Breadcrumbs #681
MT VALLARTA
“[A] state of such near perfect replication that the difference [between] the original and the copy becomes almost impossible to spot.” – D. Harvey, The Condition of Postmodernity
I first understood rage when my mother threw a vase at my father.
He tried to dodge it like a runner sliding into home base. Inside, were my little sister’s vitamins, the ones that tasted like multicolored sand. I knew she hadn’t really been taking them. I can see my mother’s already-wrinkled fingers clenching the vase like an outfielder about to tag a player.
I don’t remember if it hurt my father. But I can see the shards. Their edges so crooked and white, like shattered bone on sidewalk.
Three months ago, I found out my father had cancer.
He was so confident, so sure he didn’t have it. My father has always been good at denial. So good, he feasts on his lies. So good, he forgets I also like women, and that I moved in with my partner after only eight months of being together. When you lie so much, you start to forget that your words are not truths. If I am good at spinning truths for myself, I learned from my father.
“I can see my mother’s already-wrinkled fingers clenching the vase like an outfielder about to tag a player.”
Radiation or surgery. Radiation or surgery.
I was the one he brought to his appointment. When I asked where was my mother, he huffed and jerked his neck. Sometimes I worry my parents will split me in half. I talk to my mother on the phone. For hours, she wails about my dad. I read, edit cover letters, and play Tetris in the background. Leave him. “He cannot cook. He will starve.” Forgive him. “I can’t. I am so mad.” Forget it. “If I forget, it’ll be like my feelings were never true, never there.” Sometimes the back of my head hurts so much I wake up somewhere else. During my second night in Victoria, I woke with my arms at my sides, my spine a perfect line.
“Wow, you can never sleep on your back.
“I know. Isn’t Sam the freakiest?”
Radiation or surgery. Radiation or surgery.
I don’t know if my father is afraid to die. The only thing I know he is afraid of is my mother. She is afraid of being alone. So afraid, that when my sisters and I went to college, she would lay out our home clothes on top of our beds like cutout shorts and shirts for flimsy paper dolls. While we were on vacation in Portland and all of us were still sleeping, I woke to my mother talking while julienning carrots for ramen.
“This is not nutritious. Just add carrot. This is too plain. Just add carrot.”
I am tired of pretending I cannot hear.
Three months ago, my father finally confessed that he cheated on my mother.
“He is just like your grandmother.” My lola was a slut. My father is the last legitimate son, my sisters and I the last full-blooded heirs to a farm that always scared us, a house that always felt so big and so empty even though there were four mattresses in one bedroom and a wooden round table with eight matching chairs next to the kitchen. There used to be nine, but one of my uncles killed himself. They say that’s why my grandfather’s legs are so bow-legged. His body so crooked.
“If you get radiation, you might still die.” My father doesn’t care about my mother’s opinions.
“I do not have a child outside.” “What would you do if you had a half sibling?” My sister says she will never accept it. I think I am too disinterested. It is another lesson my father has taught: if you don’t care, it won’t hurt. It won’t even sting at all.
I am already older than my father when he arrived in the United States.
In 1986, he watched his first baseball game. My older sister was born earlier that year. My mom gave birth without him, but it was fine. When I was born six years later, she had to cook and clean the apartment as soon as she arrived from the hospital. Maybe that’s why you get so caught up in work. Ever since I was born, I have never stopped watching my mother labor. Imagine if you had to work that hard non-stop. What would you do. I don’t know. Die bitter.
Radiation or surgery. Radiation or
My father blamed his infidelity on my mother’s menopause. She said sex hurt too much. I once blamed my blackouts on my birth control pills until I learned it was Sam putting our hands on people’s throats. I always wondered where I was during recess. Third grade was no longer a blur. I now know why I cried when the milkweeds in my neighborhood died. When I thought I was alone on the playground, Sam was helping me catch bugs.
Radiation or
My mother once compared my father to a stump. Pretty much dead, only has one usage. I know too much about what my father thinks of my mother. He thought she was the prettiest girl in town. “The neighbors always said your father performed some kind of dark magic to get me to marry him.” I thought love was magic. Not slow poison.
“Can you take me to my next appointment?” My father knows I am on fellowship. It has been three months and he still hasn’t fixed my car. I am dreading the day I will need to see a mechanic.
Radiation
“It’s okay, my hair has already started to fall off.” This is the first time I hear my father acknowledge his frailty out loud. My great aunt once said a curse fell on my father’s family. There were too many mutations his ancestors died from. My mother says I have to watch myself, be careful with my body. I still eat French fries once a week. The only thing slower than dying is waiting for my father’s honesty.
Radiation
“I thought therapy was about sharing your feelings.” Dad, I won’t say you need it. If you’ve lived with yourself this long, not even God can pry the truth from your mouth.