Daddy's Dearest Daughter

Mom called. She said: Popo died.

I heard: This morning they carried your grandma out in a body bag.

••

The locked hotel bathroom transformed, turning colder and colder. I sat frozen on the closed toilet seat while hot tears rolled down my face. I stifled a sob with my fist.

Just yesterday I had left Popo’s house with Daddy. Popo was laying on the hospital bed they had brought to her room.

I didn’t bother to say goodbye before bounding out the door to greet him. I never considered that it would be the last time I could.

Daddy and I sang along to “Time After Time” by Cyndi Lauper on the way to the hotel and he explained our plan to drive down to his new house in Los Angeles the day after.

It was simple and I felt relaxed. Maybe even happy. Happy as Daddy’s favorite daughter who hasn’t seen him in a while. Happy as the daughter on her way to LA to spend the rest of summer with her beloved Daddy.

••

The smell of sage, spilled kombucha, and weed seeped through the crack under the bathroom door.

The scent made my nose itch with familiarity. It was so uniquely him—so undeniably Daddy.

It reminded me of us riding our bikes on Monday mornings before he dropped me off at elementary school. Accompanying him to apartment tours in every corner of the East Bay. Prancing around Japantown and exploring bookstores in the city.

It made me think of mornings spent compartmentalizing the events of the day before; smashed screens and grabby fingers, button mashing while playing Xbox fighting games and laughing as we baked cookies into the shapes of our hands.

I heard three sharp knocks against the bathroom door.

I pressed my palms hard against my closed eyes and smeared my tears away before stumbling out of the bathroom. I managed to squeak out, Grandma died.

••

We made our way across the fluorescent lit hallway, suitcases stuffed full, as Daddy rambled on about how grandma was stubborn as a bull and never liked him anyway.

My knees buckled. She's actually gone. How much of my normal has been stripped away with her death?

Weekends won’t smell like pool chlorine and fresh laundry. No longer can I watch Popo’s kind hardened hands guiding thread through fabric as she instructs me on my next stitch.

I won’t hear chow mein sizzling in the wok as the scent of soy sauce wafts in through the kitchen window. No more sitting at the dining table peeling the skin off of fresh water chestnuts. No more expeditions to Costco trying every flavor of every sample snack and walking out with a hot dog and a churro among a cartful of bulk groceries.

She was gone. It was real now.

No more laughter, no more warmth.

Dead.

Daddy and I reached the top of the staircase and began to descend. At the top of the second flight my grip on my suitcase handle faltered.

Trembling, tears leaking from my eyes, I nudged my suitcase towards my father and asked if he could carry my suitcase down the last flight of stairs.

He laughed and replied, Wow, you’re really milking this dead grandma thing, huh?

Huh?

I'm... what?

My head shook in disbelief and bewilderment. It hadn't even been half an hour since I found out she died but I'm milking it? Milking it?

I moved to grab onto my suitcase once more. My father grabbed it roughly by the handle and grumbled as he sauntered his down the stairs to the hotel lobby.

A breath that was lodged in the back of my throat broke free and I coughed before scurrying to follow him.

This was only the first day out of many.

Over three weeks of legally obligated time yet to spend.

I had better get over myself quickly.

••••

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If you liked Daddy's Dearest Daughter, you may also enjoy Summer 2017.