Father Felt Like Eating It

Rays of the street lamps rested on Father’s greasy face. He didn’t comb his hair like he used to. Mother was there too, standing a little shorter than Father at the parking lot. I noticed how tired he was from the way his spine loosened—he didn’t stand ramrod anymore. His poor sight took him a while to find me, until I saw him cock his eyebrows and grin tiredly when he spotted me standing at the lobby entrance with a backpack and a big navy-coloured baggage perched on a trolley. He had a habit of fixing his thick eyeglasses whenever he smiled. I inherited his way of expressing relief—he would exhale heavily, lips fluttering under his thick moustache.

I pushed the trolley carefully, watching out for cars crawling by to drop off and pick up passengers, balancing it as the wheels stumbled over coarse tarmac and wild shingles scattered across the dropping bay at Sultan Mahmud Airport. Renovation works for new infrastructure had dragged on for far too long.

The last item I placed in the car’s boot was a paper bag filled with glossy brochures from the October 2010 convocation ceremony. I had received my Bachelor’s Degree scroll without my parents witnessing it, while everyone else’s parents did. Thump. The boot was shut, and so too was my bittersweet journey across the ocean in Sarawak. Mother was about to hand me the car key. I passed.

We drove past the airport’s security guard post when Father turned his head toward me in the backseat.
“Do you bring anything home from Sarawak?” he asked.

“What thing?” I said, bewildered.

“I asked you to buy me ikang terubok, remember?”

“I didn’t buy anything. No terubok fish. No nothing.”

“Why didn’t you buy it?” Father asked.

“I ain’t got enough money,” I answered. “Didn’t spend on anything but food.”

“Why didn’t you buy it? It’s been a long time since I last ate ikang terubok.” He sighed heavily, the sound of disappointment thick.

“I said I don’t have enough money,” I repeated, harsher, aggravated.

“But I feel like eating it,” Father said quietly.

Silence. I gazed out of the car window, neon lights and tail lamps fading like watercolours dissolving in rain. I had never seen Father act that way.

“You know, Along? Ayoh’s not been feeling well today,” Mother said.

I didn’t respond.

She added, “He’s been getting nocturnal fevers ever since you flew to UNIMAS. It’s been a week. The rest of the day he’s fine. Already told him to see a doctor. You know him—he relies on Panadols.”

“I feel like eating satay,” I said suddenly.

“Satay? Where to find satay now? It’s almost eleven,” Mother said.

“There are plenty of greasy spoons by the roadside,” Father spoke. “Just slow the car down—we’ll see which one we can go to.”

“That one’s full,” Mother said, as cars overflowed from the lot. “School holidays. Already expected that.”

Every restaurant we passed was jam-packed. Cars with number plates not starting with T—outsiders—lined the grassy roadside. Uninvited cockroaches swarming our land. I hated them. Because of them, I couldn’t eat satay. Fuck them all.

“How about that one?” Mother slowed and pulled over. “Along, how about this one?” She pointed to a restaurant, its lights vibrant but the place deserted. I didn’t like the look of it. Everything was wrong. The world seemed to be spinning out of my command, and I resented it.

“I don’t feel like eating satay anymore,” I said sullenly, sinking back.

“You sure?” Mother asked. “You can eat something else. I didn’t cook at home—no meals on the kitchen table.”

“Not feeling like eating satay anymore,” I repeated.

“Are you sure? Have you eaten along the trip?” Mother pressed.

“Already had my lunch at McDonald’s in Kuala Lumpur. Still full,” I lied.

“Alright. So where are we going now? You sure?” Mother asked.

“Home,” Father interrupted.

“Home,” I said, disappointedly.

Father died a month later.

Happy Father’s Day.