a short story by : Myric Andreasen
"You better wake up this
instant. You don't know if your father is dead or alive", ratted my half-sister
as she incessantly poked me annoyingly. It was maybe around 4:30 in the
morning. It wasn’t a nice way to wake up a morning person this early. All I
could hear was a distorted noise. But wait. Did I heard that right? I asked
myself. I got up and saw my other older sister, frantically fussing over a
missing underwear. Or was it missing sock? You see, i don't remember. I just
woke up. She was slammed on the floor weeping on an open drawer of underwear.
"Where is it? It was
here!" She yelled madly in tears, with face in the drawer.
It wasn't the first time she
fussed over a small piece of clothing. When she was little, she would not go to
school unless her socks perfectly matched height. But I had a gut feeling it
wasn't because of missing piece of clothing this time.
“It’s gotta be there
somewhere!!!” I muttered trying to sound empathetic even though my thoughts was I wanted to yell,
“Just pick something!”
It is was my turn to rummage
through the drawer for my own stuff to get ready.
The phone rang again. I answered.
A woman's voice from the other line said, we should hurry. Somebody should be there
claim the body.
Confused with the situation,
I gave the phone to my older sister. I was a scared teenager thinking I wasn't
credible enough to handle such grown up conversation. For a moment, I lost my
strength standing up. I sat down on a chair contemplating what I just heard. My
father has now called "the body"?
It wasn’t long when my mother
came rushing to the house coming from her other house. "C’mon! We don’t
have time!".
The ride was long. I was
sitting with my sister and mom in the vehicle but I was alone with my thoughts.
As the distance gets closer, so as the hope to find my father in a good state and
we can all say that was a close call
My father wasn't the heathiest
person. In fact, I stole my first cigarette from him when I was, well very very
young. He was my source of a budding interest. Every Saturday, when he comes
home, he stayed hidden in the bedroom of what I call, the chamber of smokes. He
smoked packs and packs of cigarette a
day in the windowless bedroom. I waited for him to go to the bathroom to do my
little dirty deed, went straight up to our tin roof trying to discover what was
so great about a smoking.
My father was an extremely
reserved person. His words were as scarce as hen’s teeth. He could only express
himself when he was intoxicated. This habit went way back. But that was a
different story.
The morning air was still
crisp when we arrived at the morgue. The smell of freshly cut grass still
lingered from that morning scheduled landscape maintenance. My sister and I
were asked to wait outside as my mother went straight inside the building to
address the situation. A woman in a red shirt with navy blue stripes and white
collar approached us. She wasn’t much taller than I. She wore a very short hair,
close to a pixie cut. Her eyes were red from tears, tired from crying.
“Are you Myric?” she asked
me. Words didn’t come out, so I just nodded without any eye contact, only a
small few glimpses to have an idea what she looked like.
“Your dad loved you very much”,
she continued as she began to cry again in the middle of her sentence. I
couldn’t look at her so I just stared down at her brown leather shoulder bag,
but I could hear the sorrow in her tone. On that cue, I began my first tear for
the day.
I knew this woman wasn’t a
stranger. I think I heard her voice many times on the phone asking for my dad.
The last time I heard her voice on the phone was that day, I finally put a face
on a voice from the other end of the phone.
I could tell she wanted to
chat more, but her image was blurry now of unending spiral of random emotions.
The one way conversation was cut short when a staff of the hospital came out
pushing a stretcher, with a body covered in a blue blanket with floral prints, twisted
from head to toe, make sure no skin is showing. I knew it was our package when
I saw my mother walking behind it. “No it is not my father”, I protested to
myself quiety. I dared not to touch it. “No! Not this way”, I told myself.
Two women weeping over a body
too thin and stiff. I looked at the other woman with indignation but with a
little hint of compassion. She didn’t get close to even touch my father’s body
as a courtesy to the wife.
Anger weighed heavier in my
heart knowing she was with dad rather than us on his last breath, the family
who should have takin part on his last moment. She selfishly kept him to
herself, called us for legal wife’s consent for a release.
The day was long and hasn’t
ended yet. We went straight to the funeral home. My mother and sister left to
run errands needed for the wake. I was left alone sitting in the corner of the
lobby. Thoughts found me again.
Memories flashed back. It only
took a moment because there weren’t too many of them. It was like a short video
I could play over and over again. Tears kept flowing down almost involuntarily
one eye at a time, constantly wiped with my bare hands, wet hands wiped down to
the side of my thighs. Nobody should see me cry. It was embarrassing. I never
get the habit to keep a hanky.
A voice came out of nowhere
startled me. “Do you want to file for an autopsy report?”
I was alone and I felt I
shouldn’t be making this decision alone. I was only a shy 16 year old with low
self- esteem.
“Could you wait until my mom
comes back?” I replied, trying to avoid the conversation as quick as I could,
quite annoyed my acquaintances were nowhere in sight. I wished nobody would
talk to me. I wanted to be alone. I was as uninvolved in my father’s death as
when he was alive. It’s just sad.
I lost someone who held a
huge role in my life but we had an insignificantly small relationship. It was
hard to asses my true feelings towards this situation. It was borderline grief
but more than sadness.
“I don’t have a father
anymore”, I told myself as loud my thoughts could say, just in case I wondered
it was just a dream. I remembered more self pity on my loss. Like a pair of expensive
music record were stolen from me. But still, he was my biological father that
cannot be replaced.
The emotional drama skipped
two steps backward when I finally confirmed my father had a different life from
what I knew. That woman on the other side of stretcher weeping next to my
father’s body. I shed another tear for that. I couldn’t believe the tears
supposed to be solely for grieving now shared with feeling of betrayal. This
was too much in one day.
A room was finally prepared
for my father’s wake that night. The air-conditioner beat the 80 degree
temperature outside. The cold sent my body chills, in additional to shiver weeping
over my loss.
The room was well lit. sSill
smelled of previous funeral services. The empty platform teasingly gave
hope that maybe my dad miraculously could still be alive like in movies. I kept
my mind occupied with steps on how to overcome the denial stage of grief as
fast as I could. There were no wi-fi, no youtube, no facebook and no
smartphones. It was harder to let my friends know on such short and sudden
notice. It was the late 90’s
The first night was
uncomfortable. It was cold. I was sleeping on a hard wooden surface of the pew
with a towel as my blanket. A jerk from the door woke me up as the funeral
staff pushed my father’s coffin through the glass door and wheeled to the
platform.
My sister, mother and I, all
three of us had our first view of my dad. Our sobs triggered a tear followed
with many more. Tears of his three girls dripped on the coffin’s glass. I
constantly wiped it for the fear of superstition. Tears on coffin means
suffering of loved ones behind, but more so I was focused on his face. I have
never stared at his face that long. “There’s something in death that displays
emptiness”, I thought to myself. I peered at my mother and my sister who were
still preoccupied expressing their grief through weeping.
I was done crying.
What was wrong with me?, I
questioned myself, wondering what was going through their minds and why wasn’t
I expressing the same behavior as them. I was thinking the longer I cried, I
longer I cared. Maybe I should cry more? But then I will be faking it. Does
that mean I am a selfish, emotion deprived brat? Maybe my eyes were too tired
to produce more fluids. That reminded me. I haven’t had anything to drink since
that morning. Maybe dehydration was to blame.
More friends and relatives gathered
the following night. A familiar face, sobbing as soon as she stepped through
the door. I peered at her for a minute and made sure she was who I thought she
was. Short brown hair, slightly fairer skin compared to mom’s. She was neatly
dressed in black top and pants wearing a sparkly stud earrings that glimmered
with the reflection of the room’s dimmed candelabras. Her existence was known
to my father’s side, but to other visitors, nobody had a clue who she was.
My first reaction was to hold
back my mother who was trying to block her way, furiously telling her to leave,
but nothing seemed coming through her. Her determination showed she came here
with a mission, to see my father one last time even if she had to beg for it.
My sister and I hugged our mother in tears,
“Just let her. Dad, loved her
too”, I whispered to her ears. I tried to sound civil as I could, but my deeper
thoughts sang a different tone. There was nothing to be done that can change
the past. I had to be forgiving if I want this night to pass with grace.
It was our last day in the
funeral home. I was quite sad because we are leaving the comfort of the
airconditioned room. My half-sister handed me a bag of my clothes for the
burial ceremony she bought for me that morning at the local market. It was a
white cropped top V neck with brown suede cord, and a pair of black pants that
won’t fit me the next day. “Why does my sister got the cuter top?”, I looked at
my sister with jealousy as she tried hers on.
The room somehow looked
smaller on day light with the crowd of people who came for the funeral service.
Sympathies were exchanged. Being a teenager is an excuse to avoid such small
talks and conversations. I just want to be left alone with my thoughts.
During the service, the
pastor called my name for my eulogy. All sets of eyes turned to me, like when a
teacher called on a student unprepared, but thank goodness this won’t cost me
any grade, only. embarrassment for a second. I responded to the call with a
shameful and pitiful shook of head.
We took our dad to his final
destination. That little hole on the ground will now be his empty vessel’s
home. His weekly scheduled home coming had now came down to none.
The day ended with a final
prayer followed by opening the glass casket when the loved ones could hold their
deceased one last time. My heart leaped and stepped back. A sudden fear crept
through my mournful mood.
My mother took the lead and
held my dad’s stone cold purplish hand.
I didn’t want to touch.
Zombie movies still scared me, but more so, I don’t want to remember him this
way. Cold and lifeless as if made of wood. I didn’t want to let him give me
another reason to resent him. Not on this day.
I let that one last chance to
hold my father slipped away, but is it okay if I could only shed tears? This is
not a relationship. Some resentments lingered and there were unsaid wishes. But despite all of this, I love him with all my being. Things could
have been different if we both knew what I know now.
Now that I have come of age,
loved a man and started my own family, all was left between me and my dad is
forgiveness. There’s nothing I can do to change the past.
Our father and daughter story
ends here. My father taught me and love me in an unconventional way, and soon I
will use this heartbreak to write my own story.
