought he was a hero, even if I missed him badly, because I was aware we didn't have much. I'd sit in the balcony and stare down for hours until the mail man appeared, even if most days were bills and whatnot, because once or twice a letter would come too. A letter from my dad. Most pages were to my family but my pages were the prettiest. Not so much content, mostly what would be considered small talk: I ate this, the weather is that, I made a friend like so and so, there was this funny stray dog, etc. Once I got a letter with a giant doodle of Tweety. I just freaked out. Yellow is my favourite colour and the Tweety looked perfect, I was in absolute awe. My grandparents must have written back how excited I got because from then on he would send pages and pages of doodles along the letters and I lost my mind every time. I still don't know what he was doing there. For almost 2 years. We went to visit once, but it didn't go so well and we came back the same day, I don't know why. I must've seen him for half an hour that day. It made me sad.
He called around 2 weeks before my 7th birthday, asking me what I wanted. I figured, since he has a nice job now, maybe I could get presents like my classmates have so I asked for a million things: a new Barbie, new book, a new this and that. He laughed and told me to slow down, that he'd try but maybe I should pick a favourite or two. I asked if he was coming to the huge party mum was throwing in our backyard and he promised to be there.
Since Toni died, grandma started going to a parish in another neighbourhood. A bigger church she claimed was easier to walk into and back then I didn't realise she meant easier because no close friends had died there. We were all dolled up, carpooling to the new parish when we passed by my dad's place. I saw him washing the car in the parking lot. I really liked that car. I hadn't seen him in so long, had no idea he was back, I glued my face on the window and asked grandma to drop me there, dad could watch me for the day. We're late, she said. It's your first visit and you look so pretty, she said. I can drop you at your dad's on the way back, she said. I missed him so much and I wanted to wash the damn car so bad, I thought about complaining, asking one more time, but I never did. I just clenched my chest and that was a weird kind of pain.
The next day I heard a car horn and could see from the second floor it was my grandpa. When I started opening the garage door, he interrupted me and said he wasn't coming inside. He asked if my other grandpa was home, but I kept pressing on why wouldn't he come in, until he took his sunglasses off and asked again to get other grandpa, right that second. He wasn't rude or mean, but when he took the glasses, I got scared. His face was twice as big, all red and he looked so tired. Whenever the adults said in a firm tone for me to wait somewhere else, I did, but this time I wanted to listen, afraid something was wrong with my dad's grandpa.
At first they whispered and I didn't understand much. Then a weird sound followed and I finally heard.
"I don't know what to do, I've been to every ATM in the area and maxed the daily withdraw, but that's still not enough."
"What has the manager said?"
"I need the certificate, but I can't let my wife alone to get that. The place won't accept cheques but they've already got him there. If I don't get the money they'll put him in one of those things with a bunch of strangers, please help my son-"
Then I heard the noise again.
"Hold on, I'm getting the chequebook, how much do you need? There's still time to cash it, right?"
I got caught as grandpa turned inside and saw me pressed against the wall. He yelled at me for snooping and sent me inside to get the chequebook so they could talk in peace. They kept whispering until I got back and I got yelled again for trying to listen in again. Mum's grandpa signed the cheque quickly and dad's grandpa hit the pedal and left even faster. I thought, because of all the spying, I'd definitely get a beating, but the beating or yelling never came. I asked later if grandpa was sick and grandma said he wasn't. I wanted to call him but nobody would let me. It's late and he's probably tired.
My aunt and uncle called me on the 30th to wish happy birthday, but the calls weren't long. Grandma called and was even briefer, she congratulated me on behalf of grandpa as well. My dad didn't call, but that was normal. He'd call when he had the time, I knew that.
June's first weekend came and the party was huge. All my classmates came, friends of mum from work and friends of grandma from church. She bought heart-shaped balloons that took me the whole day to fill, the theme was my favourite comic book and we even got a fancy cake.
Honestly, the party sucked. It was mostly adults and I felt out of place with the other kids and their inside jokes. We played tag and I stepped on grandpa's rake, blood went everywhere. There's only 3 photos of that day. 1 of all my classmates in a row, and me about a meter away, half my body off-frame. 1 of me pointing and frowning to somebody outside the photo. You see, I really liked the heart balloons, but just as we were singing happy birthday, my mum's friend brought her nephew, a kid a bit younger than me, and he thought that was the perfect time to grab a toothpick. So he popped them all, the balloons I spend hours blowing into and I was so upset.
Then there's the last one, the only photo I'm smiling, like a fool who has no idea her world has already changed and there's nothing anybody could do about it. It's just a photo of me and my uncle. He's up, holding me in his arms and while I have the biggest smile on my face, he looks as serious as if this was a 19th century painting.
He came late to the party, and was not who I was expecting. The two sides of my family don't get along, so it was surprising that he'd be there. Him and grandpa waited for me outside and as soon as I heard they arrived, I ran. Dad came, finally, at the end of the party but he came no less. He didn't. It was just uncle and grandpa. They told me dad was busy working but he wanted me to have my gift anyway, so they brought it to me. They opened the trunk and there it was, every single thing I asked for. Every. Single. One. There must've been 5 or 6 gift-wrapped boxes inside, I couldn't believe my eyes, my dad was the kindest man alive, I thought, because I recognized that must've been expensive. I asked if they could stay at the party, mum wouldn't mind, they were already here. Grandpa said he was tired but after pleading a lot I convinced my uncle to stay behind and come inside. I do remember jumping into uncle's arms and asking a dozen things about dad -what kind of job was he doing now, was it a fancy one that he could buy all that, would he come later or tomorrow or maybe uncle could take me to dad after the party. He didn't answer. I should've known.
A week went by and I hadn't heard from dad or his family, but that wasn't weird. Whenever mum and dad got into a huge fight -and they would often do- I wasn't allowed to visit my other family. And then they came, mum and grandma, dragging me to grandpa's bedroom. I don't particularly like his bedroom, I didn't like then, I still don't. It looks like where a character from a catholic-lore horror movie would live: one dodgy single bed and an old mattress; one sturdy, massive wooden dresser, with the carved flowers, circled knobs and all; a wooden cross above the bed; dark curtains and a fly screen; a noisy and nearly broken ceiling fan. I remember it was almost sundown so as our conversation progressed, the sunlight kept fading and the room grew darker and darker but nobody turned the lights on, we just kept talking to each other's shadowy outlines.
"Do you remember Toni?". That was the first question I got. I said yes.
"Do you... know what happened to him?" I said maybe.
"Well... he... died. Do you know what that means, sweety?" I said nothing. So they explained.
He was gone, and wouldn't come back. That happens to everybody, usually only when we are old and wrinkly and forgetful, but sometimes, just sometimes, that happened to young people. Like Toni, they said. He was only in his 40s. They asked if I missed him. I asked where did he go, they said heaven. I asked if we could drive there, they said no. That was confusing, how could he be in a place you can't get to? They kept talking and I know so because I could hear their voices, but the words sounded like a language I didn't understand, just background noise. I kept staring at them until I could barely see their faces in the dark, grandma in front of me, mum to my right. I know they were talking because I could see their lips moving, but I guess I just spaced out. Why were we talking about Toni, today, just the three of us, in that room, in the dark? Why does this matter now? I wasn't asking that out loud, in fact I had remained silent after the whole heaven thing, but they answered my question anyway.
"That... that happened to your dad, sweety. On the 27th." I said nothing. They stared.
"Do you understand what happened to him?" I said yes. They stared.
"Do you have any questions?" I said no. They stared.
We stood there in silence for some time. Until we couldn't see each other. Not a peep, just the ceiling fan moving slowly. I asked to be excused if the conversation was over. They hesitated before letting me go. I made a beeline to my room and just went about my day like usual, homework, playing, some TV then reading before bed.
Monday came. When the school driver came by my house, mum told me to stay inside. I remember looking at her walk our backyard from the living room window on the second floor. I was dressed for school, but I don't know anymore if she dressed me and gave up or if I dressed myself not knowing I could stay home. She was wearing pyjamas when she opened the front door. I heard her saying I just lost my dad, so I'd stay home for today, maybe tomorrow too. He said he was sorry. They both looked so sad. I remember thinking to myself, my mum didn't like my dad and she looked so small and sad, the driver didn't even know him and he looked genuinely sad. They didn't love him like I did, so was I supposed to be sad too? Was I supposed to be crying? Is this why I'm getting a day off, because everybody's sad and so should I? Why am I not sad? I loved him with all my heart so why was I the only one not sad? Is that why my family isn't calling me, because they were too sad? Or because I was the only one not sad? Are they gonna be mad at me that I didn't go to school but I'm not even sad?
I don't think I said anything that day. I certainly didn't cry. I didn't shed a tear when they told me, or after I went to my room. I didn't cry on my day off, or the day after. I didn't cry at all that year. Not for my dad, not for falling from the top of a slide later that year which gave me a scar I still have, that ran from my elbow to my shoulder. I just didn't.
I didn't cry for my dad until I was 14. One day it just happened. I was sitting in my room listening to music and I wasn't really thinking or doing anything special. The song wasn't moving, it didn't talk about loss or anything like that. I don't know why it happened then and there, after so many years, I thought I'd moved on. But there I was, sitting in my bed, when it dawned on me he really wasn't coming back and my heart just got smaller and smaller until I burst into tears, some pretty ugly crying. I cried for an absurd amount of hours, so loudly, until I passed out. Then I figured out what was that monstrous sound I heard from my grandpa in his car. It's the sound your throat makes when you have nothing left to cry but you're still not done, you can still feel the air so heavy when mixed with the tears and a sore throat from screaming and crying and that ball of pain and despair finally dislodges from behind your amygdala and it's like a sad cork coming off a sad wine.
Years went by until I cried again.
It's still like this. I'd be doing something really trivial when the most obvious thing will finally click and I can't hold back. I've burst into snotty crying at public transport, I've let the tears roll silently at my job.
Last year I was sitting in bed, talking to my partner about groceries and I realised I'm getting married to this guy and my dad won't be there. Of course I knew this, I've thought about who should walk me instead, if I should make an homage, the practical bits. But I didn't realise he was a person that should've been in my life for this, that other people get this and I just wouldn't. I could never dance with him, he could never give my partner a "take care of her talk". He'd have no opinion on my dress, the ceremony or the food. Because he's not here, he'll never be here. He won't see any of my milestones. I've always thought it was good I had one less parent to watch me fail, but I had no idea it was gonna hurt this much when I realised it was one less parent to see me succeed too.
I'm still struggling with this because I lost him so young I thought I could live without, that I wouldn't even know what I was missing. I was very wrong.
And that brings us to last week.
I had a nightmare, like I often do. It had nothing to do with him, I was actually feeling insecure due to a recent fight with my partner. I saw someone in passing who told me my partner would leave me like everybody did, which is a fear of mine, a very common one I reckon. Then they said it. "Just like your dad did, you know what I mean". I woke up, those words ringing up my ear. Just like my dad did. But he didn't though, he never meant to be dead in his early 20s. It's not like he did it on purpose. I thought of that, so confused on why would my brain be so cruel to me, my dad did none of the sort.
Then it clicked. You know what I mean. I said it again: you know what I mean. And I wished I didn't but I do. I know what they mean.
The memories I shared today have always been fond memories. I don't have that many, to be honest, apart from these and half a dozen more, I only have what I've been told, which again isn't a lot. Nobody talks about him much, it just brings everybody down. But the ones I do have, he's always the hero. I've grown and I know he was only human and no hero at all. He cheated on my mum. He never got a steady job. He'd date girls much younger than mum. I know this. And yet I always thought "but at least he was a great father, nobody can deny that".
Well.
Memory is a funny thing, huh?
It's a weird thing to see another human being, specially your hero. Last week my partner heard me sobbing and ran to our room. He hugged me and asked what happened, what did I dream that shook me like that, but I couldn't find the words to tell him. I still haven't. It's just too sad.
He never went out with us that carnival. Or any other I can remember. He was unemployed a lot, yet I was mostly raised by my grandmas. His job out of town wasn't even a long drive away, but he never visited, and when I showed up he didn't make the time to see me. After over a year. He didn't make time. He finally came back and gave me a call, not a visit. We lived 4 blocks from each other, only 4. It's a 15 minute walk and a 5 minute drive.
It's not all bad. I still remember Tweety, I still remember him making me laugh or showing at my door and sneaking me out because mum wouldn't let me see him. I remember the inside jokes we had, I remember our special nickname to each other, I remember him finally having money for a car and letting me pick which one. I remember him carrying me to school on his shoulders the whole way. But it kinda sucked to realise I waited so many hours, days and weeks on somebody who could've made more time for me. Because I needed it, I wanted him to. And now I'll never get to.
I don't know why I wrote this, I just felt like I needed to. I was talking to my partner once, telling the same stories other people told me about dad. He said my dad sounded like an amazing and funny guy he would've loved to meet. I said "me too". Me too. Because that's the thing about trying to get to know a ghost, there's no primal source. I don't get to talk to him and take my own conclusions, no, I need to poke around photos, films, talk to people, and I'll always get some version of the truth. My dad is a guy I'll spend my whole life trying to get to know, aware I'll never get it right, there'll always be some piece missing in his puzzle and that saddens me. For better or worse, I wish I could've known him.
But last week when I woke, it never crossed my mind, but would he even want to know me?
