“You always say he didn’t care about you,” L said, “but your dad took you to fucking Disneyland.”
“And that proves he was a great guy?”
“No, it proves you keep hiding shit from me.” It was true. When we began dating, I gave her a spotty timeline of my parents failed marriage, misleading her into believing that my parents had already separated when my mom began seeing Willie. I was reluctant to declare my mother a cheater. I wanted one parent I could respect. When L discovered the truth, she labeled me a “mama’s boy” who was unable to see his mom for who she was, not a victim but a master manipulator who I had let off the hook for the dysfunctions in my family.
I shifted my weight, as though suddenly L was heavy on my lap. “OK, what else do you want to know?”
She pulled a piece of lint stuck to my buzz cut. “Any other vacations with your father?” she asked jokingly.
“There was one other time.” I recalled during the winter break of my freshman year of high school I, along with my mother and sister, had visited Bah Ba in Minnesota. My brother couldn’t get off work. He was a busboy at Bah Ba’s old restaurant, Tea House.
My father at that time had a house in a Twin Cities suburb. It wasn’t huge, but it had felt roomy, at least for one person. I’d slept on the sofa, firm as a showroom sofa, as though Bah Ba had been waiting to break it in. The only other thing in the living room was a flimsy stereo system. If I pushed a button too hard, the whole unit would sway.
I dug around in his basement one day while he was at work and found a stash of Playboy magazines. Actually, I didn’t really dig, and it wasn’t a stash. They were stacked on a table in plain view, but I wasn’t supposed to be down there.
Most days we ate lunch at his restaurant, the kind rented out for banquets. My sister and I would stuff our plates with fried chicken wings at the buffet and grab a glass of soda at the bar. We used the bar gun like we owned the place. Bah Ba had only one day off, so he and I shared few moments: him standing in the doorway marveling at the graphics of the video game I was playing, him sitting down with me to watch Do the Right Thing, then getting up when he realized it was a serious flick and not a comedy. I shot hoops at a gym with his boss’s son. His neighbor took me sledding. I felt snow on my fingertips for the first time. The snot in my nose froze. All this had made me feel I had a place in my father’s world, but now that I had turned my back on him, I wanted to dispose of these memories. I felt guilty even having happy memories of that winter trip. Ga Jeh’s version of that visit may not have been as fond.
L leapt off me. “If we’re going to make this work,” she said. “You gotta start being honest about your family.” She shook out her wrist, adjusting her turquoise bracelet.
“I’m sorry I can’t remember every little detail,” I said sarcastically.
“The only details you remember are the ones your mom wants you to remember. Your father was horrible; she was a hero.” L was being preemptive. She’d grown up witnessing her father take his mother’s side over his wife’s, and L swore she’d never marry into that same dynamic, but here she was, in a relationship with a mama’s boy. She needed me to convince her otherwise, to hear me speak with a little compassion for my father, utter some gratitude for his years of hard work, say something that didn’t sound like I was parroting my mother.
How I wish I could’ve explained to L—if I’d had the words for this then—that the reason I couldn’t say one good thing about my father had nothing to do with my mom deluding me. I was trying to delude myself, trying to erase positive memories of my father because it was far easier to disown him if I saw him as a total villain. Acknowledging the truth—his sacrifices for me—would lead me to pity Bah Ba, one step closer to changing my mind about him, one step closer to betraying my sister again.
I said none of this to L.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I replied. “My father was horrible. And no one asked for your fucking opinion about my family. Key words there—My. Family. Worry about your own.”
L put on her jogging shoes and dashed out of the apartment. When I reached the front door—she’d left it open, maybe so I’d follow—she’d already turned the corner. I shut the door and lay back on the bed. I pulled the blanket over me. An image of a tiger at night spread across it, a gift from the mother of a student, a single mother, or was it a mother who’d remarried? I was bad at keeping track of those things.
I picked up the tape. Why did I even have this damn thing? It had survived five moves in six years. Not once had I considered tossing it, and yet, I hadn’t watched it a single time either.
I swung open the TV cabinet and stuck the tape in the VCR.
Wherever we’re at is noisy and crowded. The camera struggles to remain steady as it trails me, my sister, and my mother. I have a stick of a body. That’s apparent, even with my white and red wide-striped polo. My mother’s hair flows down so low, I can hardly see her slim body. She has on
