When he called me down from the room and (barely) singing (but screaming) for the weekly raw salmon, I knew. There are so many things that will remind me of my dad; "will" because he is upstairs, tucked under a worn-out sprawl beside my mom, snoring- which reassures me and no more.
The salmon is not a treat, though I almost labelled it as just. A 'treat' is: entertainment, food, drink, etc., given by way of compliment or as an expression of friendly regard, but my dad layers the fresh slices in a spiral on an irrelevant stainless steel whenever, grim daughter or light, with a saucer of soy sauce and ginger thinly-sliced the way he needs it be. I've always hated fish, though salmon is the one I can stand the most, so I eat it piece by piece with so much obligation and a few bits of liking; yet its mushy coldness is the warmest supper to slide down, as every bite I take I think of my dad religiously heading to the supermarket where he reckons sells the freshest seafood (i.e. Sheng Siong). I think of him smirking to himself when he finds the most immaculate marbling of a fillet, he holds it firmly/gently in his chapped hands, he pays out of his hard-earned money which could easily be spent elsewhere, he performs his chef-work for no one but himself to see in a quiet corner of the kitchen, and when he sits beside me in the brightly lit dining room that is rarely ever used, watching me as I pick one by one up with glee.
For the prawns, sometimes he snatches the curvy bit from my fingers and deshells it for me, while others we sit by each other again, this time/s peeling for ourselves and then commenting on the freshness of the meat together with the eyeing envy of my mom. She is also pleased, because although she tells me unpleasant affairs of her husband as does he, she thinks, how nice is it to have a daughter who is equally close to both her parents, a daughter who can call herself a daddy's girl and a mummy's girl, without more of the other.
Crabs have the same route but only this, he pries them open with strength, experience, and hard objects no matter when and piles enough of the goodness on a platter before laying it before me. Again my mom sees it all the time and exclaims, you spoil her!, but she chuckles heartily because she knows it isn't true, and my dad giggles in a cheeky, goofy expression to agree. After everything I feel like a princess but like my parents, I don't feel spoiled. It is a long, deep complex I don't see to explain now.
Then there are the things you can't consume, the everlasting things that will always be there, or will be around the corner somewhere to catch you by your tail. Once I was sitting in the dining room as usual, my back facing my dad watching fuzzy channels in the living room, laughing and crying through Sex and the City, when it drifted over. That familiar smell I've constantly hated throughout my life- the smell of my dad's opened bottle of medicated oil. It reminds me of the many times it stung my eyes when I forgot of the little left on my fingers after I picked the flat bottle up to pass to my mom/dad, yet now along with that it will also remind me of my dad.
I think the one series of memories I like most about him is the days I sit right beside him in the car, playing the genres both of us so adore. I was playing Valerie by Amy Winehouse in the car when he suddenly said, this is a great song, and I knew from that day on that this was another memory to keep. My dad is not pretentious, he never tries to be and no one will ever say he is upon knowing him, but he does love jazz, blues and soul just like I do. It must sound incredibly cliche but I've literally grown up listening to the music my parents carelessly echoed throughout every house we've ever been in. While my mom raised me up with Teresa Teng and plenty other famous female oldies like Woman in Love, my dad always used the excuse of testing the stereo system in the living room to blast Linda Ronstadt, The Eagles, Frank Sinatra, Miles Davis, and Japanese guitar instrumentals. I loved and love them. Whenever I hear such tunes I feel safe enough to fall into a deep trance, like it is enveloped with his warm disposition.
One of the nights last week my mom was boasting of the many writings and artworks I gave to her as usual in loud shamelessness, and for once my dad spoke up. In hokkien he rebutted, I have one too!, and he rushed to the study room where I was at to rummage through his drawers, which I was sitting just right beside, for the one recent birthday card he so remember keeping.
He must have went a couple of rounds through all three because when I came back from cooking my usual supper noodles he was still flipping stuff around. His initial smile had diminished as my mom stood by him, harshly jeering him on his conquest, and repeatedly insisting that he had thrown it away. She had a box she could shove right into his face. I knew he was embarrassed. Finally he relented and trudged heavily upstairs; instead of anything else I felt guilt. After seeking with fail, my dad still found something he wanted to give me (Thai money). Unlike him, I didn't give him nearly as enough to remember me by- no drawings, no notes, no whatever.
This year we did nothing for his birthday. I'm talking about the man who is ever so proud of me, of the one card I gave him years ago, which he so fondly kept amongst important rest, in the topmost drawer of the series- the most sacred one. I can never shake remorse off.
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