Sugar N’ Spice

To all the butter, sugar and chocolate my father fed me,

I’ve spent evenings that turned into mornings with both of my brothers talking about our relationship—the ups and downs, the ins and outs. Why this works, why that needs to stop. The things we hate, the things we love, and all the things that live in between.

I’ve never done that with my dad. I can blame this on language. English isn’t his native tongue. But he uses it from 9-5 Mondays-Fridays and he’s heard his three children ramble in it often enough that it doesn’t seem like it’s just an English thing anymore.

My dad doesn’t communicate with nouns, verbs and adjectives. Instead, he looks for things that he can do for you.

I don’t remember much from the first time I was hospitalized—which doctor I saw, which surgeries I had, which unit I was in. I found out those things from family months later. But there is one thing that my mind won’t let me forget. What happened at around 7pm every night.

That’s when my dad would walk through my door, find a seat beside my bed and unzip his backpack, pulling out a package that he picked up from his office’s bakery after work. Some days it would be a slice of carrot cake that was knocked over in transit and now had a thick layer of cream cheese frosting smeared against the sides of the plastic container. Other days it would be something with chocolate, rainbow sprinkles and a generous dusting of powdered sugar.

During these moments, my dad and I didn’t say much. He just waited while I ate. The minute visiting hours were over, he would duck his head, cover his face with his hands, and try his best to hide from the staff so that he could extend his time with me just a little longer.

My dad usually stays later than he’s supposed to at work but when I was in the hospital, he logged off his computer at 5, zipped up his backpack, left the building, and hurried to catch the 7 train. It was time to see his 小姑娘. That means ‘little princess’ in Chinese. 

I don’t remember him calling me that until after all the hospital incidents. It’s like the name is his reminder to always be guarding the precious princess of the castle. He lost me once when I walked out the doors and gave in to the voices of depression and suicide. But I came back. And for my dad, it’s like he’s been a given a second chance to keep me here, to keep me close. So when he calls me over with those three Chinese characters, my dad is also telling himself: “Don’t let her go. Remember, it happened once. Don’t let it happen again.”

Buried beneath all the photos that were taken at school, church, picnics, and weddings is a picture of me and my dad from over 20 years ago. I fished it out a few months ago while trying to put together a collage. Dad’s wearing a pair of oversized gold rimmed aviators, his skin plump and his hair with less white. Uneven rolls of fat blanket my arms and thighs and my head is the size of a cantaloupe. We’re both on a bench near the beach. I’m grabbing onto my dad’s shoulder and looking up into the sun. He’s carrying me with both arms and looking down into the water. We were both  younger then, free of the burdens that would come with time. He was still married. I still had a mother who lived with me.

But then we both lost something. Our idea of a picture-perfect family. 

Sometimes it feels like Dad and I were placed in this world to bring out the happy in each other. After the divorce, Dad tried to bring out my happy by pouring out his love for me in excess,  never thinking that what he did was enough; at times, it felt like he was atoning for the sins of his past marriage in doing this. I tried to bring out Dad’s happy by looking for ways to make him feel like the king of the castle. I wanted to redeem him from the shame that would darken his face when other married couples walked past him. I wanted him to stand a little taller and know that the little girl tugging his hand is proud of him.

When the chaos screams louder than the calm, my dad tends to say: “It’s okay. It’s okay. It will be okay.” And it lets us both take a deep breath. The words reassuring us that peace will somehow be restored. Both of us have tried to fix things for each other by doing more than we were asked to do. I think we’re beginning to see that we don’t need to try so hard because the happy will still come and it will all be okay.

Sincerely, Esther