chapter thirty-three
GRANDMA FLO FINALLY cajoled Martin into moving into her Hoarder House of Horrors (as Tara calls it). The place is still piled with junk to the ceiling, but Martin convinced her to throw out at least some unnecessary items, including but not limited to her collection of old, stained lampshades (she was convinced she would make use of them), three KitchenAid mixers (all unused and in mint condition), and two deluxe birdcages (she never owned birds) to make room for his things.
“How’s Scotty lately?” Martin asks while hacking at his overcooked steak.
While my parents know about my breakup with Scott thanks to Tara’s big mouth, I’ve been hesitant to share the news with Grandma Flo and Martin, knowing they would be devastated. Grandma Flo would surely lose her marbles over the prospect of me dying all by my lonesome.
I haven’t seen Scott in almost a week and a half. Acknowledging how long it’s been since I’ve been able to talk to him brings my entire mood down.
As proud as I am that I’m finally seeing the light at the end of this shit tunnel, I’m starting to think maybe Scott had a point. Maybe this would have been easier with him by my side.
Before I’m forced to respond to Martin, Mom distracts everyone by resettling a high-strung Hillary in her lap. “No more steak for you,” she says, poking Hillary in the back.
I zone out as the family chatters on about Flo and Martin’s upcoming honeymoon in Hawaii, as well as Martin’s great-niece’s acceptance into medical school. All I can think about is how much I miss having Scott by my side, his hand protectively squeezing my thigh under the table.
When dinner is over, I drift onto Grandma Flo’s rickety deck and sit, taking in the remainder of today’s sunshine. I make a concerted effort to avoid direct eye contact with the terrifying lawn gnomes scattered about the lawn. When we were young, I took pleasure in convincing Tara they were alive, akin to Chucky the redheaded serial killer doll. I squint, covering my eyes as I settle onto the retro lawn chair, a relic as old as I am.
Dad is quick to follow me outside, beer in hand. “Did you find the steak was overdone?” he asks, in typical Dad fashion. He always opens a conversation with a random question.
The setting sun casts a radiant golden light off the brown lawn, desperate for some rain in this particularly dry summer. “Yeah. But it was okay.”
He nods, staring straight ahead as he takes a seat in the lawn chair beside mine. “Did I ever tell you how I started my cleaning company?”
I let out an exaggerated breath. Right when I start to get my mojo back, Dad has to swoop in with a lecture about financial stability. “Dad, I really don’t want to hear another sermon about getting a real job.”
He ignores me, waving a vague hand. “I’d just finished high school. Didn’t have the money for college. I was working at the laundromat downtown one night when your mom came in.” He pauses, eyes filling with nostalgia. “She was with one of her girlfriends. Her hair was teased, all bushy like a poodle. It was the style back then,” he says, nudging me with his arm before taking another swig of his beer.
“Anyway, she made eye contact with me and smiled. So I smiled back. I thought she was beautiful. Out of my league completely.” A chipmunk scurries across the deck and hurls itself off the far end. “I think it was five days later when she came back. She didn’t have any laundry with her this time. I thought maybe she forgot something from last time. But she walked straight up to me and asked me on a date.”
I snort. I can definitely picture Mom doing that. Despite her quiet demeanor, she goes after what she wants, elbows out, headfirst.
“I had forty dollars total to my name. But she wanted to go on a date, so I took her to McDonald’s and bought her a combo. Then she held my hand and kissed me.” He shudders with soft, easy laughter.
“Classic.” My cheeks warm at the foreign thought of a young Mom and Dad kissing in a McDonald’s.
“After that day, I knew I wanted to marry her.”
I think about being in Scott’s arms, knowing I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him, no matter what it looked like, no matter the obstacles. “What does this have to do with your cleaning business?”
He puts his hand up. “I’m getting to it. On one of the first times I took your mother to a nice restaurant, I was late. She was already there when I arrived. I told the waiter I was meeting my girlfriend, and he gave me a strange look and said, ‘She’s not here.’ I only had to look over his shoulder before I saw the top of your mom’s head in the booth a couple rows back. I waved at her, and he gave me a look I’ll never forget. He said, ‘That can’t be your girlfriend.’ He didn’t say it to be cruel. He was genuinely confused. This happened all the time, especially in those days. People didn’t understand how a white woman would date an Asian man.”
I suck in a deep breath, shocked. I’d never thought about it before. As a half Chinese, half white woman, I’ve experienced racism and ignorant comments, asking some blunt variation of What are you? But I’ve never been told I can’t date someone because of it.
“I didn’t know that,” I say, resettling in my seat.
He meets my eyes again. “Your mom used to think subtle racism didn’t exist. But it did. We had a lot of comments from people, little jokes even from our own friends that weren’t supposed to be insulting. But they were, because it reinforced the fact that me not being white was something they thought about whenever they looked at us. Even your mom’s parents were a little hesitant at first.”
“But Grandma Flo loves you, and so did Grandpa.”
“After a while,” he admits, running his hand over his chin. “I felt like I had to do more than a white guy to win them over. It didn’t help that I didn’t have two dimes to rub together. So I started the business . . . almost to prove to myself I was good enough for her.”
I meet his eyes, unable to accept this. My heart breaks, thinking about how someone so confident like Dad could feel unworthy because of his race. Nothing could be further from the truth. “But you were enough. You always were.”
“That’s what she told me. She didn’t understand why I’d let it get me down so much. We argued about it. But eventually I realized, no matter what, people are going to be cruel. And if I wanted to live a positive life, I needed to do what I could to protect myself.”
“Like what?” I ask.
“Not allowing bigots into my life. Speaking up when someone says something offensive. But there’s a difference between speaking up and letting their ignorance have power over you.” He sighs. “Took a while to come to terms with. But I didn’t need anyone’s approval, nor did I need to feed into negativity and let it define me.”
The words I didn’t need anyone’s approval reverberate in my mind. Scott said this too, but it feels different coming from Dad. Someone who’s actually been the one people have a problem with—the one who doesn’t fit society’s stringent mold. I’d been naive enough to think I was the only one going through this. That no one else could understand what I was feeling.
He continues. “But the biggest thing that got me through it all was your mother. Sure, I could have done it alone. But it was a lighter burden when I let her in. She didn’t always understand. But she tried to. She listened. And she helped me see the positive when I was down. She was my rock. Still is.”
I squint at him. “I know why you’re telling me this.”
He shrugs innocently, winking as he takes a sip from his beer. “I’m just telling you one of my stories. Whether you relate it to your own life is your prerogative.” He stands up to pull me into a hug.
When his arms wrap around me, my eyes begin to water as I realize I’m face-to-face with someone, my own father, who’s gone through what I’m going through. And he’s come out on the other side. He didn’t let hate ruin him, or his love for Mom. It made them stronger. Together.
“Don’t let anyone else dictate your worth. Ever. Not even your old man when he harps on you to get a job. And especially not strangers,” he says, stepping back to hand me a random tissue from his pocket.
“Dad?” I ask, sniffling.
“Mm-hmm?”
“I hate it when you bring up me getting a job. I’m happy about where I’ve taken my business. Especially lately. I don’t need the constant critique.”
He freezes momentarily before letting out a sigh. “I know.”
“Then why do you do it?”
He bows his head, kicking at a dried leaf near his feet. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think I was hurting you. I thought I was helping.”
“You’re not, though. I think our ideas of success and stability are very different.”
“Then we’ll agree to disagree. I promise to stop with the comments. I haven’t brought it up since you laid down the law at the wedding, have I?”
“No. And I appreciate it.”
He stands, patting my shoulder. “Anyway, remember what I said. You’re not alone. And I am so proud of you and the woman you’ve become.”
“Thanks, Dad.” I linger on the deck as he steps back inside, replaying his words.
Had Dad succumbed to those ugly comments and let them define him, he and Mom never would have happened. They never would have had their so-called botched, yet perfect wedding in the rain right here in Grandma Flo’s backyard. They never would have had their eventful honeymoon in a bedbug-ridden hotel in the Adirondacks. They never would have had Tara and me. Or thirty full years of a beautiful life together.
The life I could have with Scott. The life I desperately want.