A Father's Love

The rice cooker clicks off, wheezing like an old man and breaking the silent hum filling the kitchen.

Faolan spares it a glance, body momentarily pausing in mid-action, before he resumes chopping the last batch of carrots. The movement calms him down, and for good measure, for he’s been feeling jittery all morning. “Like a bird,” his wife used to say whenever she spotted his figure scurrying around in search of something to calm the restlessness sitting heavy in his stomach. He can't help it, Faolan is nervous by nature and though he’s grown out of that awkward adolescent fear, there are moments that he still feels like a child. 

It’s been a while since he’s felt this way. After his beloved had died, there hadn’t been anything worth being excited about, apart from the one strand of hope that came in the form of his daughter. Faolan had made sure to give her everything, to raise her the way his wife would’ve wanted him to. He likes to believe he did a good job, and looking at Meilyn now always brings a flush of nostalgia and pride at the young woman whom she’s blossomed into. 

She’s grown, he tells his wife silently. He hopes she can hear him. Faolan slides the carrots off his chopping board and into a bowl before moving on to the chicken, skimming over the array of clean baby corn, freshly washed bok choy and glistening mushrooms that envelope the promise of a good meal. 

Nothing can go wrong today. Faolan will not ruin this for Meilyn. It’s been long -- too long -- since he’s laid eyes on his daughter’s face. And he’s adamant to make this dinner the best they’ve had in a while. 

Grabbing his meat board and placing the chicken strips methodically in a line, Faolan whips out a knife from his wall and proceeds to slice them evenly as the marinade oozes out with a promised saltiness of soy sauce and oyster. Out of impulse, he glances at the clock resting on the far wall of the turquoise-walled kitchen. Six-fifteen. Beside it, a stream of sunset light bathes the wooden countertops in gold. 

“I’ll be here at seven. Seven-thirty at the latest if the train is slow,” she’d told him over the phone last night. 

“Be careful.” 

“Oh dad,” he’d pictured her face filled with exasperation, “I will.” 

Growing up without a mother had proved difficult for both father and daughter. Meilyn was a rebellious child by nature just as fiery as her mother had been, and taming her had been a challenge that had caused Faolan to tear his hair out multiple times a week. They disagreed on nearly everything; from the way Meilyn sat, to the way she dressed, to the manners she’d display towards her aunts and cousins. She wasn’t rude per say, but Faolan remembers getting reprimanded by his mother-in-law multiple times because “the girl is just not being raised as a proper Chinese woman, and something should be done about that.” 

Oh, they’d tried doing something alright, except it hadn’t worked. At this point, Meilyn had already grown into habits that were hard to break, already adapted to life as she deemed fit. 

Finishing up with the chicken, Faolan then hobbles towards the stove, tugging on his wok -- a gift from his family on their wedding day -- on the way before dropping it with the clumsiness only possessed by an old man. It resonates with a twang, causing him to wince slightly as he fishes out a match and bends over to light the fire, turning the gas switch in the process. 

There. Now that’s done, he douses the wok with a rain of cooking oil. The good kind, not the cheap one that his mother-in-law would buy from the street vendor. He keeps his gaze on the fire licking the sides of the wok. That’s the tricky bit. Faolan has never been a patient man, which explains why he finds cooking to be a martyr most of the time. 

But all that is erased the moment he sees the satisfied glow lighting up his daughter’s face. 

The memory of Meilyn's ten-year-old face springs up through the back of his eyelids. It hadn't been his first attempt at cooking, but it had been his first successful attempt.

“Pa,” she'd beamed at him from across the table and it had taken all of his self-restraint to stop himself from reaching over to hug her tight against his chest, “it’s really good. It tastes like Mama’s.” 

She’d looked at him as if he was a hero brought to life, as though everything seemed perfect in that little pocket of time. Faolan wanted to keep it, cherish it in his cupped palms forever. That night, he’d silently thanked his wife’s photo by his bedside for the recipe book -- her recipe book -- that he’d found tucked in a stack of books hidden in the back of their storage closet.

He’d knelt, index finger skimming over the messy scrawl of his wife’s handwriting while a lump grew hot and heavy in his throat. 

“Am I doing good?” he’d murmured in the muffled silence, imagining her sitting at the kitchen table in her red dress patterned with white daisies as she scribbled down the words, the pot simmering under her watchful eye. Faolan stroked the yellow-stained page, “I don’t know what I’m doing half the time.” 

He’d never gotten an answer. He doesn’t expect to. 

Another glance at the clock reveals that it is now six forty. He’s got another twenty minutes, enough time to whip everything into shape and Faolan wants to pat himself on the back for his good timing. See that? He tells himself in hopes that his wife can hear, I’ve come a long way from cooking instant noodles. 

The oil’s pretty hot by now, and without hesitation he tosses the chopped onions and garlic, followed by the sliced chicken. The wok sings in delight as Faolan lets it cook for a while, stirring every now and then until the pink slithers turn into a lighter brown. That is when he pours in the rest of the ingredients; the corn, the bok choy, the carrots, the mushrooms, and last but not least the oyster sauce before turning down the heat. 

The fragrance wafts through the air, causing Faolan’s stomach to grumble in anticipation. Reaching down to the cupboard to grab the bag of cornstarch -- he practically lives on this stuff. It makes everything rich and delectable -- he sprinkles a handful of it over the mixture. Then, he pours a half cup of water and watches in growing satisfaction the way the runny sauce turns thick and gooey, just the way he likes it.

Just the way Meilyn likes it.

When Faolan is assured that the curry is to perfection, he scoops up spoonful after spoonful into one of those blue and white jade bowls before placing it on the rounded wooden table that bends at the corners. A car honks in the distance as he hobbles over to spoon the rice into another matching jade bowl. He deposits it next to the curry and, realizing that he hasn’t pulled out the cutlery needed for this occasion, he makes a grab for one of the stray stools lingering against the counter before shakily lifting himself up towards the top cupboards. It’s not stable, and though Faolan is aware of his age -- god, where have all the years gone? -- his stubbornness makes him reach out despite the shakiness of his unstable support. 

He manages to get a hold of the bowls -- what a joy to find jade spoons with the exact same pattern and colour! -- and slowly crouches back down. With his cutlery-free hand, he grips tight onto the chair and slowly, very slowly, deposits one frail foot after the other, his grip so tight until he’s certain his feet are safely pressed to the ground.

As if on cue, the clock chimes. Seven. Outside, the sky has darkened into the colour of a bruise. Faolan makes his way back to the dinner table, sets down the two bowls in their respective places, and sits down before crossing his arms. 

He waits. 

In the silent hum filling his flat, he hears the distant cackle of birds calling for each other as the day comes to an end, the faint sound of traffic echoing through his walls as car lights dance across his walls. 

Seven ten. 

The smell of his freshly cooked dish fills the air and Faolan makes a note that he should attend to his now-dirty wok before tomorrow comes along. 

He hears a faint shout. Someone else responds in recognition. He shifts slightly in his seat, eyes finding the clock.

Seven fifteen. 

He lets out a sigh. Of course Meilyn would be late. She’s always late after all, he think to himself with a slight prickle of irritation.

Seven twenty. 

Seven thirty. 

Where is she?

Tick. Tock.

Seven fourty-five. 

Faolan is so lost in his thoughts that he almost jumps out of his skin when his landline rings. 

He’s quick to reach for it, grabbing it with a little too much enthusiasm as he says, “hello?” 

“Pa, it’s me.” 

“Meilyn,” relief floods through him, “where are you? You’re late!” 

“Pa I’m sorry! I completely forgot we were supposed to have dinner. See, my friend called me last night and they wanted to go out to the city so I took the train to meet her there because it's her birthday.” 

A rock suddenly lodges itself in the middle of his chest. 

“So,” Faolan purses his lips, “you’re not coming? To dinner?” 

“No. I’m sorry,” she says apologetically. He hears the hum of traffic behind her, the bustle of city life, “I’ll come next week! I promise.” 

He bids her goodbye, tells her to take care and out of impulse, says that he loves her. 

She says it back like an afterthought, and when he places the phone back into the receiver, the world goes silent. 

Silent and lonely. 

Faolan stares at the bowl of food before him, at the curry now growing cold, and shivers.

Swallowing hard and trying not to let the water gathering in his eyes to spill over, he shakily goes to pick up his chopsticks before he starts to eat.