"Hazelnut" by Brigid O'Brien
“It's good to have you back.”
My dad looks up from his delicate masterpiece. Butter gently smeared on a pile of
pancakes like paint to a canvas. He reaches for the syrup but it drops.
“I'm glad to be back.” Moving four thousand miles away for college was definitely a
change of pace. Don't get me wrong, communal living and cheap beer had been
enjoyable, but I missed this. The minutiae. The small stuff; like conversations with
my dad at the diner. I take a sip of the coffee. Cream and sugar have covered a
multitude of sins. The syrup bottle rolls my way.
“Wow! Look at you!” I snicker as my dad cuts his pancakes, pushing half to the side.
He's skinnier than usual. His neck is a bit thinner and his face a bit slimmer.
“A diet, huh?!”
My dad, partner in crime, and adventure buddy. His hair is blonde, with hints of
white. It's from Sun-In. Yes, my dad uses Sun-In. His icy yet gentle blue eyes stare at
me as a smile forms across his face. He never smiles with teeth, but they always
manage to poke out from below his mustache, almost as if to say “hey there!”
Without thinking, I can feel the smile forming on my face. We may not look alike,
but we sure do act alike. I notice a small dribble of drool at the corner of his mouth. I
giggle.
He was always such…a dad. Drooling, farting, snoring. Loud sneezes that give
elephant mating calls a run for their money. He sometimes drools, but not very
often. Maybe it's one of those things that happens when you get old, like credit card
scams or reading glasses. He's old. Not too old, like mom-married-man-nearing-
death-for-money-old, but old enough where kids were constantly asking me if he
was my grandpa. He may have been approaching the big sixty seven, but God, with
his sense of humor, I could swear the man was still twelve.
“Listen Sydney,” he pauses and reaches for a napkin to wipe the drool away. “There's
something I have to—”
“Remember,” my hands gesture down to the plate in front of us, “when we came
here when I was little?” He nods patiently, awaiting whatever shenanigans I have up
my sleeve this time.
“I'd always stack the creamers while we waited for our food.”
I reach down and grab a handful of little hazelnut creamers. Gingerly I stack them
up, and before you know it, an architectural masterpiece, here, in this very diner,
stands before us. The creamers sit for a minute, as if to say, “Look I did it!” before
toppling over onto the table. We would always laugh together at their inevitable
downfall. It was silly, but so were we. I look up to find my laughs unreciprocated.
He forces a smile onto his face. That's weird…why didn't he laugh?
“Sydney, I wanted to tell you. But, we couldn't.”
I can feel the gunshot as my thoughts kick off in a race with no finish line. A tightly
wound knot forms in my stomach. Like when you were little, the kind you can't get
out of your shoelaces, and before you know it, you're stuck on the hardwood floor
crying in a jumbled mess of failed hopes and bunny ear loops. My lip trembles as I
brace for the worst.
“It happened in September.”
Did a family member I vaguely know die?! Were my parents getting a divorce?!
“You were four thousand miles away. We didn't want you to freak out.”
Oh God.
“I had a stroke.”
The words tumble out, straight into my coffee cup.
“I collapsed in the basement and was paralyzed on one side,” his train of thought
dwindles for a brief moment, “But…but, now, I'm fine. I was in the hospital for a few
days. I couldn't walk or talk, but I've been doing therapy. I'm okay now.”
Reaching to unzip his hoodie, he shows me a scar nestled in some adhesive on his
chest.
“They put this thing in my heart to monitor it, so now, if anything happens or there's
some sort of weird rhythm, the doctor gets notified.” He points to his hand, the one
that dropped the syrup. “I still can't feel some things, but it's getting better.”
His face slouches as he scans my own, searching for some sort of reaction. I'm
frozen. A singular tear drips down my cheek, planting itself on the crappy paper
napkin lying below. It's a joke, right? It has to be. He's joking, right?
“Ołó.”
I excuse myself quickly to the bathroom. Colorfully sickening tile greets me at the
door. A taunt almost. Your dad may have brain damage but look at our popcorn
ceilings! Stare into the abyss of poorly waxed linoleum, you heathen! I scramble and
haphazardly lock the door, rushing to the sink bowl. The cold faucet water stings my
hands as it splashes onto my face. I need something, anything to get me out of this
nightmare. My dad had a stroke. My dad collapsed. He couldn't walk or talk—and he
sat in the hospital—and he was paralyzed—and I. Had. No. Idea. Nuances of: “How
are you?” or “How was school?” or “Get good grades?” were now grimly replaced
with future talk of thickened water and stale vocabulary flash cards in his physical
therapy classes.
I think there was some kind of miscommunication in my brain because the sink
faucet below me resorts to a sad singular drip, yet my eyes have no problem causing
a downpour. The handle has been turned and there's no stopping. I look into the
mirror, decorated with someone else's smudged fingerprints, and the girl looking
back at me is sick to her stomach. The girl looking back at me is not the girl I was
five minutes ago. She's not the girl sipping diner coffee and casually chatting with
her father. I run into the stall, slam the door, and lean over the toilet. Sadly, it's a bit
harder to yack up internal turmoil.
I couldn't bear to think of my dad—the man who spent his whole life protecting and
loving me—learning how to walk and talk again. Learning how to hold goddamn
spoons again. Slurring his words. I realize that in some sort of cruel joke played by
the universe, our roles had reversed. The one man who took care of me now needed
to be taken care of. Except when he needed me most, I was gone. I was off in school,
and I know they say ignorance is bliss, but God, I wish it wasn't. I wish ignorance was
pain, and I wish I knew. I wish I helped, and I just wish I was little again and it was
just me and my dad against the world.
The stall encloses me in a vice grip I just can't seem to break from. The faint hum of
air conditioning sings along with my pity cries. I pray this bathroom was recently
sanitized.
Every weekend, when I was little, my dad would take me to the zoo. He called us zoo
buddies. I sat eagerly in the backseat as he drove, excitedly eyeballing the animal
plastered signs that warned we were getting closer. We would walk around and see
all the animals. Maybe if a tiger or bear was too far up, I'd be lucky enough to get a
boost from him, my sparkly gym shoes dangling against the railing, his arms tucked
around me. Tram rides. Kids meals with vaguely animal shaped nuggets. Looking at
maps. And of course, before we left: the dolphin show. I'd pout in protest as we
drudged up to the high bleacher row at the top. He'd never let us sit in the splash
zone, because he didn't want his “sun kissed” hair getting wet. I wanted to be
drenched! Nevertheless, my pouts were always forgotten when we'd come home
with another rainbow dolphin souvenir; keychains or earrings or stickers galore.
Rinse and repeat the next weekend. Zoo buddies we were.
My dad made my lunches. When I first proudly gave the family my proclamation of
vegetarianism in middle school, he'd pack a cheese, lettuce, and mustard sandwich
for me. A poorly drawn heart on the plastic bag. Every. Single. Day.
My dad drove me to work over the summer. Like ritual, we'd leave early each day
because he had irrational fears of arriving late and like ritual, at eight, we'd listen to
93.1 FM—Lin's Bin, to be precise. Every. Single. Day.
Freshman year, when I started taking photography classes on Sundays, he'd take
me down to the city. I'd take pictures of buildings and sculptures, all while he
narrated with anecdotes and trivia, thanks to over twenty years of working
downtown each day. We'd end our photo escapades with pancakes and coffee. It
was holy. It was a ritual. It was much more divine than any sabbath day sermon or
mass I'd attended. I remember one time, we took a detour to the northern outskirts
of the city, where he had grown up. The sun had peeked her way through a blanket
of clouds and warmth engulfed the whispers of winter breeze into something much
more tolerable. A perfect day in early spring. We drove around, singing to whatever
rock song was on the radio, until he brought me to the lighthouse. We got out and I
snapped some quick photos, but then we made our way towards something much
more mesmerizing. The quiet beach tucked below.
It.
Was.
Magical.
Something about the way the sand and the water collided in a gentle embrace.
Something about the way the seagulls croaked in harmony with the turmoil of the
waves. Something about the way the wind whipped herself around in beautiful
chaos. My dad walked a few steps ahead of me on the soft sand. I went to take his
picture. Of course, in true dad fashion, he held up his finger and pointed to
something in the distance. It was too late. My photography assignment for that
week may or may not have featured his pointer finger as the main event, outshining
even the smallest sliver of such an idyllic landscape.
My dad taught me how to drive in his car.
My dad turned me onto Bowie and Zeppelin.
My dad took me to my first baseball game ever.
Our Sunday traditions weren't always tomfoolery of the camera. Back when I was
younger, probably eight or nine, Sundays were reserved for grocery shopping. Like
clockwork, we'd maneuver a squeaky cart through aisles on a hunt. The sale papers
were our treasure map, and every journey culminated with a stop at the deli; our
prized chest full of goods (or in this case, cheese). Half a pound of colby jack, thinly
sliced, please. The deli worker would always cut a slice first and hand it to my dad to
check before he finished the rest. We had to make sure the thickness was up to
standards, of course. My dad would always split the slice. Half for him and half for
me. Oh, what I would give to be little again. Legs dangling over the edge of the cart.
Sharing my favorite cheese with my favorite person.
But…here I am in the bathroom. No matter how hard I try, I can't go back in time.
Inhale, I take a deep breath, and bite my lip. Too many tears. Not enough shitty one-
ply toilet paper to ease the pain. Finally, after some brief pacing, the vice grip has
given into my pleas, and I'm able to make my way to the door. I walk back quickly to
our booth and plop myself down into a sinkhole of pleather. He's nursing a half
empty cup of coffee. I want to say something, anything, but nothing comes out.
There comes a day when we all come to the halting realization that our parents
aren't invincible. Mortality lurks around the corner. She's always watching: no matter
how young or old, healthy or sick. I had known he was older than most dads. I had
spent nights thinking and worrying. I'll admit, I'd done the math. How old he'd be
for my twenty-first or thirtieth birthday. How old I needed to have kids or get
married to guarantee he'd be there.
It didn't bother me. Age was just a number, and with the way he'd jump in my bed
to wake me up in the morning, his ice cold feet trying to tickle mine, his middle
school sense of humor, or the way he'd chase around our dog without breaking a
single sweat, it was no biggie. He was young at heart. Sure, he took vitamins and
some blood pressure medication, but who didn't? He always seemed invincible.
Until now. Until mortality came and knocked on the door. So what do I say to that?
How do I comfort the man who's spent my whole life comforting me? How do I tell
my zoo buddy? My taxi driver? My cheese splitter? My photography assistant? My
driving instructor? God, how do I tell my dad just how much he means to me? The
words occupying my brain are merely a semblance of everything I want to say.
He seems to pick up on the fact that silence has become our second course of the
day. My dad was never a sappy man himself, so I'm sure he's probably secretly
relieved with this choice of meal. He lifts his hand up and for a second hesitates. Is
he about to pour his heart out? Oh God. Did the brain damage make my father a
softy?
He gingerly reaches in the middle of our table, amidst a chaos of breakfast remains,
and grabs the plate full of creamers towards him. Shakily, he stacks them one by
one, until a hazelnut skyscraper has placed herself
smack-dab on the center of the table.
“Remember that?” He grins. The teeth peek again.
“Yeah,” I can't seem to help the smile forming on my face, “I do.”
The creamers slightly jiggle in place, and for a second I have hope that maybe,
just maybe, this time they'll stand still. A lull. One…two…three. An orchestra of thuds
against our plates lets me know I've been sadly mistaken.
We laugh in synchrony. I hand him a lone creamer that falls into my lap. He hands
me one hidden behind the ketchup.
Our hazelnut cups meet in the middle. “It's good to have you back.”
Brigid O'Brien is a professional houseplant slash ghost whisperer, cowboy boot connoisseur, and single mom to Charles David, a twenty-seven-year-old cat. Not fact-checked.