By Joylyn Chai
My father has dementia. Most days I wish his spirit would be carried up to heaven where he can meet his Maker. But like a miracle, every day he awakes and is alive.
I don’t like my father. When I was growing up, he was a bully. These days, I disguise my true feelings with humor and patience. Whatever my good deeds are now, they do not quell the storm brought on by old resentments.
The cadence of my father’s voice is the same as it’s ever been. If I ask him if he’d like a Diet Coke, the only thing he drinks, he’ll respond in a harsh voice, “You mus’ be mad to as’. Of course me-a-wan’ a Coke!” He mistakes my courtesy for an inability to accurately identify the obvious. When I bring him the drink, he’s polite, “Thank you ma’am.” But as I walk away, I hear him muttering behind my back, calling me a combination of insults, dismayed by my stupidity. Though he is frail and has a feeble mind, the power of my father’s voice still scares me.
Lately, my father likes to tell the story about how he became the richest man in the world. My father was born and raised in Kingston, Jamaica. He was the youngest son to a single mother of six children and I cannot imagine what the concept of wealth meant to him when he was a boy. Every night, he slept in the storeroom of his mother’s shop. One time his older brother stole his only pair of pants and left home shortly thereafter, leaving my father with nothing decent to wear.
Before senility eclipsed his memory, my father told me that his mother would visit another larger shop to get her supplies. As he tells it, my father walked in on the owner and his mother having sex. This way she could stock her shelves with whatever she needed. Whether this is fact or fiction, imagining my grandmother prostituting herself for her livelihood and her children brings into sharp focus the poverty in which my father was raised.
My father immigrated to Canada upon being accepted into the engineering program at Queen’s University. His mother sold her little property on Orange Street to federal contractors in Jamaica whereby they razed her shop and erected an electric tower. She was paid a handsome fee and covered my father’s first-year tuition. He loves to say he moved from Kingston, Jamaica to Kingston, Ontario. In the rhythm of his patois, there is some charm in relaying this coincidence.
For the remainder of his undergraduate studies, my father got a job each summer at a nearby factory and cut aluminum for a few dollars an hour. Over the next three years, he saved his earnings to pay for his expenses. He bought a second-hand bicycle and travelled back and forth to work. On those hot Ontario days, I can wonder what he thought of being in Canada.
Having been a man of very few words for most of his adult life, it disturbs me that my father talks so much in his old age. Several years ago, my father began to show signs of aphasia, a condition that affects one’s ability to use language. He started by rhyming words and read street signs to create riffs, “Bayview Avenue, Dayview Avenue, Sayview Avenue!” Now, the constant flow of his gibberish must include profanity, “Fart Valley Parkway, Shit on the Parkway!” He is amused by these creative outbursts and cackles at his open transgression against good manners.
Fortunately, my father can still make sense of his thoughts and the world around him. He can follow instructions and is pretty cooperative. However, he likes to control the direction of our conversations with lies, insults, and babble. My father possesses a great gift: the ability to see himself without a single flaw. Without a trace of irony, my father will declare, “With the exception of Jesus Christ, there is no man greater than Harrison Tsang!” He developed survival strategies; egotism and arrogance—as well as referring to himself in third person—have served my father well.
Early in their marriage, my mother and father somehow cobbled together enough money to buy a couple rental properties in Toronto. My parents made these investments with friends and family; got loans from the bank and people at church. In our own home, located in a quiet suburban neighbourhood, we lived modestly. I remember asking for a candy bar and the request enraged my father. How I would think to spend fifteen cents on something so unnecessary?
I was strictly forbidden to speak about the properties we owned. This secrecy gave me the impression that we could easily be threatened. People will wish ill upon us. People will take advantage of us. No one can be trusted. As property values in the city increased, we’d get calls from real estate agents that represented big-time developers. My father would entertain these oily men and after he’d boast about how he was negotiating the highest price. He’d brag about how he’d outsmart them by holding out until the very end. But, once a developer bought an entire city block and you’re the last one standing, they’ll squeeze you out regardless.
Despite acquiring the means to comfortably provide for his family, my father never adopted the lifestyle or tastes of someone who lives with the privilege of affluence. When
he bought a car, he would drive it for decades until the floor rusted out. He packed sardine and jam sandwiches in wax paper for lunch. If we went on vacation, we would bring canned ravioli for dinner that was warmed with hot tap water in the motel sink. It was jarring to know that my father considered himself so rich, but we were restricted to a way of living that caused me so much confusion and shame.
Now, my father says he’s a lucky man and for anyone who is willing to listen, he is completely open about how he came by his good fortune. In detailed delusion, he’ll disclose how he bought University Avenue when he first moved to Toronto. Sometimes I ask him why he doesn’t own a private jet or mansion. Irritated, he brushes off these suggestions like they are foolish ideas, “I live in a big, big place already!” which happens to be my brother’s house. He’ll offer to buy me a luxury car or pay for my next vacation. But like him, I drive a car that is almost twenty years old and rusting out. I rarely go on vacation because a nice holiday is expensive.
Next weekend, I will drive up the “Don Valley Fartway” to collect my father for the day. I will bring him back to my cramped little house where I will serve on him hand and foot. I will cook for him and make sure he is comfortable. He will tell me tales of his greatness and brilliance, and I will wonder how much longer it will be until he dies.