My Father’s Back

by Elsie Tay

A tingle. An itch.

I stir.

The feeling of a rough, calloused hand lightly running its fingers down my leg raises goose bumps. I repress my instinctive shiver and lash out with a small kick. Huddling even more tightly to my beloved bolster, I squeeze my eyes firmly shut and try to go back to sleep.

This is my Pa at it again. He could have woken me up by calling my name or shaking me gently, but no, not my Pa. A playful chuckle comes from him as he scratches me repeatedly near my ankle using his untrimmed nails. I release a silent internal screech as I blindly swat at his hand but succeed in only hitting thin air. Once I settle comfortably back into my pillows, the scratching is back again. It feels like a persistent itchy rash flaring up and stubbornly refusing to go away, constantly annoying me. My eyebrows furrow, my temper rises. I simply cannot stand it any longer.

“Pa!” I shout, snapping myself into a sitting position. I try to glare at him somewhere near the end of the bed while tucking my leg out of his reach. “Go away!”

Pa releases a muffled short bark of laughter as my eyes make out a patch of black in the shape of a head leaving the room. My body plops back onto my pillows and I groan before dragging my tired, aching body out of bed.

It is six a.m. as usual, the dreaded time when Pa will wake me up using the most ridiculous ways that no other normal father will use. Ma is still sleeping soundly until the time arrives for her to go to work. The sun is barely up. Through the dusty glass windows, the dark silhouette of trees sways against the fading blackness outside. The neighbourhood is quiet. It is still too early for the melodious chirping of the birds. I take in a deep breath, closing my eyes for a while, appreciating the cooling fresh crisp of the air and the calm peaceful tranquillity only the mornings can offer.

I wash up and sit myself down on one of the kitchen chairs. Strewn all over the table are a half-consumed bottle of kaya, bags of biscuits and instant noodles, a plethora of colours clashing together. Milo is peppered all over the right side of the huge milo can, sprinkles of the brown powder on the table. A rusted toaster sits in the corner, ignored. I use my forearm and give a hasty sweep of the items in front of me to make a small space for myself.

“Here,” Pa says, roughly setting a plastic bowl of runny egg and a cup of hot milo down with a loud thud. I pick up a fork and automatically start poking at my breakfast expectantly, crinkling my nose at the small bits of egg shell that float up after my stirring. I sigh and use my fork to expertly separate the shells from the egg and leave them at the edge of the bowl. Glancing at Pa’s thin bony back, I purse my lips and give a tiny shake of my head at him. It is times like this when I miss Ma’s nutritious yet scrumptious breakfasts.

As I slurp down the egg, Pa whirls around, setting his bloodshot eyes on me. “Delicious anot?” he asks, giving a brusque nod in my direction. “Ya!” My practiced overly enthusiastic voice rings around the kitchen. He makes a half smile and goes back to spreading kaya over the bread.

The redness in his eyes causes a slight worry to wash over me. Pa does not get enough sleep as he works as a taxi driver, driving the night shift until two a.m. so he often looks like a white-haired skeletal zombie. It does not help that he has never nurtured the habit of combing his hair properly or taking care of his image, causing some of my classmates to even mistake him for my grandfather. He insists on driving me to school despite my nagging for him to stay in bed and rest.

Unlike other families, Pa does not have a car. He only owns a black Yamaha motorcycle, one of the few things he cherishes most. It is even older than me, spitting out grinding and creaking sounds whenever Pa brings it to life. He had saved up for it for so many years before he finally spent a fortune buying it. It was the most expensive item he had willingly dished out his money for, I heard from Ma. When they were dating, he had constantly driven her right from her doorstep to faraway restaurants for mouth-watering food on the Yamaha and dutifully sent her back to her house, she said wistfully. But she was quick to add, “Flowers, gifts and dates? Not your Pa! He not romantic one.”

When Pa drives me to school, I will sit behind him daily, hugging his waist and marvelling at the protruding bones of his shoulders while crinkling my nose at the smell of the helmet. Ma often gave long speeches on how dangerous a motorcycle can be, but it is all we have anyway.

“Hurry up lah! Eat so slow!” Pa nags at me as he passes me the bread. His voice fades as I focus on sipping my milo and eating the bread at my own pace. “See the sky dark dark it’s going to rain hor.”

I tune out his voice as he repeats his dire warnings over and over again. He carelessly throws the used plates into the sink, grabs the rumpled shirt placed on one of the chairs and wears it while continuously muttering under his breath. I roll my eyes, wolfing down the rest of the food and hurriedly change into my uniform.

Deafening thunder rumbles as a flash of lightning scorches across the sky. A light drizzle soon starts, which rapidly transforms into a huge downpour. The sound of heavy rain vociferously pounding on the ground intensifies. Pa’s cackle joins the cacophony, shooting me an I-told-you-so look. “See! Dawdle dawdle dawdle! Now cannot take the motorcycle already.”

I scoff at him and I slip on my loose socks and worn-out shoes. “Big deal! Just take the bus lor.”

Without the motorcycle, the journey to school is certainly going to take longer and time is running out. Pa disappears to grab two umbrellas while I quickly unlock the door and we hurried out.  At the void deck, we ready ourselves for the coming onslaught of rain. I take an umbrella from Pa and we set off, walking towards the direction of the bus stop.

My umbrella unfolds with a soft pop as I press the button to open it. “What!” I instinctively exclaim. To my dismay, Pa had grabbed the smaller umbrella that was used by me when I was nine. “So small! Siao!”

Pa, with a huge maroon umbrella in his hand, turns around to stare at me. “What?” He shouts impatiently, not realising the problem. “You waiting for what?” Walking over to me, he takes a few seconds before he finally understands. “Umbrella too small?”

The umbrella is not just small, it is miniscule. Beads of rain start to pelt against my face, wetting my sleeves and socks, causing a sudden uncomfortable chill to seep into my bones. “Yeah lah,” I glower. “My primary school umbrella leh! Why you take the small one!”

My annoyance starts to surface. How difficult is it to simply pick out a suitable umbrella? My peers and classmates have sweet, thoughtful fathers who will huddle together with them under a comfortably huge umbrella and chat amicably as they manoeuvre through the rain. I can picture well-dressed fathers driving my friends to school, dry and snug in their cars. But no, not my Pa.

Pa stands still for a while, looking as though he is lost about what to do when he suddenly lashes out, forcefully snatching the small umbrella from my hands. Shoving the huge maroon umbrella at me, he gruffly half-yells a “here,” over the sound of the rain. “Wha—!” I splutter, taken aback by his actions. “I never—I didn’t say I want—Take this back!”

My arm reaches towards Pa to grab the small umbrella back. Loosely speaking I am still a child, or at least closer to a child than he is so I should be the one using it. He slaps my outstretched hand away in the rain, growling at me fiercely. “Shut up!” he snaps in that angry tone of his, “Just take it lah!” I barely manage to stop myself from flinching from his loud voice, my hand still stinging as he turns his back on me and stomps away hurriedly.

Stunned, I stand rooted to the wet muddy ground, still in disbelief at what had just happened. The rain continues to hit at me, but I am now protected by the oversized umbrella which embraces and envelopes me under its huge canopy, allowing only a few droplets to land on the ends of my pinafore and my calves. On the contrary, the back of Pa’s shirt is already drenched with rain, for the tiny umbrella merely covers his head, leaving everything else out in the open.

I stare at Pa. He is unlike the other fathers I saw before. The defined line of his broad shoulders, the short uncouth strides of his gait combined with his strong arm clutching that overly small childish umbrella above his head make up an extremely ridiculous and laughable image. But I do not laugh. This is my Pa. An ache makes its way into my heart, a small shard of pain within my chest. That ache spreads further as I see the beautiful maroon above me and the bright palette of colours swinging wildly above him, my father’s back getting smaller by the seconds.