Beyond Pages

06 Endlessly Ephemeral

"Your mother is out to poison me again!" My father shows me a bottle of water, "look at the bubbles, it's poisoned! The audacity of that ungrateful woman!" He throws his bottle into the trash. "We have everything, many call us blessed, yet she's out messing around with other men!"

He let out an angry sigh and looks at me. "How can you be so blind?" He pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head, "and brainwashed?! Aren't the evidence enough for you?"

I look at my father, who is fighting a losing battle with progressive schizophrenia, and shake my head. This man, who holds a doctorate degree in engineering had pioneered various initiatives in the civil engineering world, was once a role model and confidante. Unfortunately, growing up with a past of self-inflicted insecurities which were further fueled by a loveless marriage and motor accident, he gave in to the pull of progressive schizophrenia in the last 3 years. My past encounters with him have thought me how to better pick my battles. Thus, deciding to let this one go, I conveniently grab the mail key, eyed for the back door and shut it with a huge slam.

After saying a silent prayer, I take in a cool breath of air, rejuvenating my lungs, it did little to help qualm my growing frustration. Before I allow my brain to play the "self-pity" soundtrack, I catch myself and forced myself to count to 10. All the while, my feet has autopilot themselves to my mailbox. As I look through the mail, most appear to be Christmas cards from various family members and friends. One looked odd as it was neon colored and surprisingly addressed to me. The lack of a sender address and name made it more mysterious. Since the thought of looking at various picture perfect family cards is nauseating, I shoved the rest of the mail back into the mailbox and kept the neon letter in my hand.

As I took a seat by a park bench, I feel myself relax at sight of the greenery and smile at the laughter of children. They were happily chasing one another in the sandbox, kicking fallen leaves at the turn of fall. I carefully rip open the letter, revealing a card offering a chance for a do-over, which I scoffed at as there was no way it would be possible. As if the card sensed my hesitation, "don't doubt, just believe for a moment."

I take a deep breath, "a do-over huh?" I close my eyes and a feel a small wind blowing at my face. "Christy, come over!" I open my eyes to find my dad, a decade younger version of him, staring at me. I look at my hands to find the same neon envelop and letter in my tiny hands and I also had tiny feet.

"What are you waiting for?" I look up again and realized that this do-over was for real. I run towards my dad. "Today, I want to show you a little magic." I give my dad a questioning look, "Christy, today you are going to fly!"

"Fly? I'm going to grow wings?" I ask excitedly, as I recall the conversation and emotions.

"Something like that. Go on, climb up to the top, I'll meet you at the edge." I quickly ran up the playground structure's tower and meet him at a balcony opening. "Now, step on my shoulders." As I took a couple careful steps, my dad secured me on his shoulders. "Are you ready, we're going to fly, 1, 2," before he finished counting, he begins running. My heart beat quickens, it was exhilarating, however it was short lived as my dad had a small trip and we both came crashing down towards the sand. Tears immediately flow down my cheeks.

"Daddy it hurts so much." I cry as I hug my legs.

"I'm so sorry Christy. Where are you hurting?"

"Everywhere daddy!" I shout, "It's all your fault! All of this! Why do you always have to go about messing things up?" I start a rant, unable to stop myself from channeling my anger from the future. "You make things hard for mommy and I. You make us hate you."

My dad is taken aback, clearly shocked by the confessions of a mere 10-year-old.

He comes close and envelops me in an embrace. For a long while, he stays that way, not saying a word, just simply holding on to me. "Are you feeling better now?" I did, but out of stubbornness, I shake my head. "Your grandma used to do this with me all the time. When I got hurt or angry, she would just hug me for at least 1 minute." This was news, I knew dad loved my grandma and always praised her for her wisdom, grace and kindness. Thus, I cherish any details of my beloved grandma.

"She would do that because she wanted me to know that no matter what, I am her son and that she loves me." He reveals more. "Similarly, lil' Christy, nothing can ever stop me from loving you. No matter how hard or confusing things in life may get, my love for you is never ending."

"Now that we have addressed the root of my heart, I am sorry for tripping, honey, and the pain and scary fall that you had. Will you forgive me?" He is looking at me now, eyes earnestly seeking and patiently waiting for my answer. I look on for a little while more, savoring this moment as tears fill my eyes. How I missed my old dad, my sane dad, my dad. "While you're thinking this hard, I might as well thrown in my pardon for future wrongs to you." He teases, unaware of the weight of his request.

"Of course, daddy! I love you too much to stay mad at you." ...and I promise to work hard to fight for our love. I open my little arms and he hug me immediately.

"That's my girl!" I give him my biggest hug and held him close, unsure when I get to see this version of my dad again. I feel a breeze again and when I open my eyes, I am back on the park bench, eyes wet but heart so full.

Although the do-over was short-lived, it was enough for me to pick up my feet and walk back into my house. In it, I find water bottles on the floor, mostly broken. I find my dad by our stairs, holding onto a family portrait of when I was much younger. His eyes showing his raw self: emotions of loneliness, hurt and confusion. I walk up to him and pulls him into an embrace, and just like the do-over, we stay that way for a while, neither of us saying anything.

"There's my girl," my dad starts, "you came back."

"Yes, I did. I'm sorry for walking out on your dad. Will you forgive me?"

He looks at me, uncertainty appearing.

"While you're thinking, will you also forgive my future wrongs?" I add.

He chuckles a little, "How can I not?" His expression softens, then hardens. He grabs my shoulders, "but you must help me expose your mother, you can't let her continue to fall into her demise. She is losing it."

...and I promise to work hard to fight for our love.

"Why don't we clean up the kitchen first?" I suggest as I draw strength from the do-over, cherishing every little moment of sanity that life and my dad's condition provide. As I know with much certainty, if the roles were reversed, my dad will fight hell for me.