Baldwin Village by Jackie Lau

Author:Jackie Lau [Lau, Jackie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Jackie Lau Books
Published: 2020-06-20T00:00:00+00:00

* * *

My father deposits a steak on my plate, and I help myself to some grilled asparagus and peppers. It’s Monday, my day off. I’ve gone to his house—my childhood home—for dinner. Just the two of us, filling only half the kitchen table.

“How’s work?” I ask him.

He tells me about one of the cases he’s working on, and I pay enough attention so that I can interject questions here and there. His job is a safe topic.

Mine? Not so much.

But, inevitably, we come around to that subject.

“How’s the ice cream business?” he asks.

“It’s doing okay,” I say.

“What’s your bestselling flavor?”

Ah, such a nice, innocuous question.

“Vietnamese coffee. I have to make another batch tomorrow.”

“Huh. Vietnamese coffee. Maybe your grandmother would like that.”

“Are you going to bring her soon?” I ask.

“Actually, I suggested we go on Saturday, but she said she was busy.”

“Busy? What on earth is she busy with, other than church?”

“I don’t know.” He smiles faintly, and that makes me smile, too. For once, I can pretend there’s no distance between us. I can pretend he isn’t completely vexed with my life choices.

To my surprise, he doesn’t bring up dentistry at all. Not during dinner, not when we have tea and half-heartedly watch the NHL playoffs afterward. Not when he shows me how well the lilac tree in the backyard is doing.

But I don’t kid myself that he’s changed his opinion on what I should do with my life. It’s nice to not be arguing with each other, but it seems a little fake.

When I’m ready to leave, he gives me a couple containers of chickpea salad “so you don’t end up eating ice cream for lunch.”

“Don’t worry, Dad, I never eat ice cream for lunch.”

He gives me a look.

“Really,” I say. “Though sometimes I eat pie. My friend owns a pie store across the street. She has curried lamb pie, chicken pot pie—things like that.”

“Make sure you get enough iron. Your mother had problems with anemia, and I don’t know if that’s hereditary, but—”

“I know, you’ve told me before.”

Dad never used to check up on me like this—he left that to my mother—but now it’s just the two of us.

“Are you going to the cemetery on Sunday?” he asks.

Sunday would have been my mother’s fifty-sixth birthday. I’m a little surprised he said something about it.

“No,” I say.

“That’s fine.” He puts a hand on my shoulder. “Whatever works for you. You can grieve however you need to grieve.”

I swallow. I wish he had that opinion about other parts of my life.

“Are you going?” I ask.

“I don’t think so. I went for our wedding anniversary.”

That was at the end of April, and I feel bad that it totally slipped my mind. I should have called him.

We say our goodbyes, leaving so many things left unsaid.

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