Pine and Pancakes

Trigger Warning: Multiple sensitive themes including abuse mentions, eating disorder mentions, and intense grief.

I wake to your old beeper alarm, its stale and stunning shriek shaking the room, luminescent green numbers flashing through the dark. I groan as my legs shift heavily over the edge of the bed and lead me to the kitchen. With the robotic motion of muscle memory, my hands set the coffee pot. My back slides down the wall, and I hug my knees to my chest, focusing solely on the sound of the brewing breakfast blend. I know that I should eat something, but I cannot bring myself to stand until the sounds of the brewing slow to a stop. I pour a cup for myself and a cup for you. I leave yours on the counter and return to the floor for mine.

    My stomach burns as I finish my coffee, but I still refuse its plea for sustenance, opting instead for another cup to sip as I get dressed. I planned out my outfit twelve times last night, but looking at the clothes in front of me, I decide to dig through my closet once more. Though I own far more black clothing than the average person, it has proven exceptionally difficult to choose a combination of them to wear to my estranged father’s funeral. Logically, one would want to wear something respectful and soft, but seeing as you were not worthy of my respect while you were alive, and that pride is a hard thing to swallow, I settle on a dark gray dress of a respectable length with a black leather vest with matching combat boots. As the final nail in the coffin, I paint my lips with a deep, black lipstick.

    Though it makes more sense to drive, I opt to walk to the funeral home. Walking has always given me the time and space to process when life is overwhelming. The air is bitterly cold when I leave, and I battle it by tugging on the sleeves of my dress. You always hated when I did that, complaining that all it does is stretch out my sleeves. I can practically hear you asking where I left my gloves as you smack the back of my head.

    The weather reminds me of the day you took me on my first (and last) official fishing trip. We ventured north to Lake Erie to cast our lines into her shallow waters. You, as you always did, went fly fishing. I would often watch you tie the intricate designs under a large magnifying glass. (You were a better artist than most people would believe.) You attempted to teach me how to fly fish with you, but the whipping of the rod and the whirring sound of string flying out into the lake made me flinch. Fly fishing must consist of fluid motions. I opted for my beginner rod instead. After several silent hours of watching nothing move but the flow of falling leaves down the stream, you decided it was time for us to return home.

    My stomach growls again, and I regret not making pancakes. I don’t eat them as often as I did when I was young. In all honesty, it took several therapy sessions before I could even put them on my plate. I remember so clearly the sweet smell of Bisquick pancakes rising through the house— every Sunday morning, like clockwork. Alongside them, if we could afford it at the time, the smoking smell of bacon and breakfast sausage rose as well. Though I have been a vegetarian for over a decade now, the smell of bacon still makes my mouth water. If all you had done was provide, Sunday mornings would have been my favorite memories with you. Unfortunately, as I would hear the dishes clattering angrily into the sink, I could tell whether that morning would be one of the worst memories. Some Sundays, I still can’t remember.

    You, Mom, my four siblings, and I would gather around the table, say grace, and dive into the mountain of pancakes and assorted breakfast meats. We would pass the plates around, putting hefty portions onto them. As children, our eyes were always bigger than our stomachs. You always seemed to have forgotten this. Sometimes, you were the one to plate our heavy portions. Still, you blamed us. If we had even a bite of food left on our plates, you called us ungrateful. You forced us to finish our food. If we didn’t, on the worst days, you would take it upon yourself to shove it down our throats.

    As we grew older, all but one of my siblings (the youngest) developed severe eating disorders. You profusely denied causing any of them. One of the last fights you and I had recounted the time I lost fifty pounds in a year, and you had no idea. Your worst traits always had been cluelessness and denial.

    The other factor in the development of my eating disorder depended on whether or not we had food to eat at all. I remember going to multiple food pantries, all of which gravely underestimated the amount of food a seven-person household would need. Indirectly, you caused this factor, too. You were the breadwinner who always lost the job. You were the one who failed to provide for your family. However, you still found a way to blame us. If we kept you up too late, or we missed the bus to school— if we hindered your sleep or your morning in any way, the blame was placed on us. Thanks to you, I often feel burdened with guilt that is not mine.

    The summer after my first year of college, I found out through the family grapevine that you left. You left Mom, my three older siblings, and me. You left after I was born. You abandoned your family, got an apartment, and fell off the grid— with another woman. You did not show up for custody hearings. You left. When I found out, Mom begged me not to tell you that I knew. She did not want it to affect our relationship. More so, she did not want to be blamed for my finding out the information. For a year and for her, I bit my tongue. A year later, however, I moved out of the house and into my first apartment, and I left a four-page letter for you. I recounted several traumatic events you caused throughout my life, and I ended the letter with the acknowledgment that you left— and that you should not have come back. I said that after nineteen years, you had finally gotten your wish. I disowned you as a father with that letter, and I haven’t seen you since the day I moved.

    This thought catches me on the steps of the funeral home, its tall white columns arching over me. I swallow the lump in my throat. My heart begins to race. I have not seen your face in over seven years. I never thought I would have to face you again. Now, I will be facing you, and you will be facing the stark white ceiling. With a deep breath, I step into the threshold.

    The floor is marbled with tones of gray, and a distant relative glares at my boots as I track mud a few steps into the building. I quickly recede, wipe my feet on the entrance mat, and return to journey into the unknown. More relatives meet my eyes and cast their glares, and I cannot tell if their disdain is more for my presence or the leather vest. I weakly smile as I make the rounds, bumping shoulders with solemn creatures that have crawled out of their beds on this cruel November morning.

    In the back room, you lie there in a dark wooden coffin. Your hazel eyes are glued shut, your hands placed carefully over your abdomen. You’re wearing a suit, something I had only ever seen in pictures. The room smells of whiskey and pine. Before I can approach you, I am suddenly struck with a wave of nausea, and I rush to the bathroom. I overhear someone crying in the next stall as I dry heave into porcelain as quietly as my body will allow. When my stomach is through with its rebellion, I blot my face with a bundle of toilet paper and leave the stall. At the sink, I see a familiar face in the mirror. My older sister smirks and hands me a piece of gum. I thank her, mumble some small talk, and return to the viewing room.

This time, I am able to make my way across the room. When I touch your hand, my heart stops for a moment. You used to be so warm. The minute that spring turned into summer, your skin would absorb the sun. Your wardrobe would shift from rough, thick sweaters to t-shirts and cargo shorts. Your skin would glow with sweat in the late summer afternoon as you pushed the lawn mower over tall blades of grass.

Now, your skin cold and body rigid, you look and feel exactly as one would expect a corpse to look and feel. In the past, at funerals for family friends and distant relatives, it was easier to trick my brain into believing they were asleep. With you, I know how you sleep— your body contorted, arm slung heavily over your eyes even in a pitch black room, your snore rumbling down the hall, one bare foot stuck out from under the comforter to cool your warm, warm body.

Until this moment, I was not able to grieve. I hadn’t seen you in years, yet I did not allow myself to mourn you. I held onto every negative aspect of my upbringing, all the anger that you caused me. Now, I feel able to let go of that anger, the weight of your abuse shedding from my shoulders. I see you— the one who taught me to fish, who woke me with breakfast on Sunday mornings, who smelled of whiskey and pine, who glistened in the sun and snored in the dark— my father. For the first time since I left the letter on your pillow, I cry for you. I mourn for you. I miss you.

The sun beats down on me as I leave the funeral home. The heat makes me dizzy on an empty stomach, but the warmth of the sun on my vest feels like an embrace— a hug goodbye. Though I walk the same way home, the world seems different somehow. There is a new horizon of lightness, a peace I have never experienced before.

I enter my apartment through the kitchen door, and I see your cup of coffee on the counter. I leave it there as I pull various baking ingredients from the pantry— flour, sugar, salt, baking powder. I grab eggs, butter, and milk from the fridge. Moments later, we have a stack of pancakes. I slide a few onto a plate for you and add them to your countertop alter. I pour the remaining cold coffee from the pot into an empty cup for myself, and I sit cross-legged on the floor with my breakfast. I don’t know how much I believe in the afterlife, but I would like to think that you would accept my peace offering. When I stand, I swear your mug is slightly emptier than before, and I smile at the thought.