He looks narrower than I remember, a bit slimmer. My gaze is fixed on his posture as he exits the car; he’s still driving that old 1999 Nissan, though its colour has faded. I wonder why he hasn’t painted over the scratch I left 10 years ago when I stole it. I crack my knuckles a few times, glance at the clock to make sure the lasagna doesn’t burn. The distance between my front door and his car feels like miles away as I watch him approach. He still stomps on the ground as ferociously as before, abandoning his trace. The bell ring startles me, and I run my fingers through my hair before greeting him.
“Hi,” I can barely hear the word, as if he’s mouthing it through his coarse beard.
“Hi, dad”, I force a smile, and welcome him in.
As he takes off his jacket, I can’t help but examine him. I now hover above him; I could have sworn he was taller than me. He still has the same slicked back hair, with a few white strands poking out. His shoulders have drooped down over time, his back bent as if he’s carrying an immense weight. He looks so trivial as he stands in my hallway, blending with the light-grey wall. As if he becomes a part of my home, an old painting I uncover in an abandoned box labelled “memories”.
“Uh, you can just go ahead and sit in the living room. I’ll bring something to drink.” I hang his coat, sniffing the usual scent of smoke mixed with the musty men’s body spray.
I glance at the clock to make sure the lasagna doesn’t burn; I’ve been preparing dinner for hours. After taking a quick look at the oven, I open a bottle of new Champaign and pour two glasses. I chug mine then refill it. Wiping the corners of my mouth, I move to the living room.
“Here you go” I place his drink in front of him, and without aversion he swigs it whole.
“You must be thirsty” I sit down, forcibly chuckling.
His eyes inspect every nook of my home, as if he’s examining for mice. My throat feels too dry, and I can’t stop looking at the clock, the lasagna shouldn’t burn. I bite the inner of my cheeks, struggling to think of a question to ask. I can’t even remember what he’s been doing for the past 12 years. Did he remarry? Did he retire? What if I utter something wrong?
He yawns, initiating the warning signals in my head. I try to ignore the red light flashing in my mind and point at a painting hanging above the chimney.
“Um, my fiancé made that for me. She . . . uh she’s an art teacher.” I can’t seem to form coherent sentences, gulping after each word.
The corners of his mouth rise creating a soft grin as he moves closer towards the portrait. His fingertips caress the rough canvas, tracing every shape and line.
“That’s nice,” he crosses his hands behind his back, still smiling.
I finish the last drop of champagne in my glass and look at the clock, dinner is ready. I leave him with the painting and rush to the kitchen.
“You can just move to the dining room,” I yell as I take out the lasagna, attentively cutting it into square pieces.
I have prepared the dining table hours ago, carefully placing two plates and some embroidered napkins. Father examines the flowers at the middle of the table, and I curse myself for not noticing the yellow petals poking among the others.
“I should’ve changed the flowers, excuse me” I serve him some lasagna, refilling his glass with more champagne.
He takes a bite and pierces his lips, squinting as he rushes to drink some water.
“What is in this?” he coughs.
“Oh, I might have added too much cumin maybe?” I stand up, preparing to get him another cup of water, but he gestures for me to sit back down.
“Lily, I’ve always told you over seasoning is as bad as under seasoning,” I can hear a laugh escape his rims between the coughs.
I chuckle, tightening my fists until my knuckles turn white. I thought I had measured everything.
“I’m sorry,” I dab my mouth with the napkin, trying to figure out if I can quickly boil some pasta.
“It’s okay, um we can just order some pizza,” he takes out his phone from his front pocket, squinting at the screen.
“I’m sorry . . . for ruining dinner” I rush to stand up almost knocking over the flowers I so delicately placed.
“Lily, please don’t overreact” he moves his napkin to the side
“I’m not overreacting dad, I just wanted to cook for you and here you’re offering to order pizza.”
“For God’s sake not with this again. Lily I’m not trying to pick a fight, it’s okay. Let’s order first, then we can talk.” He holds up his phone, carefully dialling the number as I continue gathering the plates full of cumin lasagna. Thank you Mrs. Worthwood’s cookbook for dummies.
I try to calm down my breathing, inhale once, exhale once. My mind rushes to a million places, I need him just to shut up for a second so I could think properly.
“J-just stop, can you just stop!” I push the plates back on the table. He stares at me for a moment, his forehead creases as he returns his phone to his pocket.
He remains seated, pouring himself a third glass of champagne. I can feel the floor shaking from beneath my feet, maybe it’s me. I cup my face with my hands, trying to cool down my skin, I sense my cheeks reddening with every second we sit longer in silence.
“I need to clean up,” I manage to speak.
“I should probably just leave,” he stands up.
“Uh yes. . .” I glance at the clock.
“Oh, before I go, I wanted to give you this.” He pats his coat for a bit before realizing that he left the gift out in his car.
“Uh, do you mind coming with me?” his features soften, did he always have brown eyes? I’ve never noticed the twinkle in his pupils, perhaps it’s new.
Without saying a word, I grab my jacket and lead him out the house. The robust December wind greets both of us as it slaps our faces forcing us to look away.
“I will never get used to Montréal’s winter” I hear my father’s voice behind me, and I catch myself smiling.
We power through the snow storm, and with every step closer to the car, I get weaker. The wind pushes me back and my father catches me, “I got you” he grips my arms. I give him an assuring look, and watch him open his car door.
I could’ve just let him order pizza.
He takes out a cylinder shape covered in brown packaging.
“It’s for you.” He nudges me with the object.
I struggle to remove the wrapping as my fingers have gone numb from the cold, but when I glimpse the corner of it, I feel warmth envelop me. It’s the salad bowl my mother used to adore when I was young. Whenever it made an appearance at the table, it meant my father was coming over for dinner.
“Thank you,” I hold the bowl close to my heart. My father rubs his palms together as he prepares to say goodbye.
“Uh, it seems like there’s a snowstorm tonight. Why don’t you stay over for the weekend? Um, I guess we can still order pizza if you want?”
“Sure.”
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