Waiting For My Father

• Nikita Olsson, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2008

I struggled desperately to remain in control of the car as vibrating spasms held my body, shaking me with spiteful brutality. It seemed my nerves knew as well as I did that my destination would change me entirely.
My vision of the road in front of me blurred, the usually straight white lines, where suddenly dancing. spinning across the tar and the tears I promised myself would not occur, swelled and sprang to life in my dark brown eyes. Dozens of streams of water racing each other to the bottom of my cheeks.
Quickly wiping away the evidence of pain that soaked my pallid skin, I couldn’t help but catch sight of the yellow folder that lay across my lap. It’s contents the reasoning behind me driving on this unfamiliar road, to an unfamiliar place, to an unfamiliar person. The name of which tormented me from within it’s paper seal, the ink teasing me with the knowledge it held in it’s words.
Jonathan Ray Caner.
Forty eight hours earlier I wouldn’t have been able to tell you the name of my father, if only that was the case now. Eighteen years I’d waited for those words but as I speak them now they turn to ash in my mouth. A taste that seems to stubbornly cling to my tongue as if to scar my memory of flavour.
Turning hastily and almost unconsciously onto another road I gasped at the gardened spectacular that lined both sides of the road. Dozens of colours swirled across my sight like a dream. Flowers of every kind introducing themselves to me. The speed from my passing car forcing them to bend, colours flowing pass me like plashed paint.
Happiness began to creep back into my soul, for a moment all feeling of anxiety and panic stole away from my body, and I was left calm.
I wondered if my father loved flowers, did he appreciate their innocence and beauty as I did. Did he enjoy sports, movies with friends or the distinctive taste of Thai. Was he anything like me at all? Trying frantically to stop myself, I couldn’t help but asked myself the question every self doubting child asks. Does he love me?
The spasms returned, this time unmerciful and strong. The flowers that were fading into only clumps of colour reflected in my mirror, suddenly didn’t seem as beautiful anymore.
I don’t remember driving much after that, I concentrated more on the what my life would have been like if my father had been in it. My birthday’s, Christmas’s and Easter’s might not have been so lonely, or my hurdles might not have seemed so big, my blissful instances might not of been so few or all my achievements felt so pointless.
If he had been there, with me, would I still feel like such a failure?
Eventually a blemish in the road forces me back to consciousness, and I’m hit with the realisation of my where about. A little over fifteen metres away sat my fathers house, small and yellow, it homed a veranda that seems to surround the house like a moat.
Ten meters, the closest I had probably ever been to my father, and my beating heart knew it. Thumping constantly against my chest it sent a rhythm through my body, threatening me not to stop.
I reached the fence and stopped, his garden was alive and over flowing with flowers. Its beauty so abundant I could feel the neighbours envy, their brown grass and bare gardens spiking up in embarrassment. My determination failed, and tears once again escaped their cells.
The last few steps were the worst, every centimetre dragged out to what felt like eternity. My breathing quickened and amplified, till all other noises in my mind were completely drowned out.
Every detail of the door still grips to my memory, the heavy gold door knob, still and silent screamed at me to enter. Urging and playing at my imagination, exploring every possibility of what I might find behind that bottle green door.
Four knocks was all it took, four knocks and my eighteen years of waiting ended. The door squeaked with excitement, opening to full capacity, it seemed to long for freedom, as if hoping to drop from its hinges.
There I stood, still and oblivious staring into the eyes of Jonathan Ray Caner, staring into the eyes of my father.
I sit heavily and awkwardly on my sturdy built couch, my mother half sprawled across my lap. Her eyes streaming with the tears I try so desperately to hold in. We cling to each other like patterns on fabric, never daring to let go. I stare at her now in sorrow knowing perfectly well I’m staring at my future self. Broken, rejected and alone. A constant reminder, not all journeys should be taken.
They say life is full of doors in which we ourselves must open. My father shut all mine.