Here is the problem with language barriers: too many brunches. My dad’s wife is Finnish, and as Oona’s English improves, so does her understanding of the depths of my father’s insanity. You can see it in her eyes. The fog and furrowed-brow have been replaced with naked terror. Which is why I think Oona likes to return to Finland with my dad for long stints, to lose him in the patois and idioms of her own people. So you see, language barrier = moving often = bon voyage brunch. And, although we, the sisters and our spouses, are gathering to say goodbye to dad, he tells us “let’s not make it a family reunion, we just saw each other.” Thus, the bon-voyage family brunch is a common occurrence in my family, for which Dad invariably suggests, “Let’s meet at the firehouse,” which is, in fact, a diner housed in the Historic Firehouse 18, Ballard Washington, although this is not the name of the restaurant.
Was it just two weeks earlier, this same family group met in this same restaurant for Oona’s going-away brunch? She left ahead of my father to prepare the ‘asunto’ (apartment). At that brunch, we (the sisters and spouses) arrived before my dad and Oona did, and we argued about who would have to sit next to him. My dad can’t hear, not that he ever asks questions of us beyond the perfunctory “how’s work?” that require listening. He also repeats his stories, most of which are diatribes about his “ex-wife who crucified him” (my mother. Again I wonder, do other parents show discretion when speaking about the people their children love?). I lost, by the way, and sat next to my dad for the first time in years. I didn’t realize how badly I had lost until he began talking while eating, and bits of food would land on my plate.
And now we meet again, but without Oona, which leaves my dad unchecked and able to reign over the brunch. He sits mid-table, we sit around him. He goes over his itinerary for the next few days, which includes dropping his car off at the freighters (several days later, he sends us daughters a group email titled “Car in the Can.” You’d think it would link to a picture of the car in the freight container. Or something somehow relevant. Nope, just a link to his twitter account and a picture of the car bumper. “Probably for the impending lawsuit” says Hattie in an email reply to just us sisters. Unrelated tidbit: I look closer at his twitter account and see that he is the president of some nonprofit. This is the Wile E. Coyote/Crazy-Genius that is my father: create a business with the clientele of 0, and declare yourself the president. Brilliant resume-builder!).
Conversation highlights
Grandma Ann
Dad: “If I had Ann’s ashes, I’d flush them down the toilet.”
Context: Dad just saw Uncle Chuck, who told him about scattering the ashes of their step-mother, Ann. One of the worst slurs to come from my father while growing up was to be compared to Ann. “She’s cold. She never had children.” Because, you see, her lack of biological children was a reflection of her cruelty, not of her inability. We kids missed the evil-stepmother phase of Ann’s life, and for the most part loved Ann. Although, love aside, I imagine the parents in other families refrain from maligning the grandparents around the kids, if for no other reason than that they are the grandparents. Respecting your elders and what-not. Then again, we aren’t the kind of family that sees our relatives, or really knows or relatives, most likely because of a perceived slight made by one or the other many years ago.
Aunt Lois deteriorates into a conversation about his suspenders and his death
Alice, to Dad, asking about his sister: “How’s Aunt Lois?”
Dad: “I think Lois is addicted to surgery. She has a new surgery every year.”
Hattie: “Like plastic surgery?”
Dad: “Surgeries like hip replacement.”
Alice: “That’s hardly elective. You don’t go to the doc and say you want a new hip.”
Dad stabs at his plate, ignoring the comment and moves on to his brother: “Chuck is dying. He can’t even get his shoes on, his feet are so swollen. I tell him to go for a walk, but he won’t. He still smokes. If he can’t drink, he’ll smoke.”
Mid-itinerary, Hattie interrupts. “Dad, why are you wearing suspenders?” We all look. Black suspenders so thin that they must be for fashion and not function peek out from under his winter coat. “Oona said that given my stomach cancer* that I’d feel less pain if I wore suspenders instead of a belt.” (*Self-diagnosed stomach cancer. And Oona knows this.)
“Then, why are you also wearing a belt?”
My father stabs at his eggs. “You must always forgive your children. This is what my dad said to me at our final meal together.” We sisters look at each other, our eyes plainly asking, Is this our final meal together? Did you know? I didn’t know! My dad continues.”You, the parent, have always done worse than your children. This does not apply to this table, of course.”
Of course it doesn’t.
Dad clarifies: “This doesn’t apply because you don’t have children.” (stab, stab) (confused looks at Marie, one of the apparently non-existent children of his children) “Instead, we must apply this rule to our spouses.”
“I don’t remember this final meal with Grandpa John” says Alice.
“You weren’t invited” says dad.
“…Oh.”
So, we consider the implications of forgiving our spouses. And decide to move on.
Two in the Pink
Alice, a nurse, introduces the concept of a woman having two vaginas (vaginae?), not that being a nurse explains why this comes up, because regardless of who it is, someone at the table at some point will bring up vaginas.
“And I’ve seen it.” Alice, with pride.
“Complicates the shocker,” says Chad, my now-ex.
Questioning looks around the table.
“The what?”
“Two in the pink, one in the stink,” says Chad. “You know–” Chad demonstrates, extending his index, middle and pinky fingers, and jabbing at the air.
“If a woman can have two vaginas (although is probably only actively using one, given that the other has atrophied), then can a man have two penises?” Hattie asks.
“Well, it’s not unheard of for men to have two holes, like a hole on the bottom of their penis,” says Alice.
“One is a decoy” I say.
“To keep birds away” says Hattie. “A little scarecrow.”
“Why would there be birds?”
“Exactly, There wouldn’t be, because of the decoy penis hole. It’s like a two headed snake.” Hattie thrusts her fists into the air in an apparent attempt to explain her two-headed-snake-theory, but only further confuses us.
“I think I would like that on my tombstone,” says dad. “Two in the pink and one in the stink.”
We solemnly nod, reminded that this is (apparently) our final meal with our father. Having made his final wishes known, he pays the tab. We stand, have the waitress take a group photo, hug our goodbyes, and head to our homes.