1. When I was nine, Dad and I took a road trip to Yellowstone National Park. It was way out west, far, far away from our midtown Toronto apartment. Dad liked to take me on little road trips every summer, but this was a big one. On the way, we drove through hills that looked like mountains. The sky was ripped straight out of Toy Story: white pillowy clouds floating aimlessly against a perfect blue. American Buffalo yawned and grazed their way out to the horizon.
That first night in the cabin, though, I became horribly sick. I figured I had gotten some version of altitude poisoning, but the Wi-Fi was spotty, so there wasn’t any real way to check. I stayed in the cabin for the next few days while Dad drove around the park and saw the bison and bears and geysers. He’d stop at the general store just before getting home, though, to bring me more DayQuil, tissue boxes and cans of chicken noodle soup. There was something about it that almost made me feel guilty. I was only nine, sure, but I felt I was old enough to walk down to the store myself if I needed anything. I told him, but he just waved me off. He did it so often I became angry. I felt he was wasting his trip checking in on me, alone and pathetic in the cabin. The thing with Dad was that, while he didn’t blow up in an argument, he had mastered the art of passive-aggression. He’d say, It’s okay, I’m your dad and I have to take care of you, or We’ll come back one day when you’re not sick, instead of nothing at all, which, in retrospect, is what I would have preferred.
When we finally got back home, we were so exhausted from the drive that we crashed on the couch. In the morning, I realized Dad and I had slept like sardines: heads resting on opposite arm rests, feet in each other’s faces. I started laughing and it woke him up. He rubbed his eyes, and as soon as he saw my feet, he made an exaggerated face, feigning disgust. Then he stood up, grabbed me by the legs and dangled me upside down. I squealed and protested until he put me down.
“One day I won’t be able to pick you up,” Dad said, smiling. “You loved being picked up when you were younger. Remember?”
I did remember. But now I’m 25, and things like that don’t happen anymore.
2. Dad never liked anyone I dated. My high school relationships never lasted very long, but I still considered them important. I didn’t like it when Dad didn’t approve, even if he pretended to. Whenever a boy came to our door to pick me up, Dad found it hard to keep his comments to himself.
“Is that your grandpa’s suit?” he asked my very first semi-formal date, a tall, gawky boy in a too-big suit jacket, 16 to my 15. The comment elicited a blush that spread up the boy’s ears.
“Yes, isn’t it nice?” I said, trying to give Dad a look that said, We’ll talk about this later. But he didn’t pick up on it, or maybe he didn’t try to.
“Looks a little dusty,” he said, and reached out his hand as if to touch the jacket, but I swatted it away.
“It’s fine,” I said, and pushed my date out the door. He had just gotten his licence, so he drove us to the venue. We walked inside to almost complete darkness and the booming voice of an overenthusiastic DJ. We only saw each other’s faces when the flashing neon lights came our way. We danced with friends when there were fast songs; swayed together, just the two of us, during the slow ones. That boy kissed me that night, but it wasn’t great. I put my hands on his shoulders, feeling the starchy material of his tux. When I excused myself to go to the bathroom, I realized my fingertips were grey with a thin layer of dust. I got an overwhelming feeling to call Dad and tell him I wanted to go home. The boy drove me home instead, giving me another awkward kiss before I hopped out of the car.
The next morning, Dad asked about him at breakfast. I kept my head down and chewed a piece of toast. I said everything went fine.
“I knew one day you’d stop telling me about the boys you date,” he said, taking a sip from his coffee. “One day you won’t even let me meet them.”
I pushed my chair back and told him we weren’t even really together. I grabbed my school bag and rushed out the door. That night, we had pizza and watched Survivor reruns. Dad didn’t bring up the boy. I looked at him and noticed little specks of grey in his beard that weren’t there before.
3. Dad apologized by not apologizing. We didn’t fight often—little common disagreements here and there—but it was the passive-aggression that made me blow up. There were times I didn’t need to hear that tone, making me feel worse than I already did, when I still wasn’t old enough to admit I was sorry.
Dad would give me space after a fight. I’d shut the door of my room and stay underneath the covers, sulking, while he stayed downstairs. But eventually he’d come up, knock softly, and ask if I wanted a snack. He’d sit near the end of the bed; I’d feel my covers tightening around my feet as the duvet sank towards him.
“I brought cookies,” he’d say, or maybe it’d be crackers and cheese, or a bowl of ice cream. “I found some in the kitchen,” he’d add, even though we both knew the food was always there. I wouldn’t respond because I would still be upset. One time, he patted my legs before he left. I shuffled under the covers a little when he did. But he didn’t try to pull the blankets off.
4. I held hands with Dad until I was about eight, right before the big Yellowstone trip. It was at every intersection, crosswalk and jaywalk, both of us looking left and right in unison before stepping into the street. His hand was big, my fingers barely clasping around his. Walking to the park one day, I saw another little girl and her father crossing the street towards us. They walked closely, but her father’s hands were in his pockets, while the girl’s were zipping up her jacket. Dad was looking at them too. When they passed us, he squeezed my hand a little tighter.
5. We had a fight right before he died. I was over for dinner, and we started talking about how much money I was making compared to how much my rent was. I told him I could still afford it as I was cutting up my chicken breast; the knife scraped the plate and the sound made both of us twitch. He disagreed, and it was stupid, the argument, stupid the way I kept insisting and he insisted back, as if either of us could change anything about the situation. It didn’t need to be argued about. But at the time, I had just moved out and was relishing in the independence. I’d ask Dad for advice about my taxes, not my income. That felt too personal. And so the blow up came, and the force of my anger shook the kitchen table so much that my wine glass wobbled, then fell. My stomach dropped.
I knew what he was going to say before he said it: These were a wedding present. I felt the tears line my eyes. Dad stood up and went into the kitchen to find the dustpan. I crouched down and pushed some of the pieces together with my hands. I had a horrible thought, wishing that he would cut himself on the glass as he tried to clean it up. That seeing his blood would give me some satisfaction. How dare you talk to me like that, is what it would say. How dare you make me feel guilty. But Dad didn’t step on the glass or cut his hands on any of the shards. He just crouched down to my level and swept the glass into the dustpan. When he was done, he went back into the kitchen to dump the glass into the trash. We finished the rest of our meal in silence. I didn’t say goodbye when I left. Once I got home, I found little specks of glass stuck to the palms of my hands. When I picked them out, they left tiny red marks. But they didn’t bleed.
6. The way Dad died wasn’t related to any of that. It was a missed step in the middle of the night. A concerned neighbour and a few missed calls. Warm skin, no light behind the eyes.
When I found out, I was at home. The hospital called me because I was the only emergency contact in his wallet. They told me to come in to sort things out. Instead, I went straight to bed, put the covers over my head and closed my eyes. I pretended that I was back in Yellowstone. That my hand was drowning in his. That the covers would be pulled back for the first time.
But I knew none of that would happen. Because Dad was gone. Because I live alone. Because now I’m 25. And none of that happens anymore.