a sip

Illness has befallen me of late. A sore throat bloomed into a runny nose which trickled down into my chest and evaporated into a cough. By far, the cough is the most infuriating. Hours can pass without even the slightest tickle of it and then the moment I open my mouth to speak, it rushes out like a flock of pigeons taking to the air after a curious and speedy toddler has wandered the wrong direction in a park. It's a vindictive cough that wants to shut me up with a calculated timing designed to seem inopportune.

I lay in the bed, in the room that was mine. It is still mine by the presence of my photo-riddled bulletin board that hangs on the far wall. But my authority in this room dwindles as the years pass. My parents slept in the room to the south. Although it has eased considerably over the past few days, on Christmas night, the cough raged in my lungs. As I hoped to drift off to sleep, it shook me awake with wave after wave of violent spasm. I inhaled through my nose and each breath unlocked the wrenching of my trachea.

Through the wall, my father must have been woken by my sounds. From the corner of my room, I could hear my parents' bedroom door opening, the echo of the latch wandering through the hollow drywall. He shuffled quietly to my door and peeked in. His pajamas with the blue dots were rumpled. Squinting at the halogen lamp shining at full wattage and with a sleepily concerned face, he spoke to me in Chinese. "Katie, let dad make you something to drink that will help you stop coughing." It melted my heart. I told him that it wasn't necessary and that I just needed some hot water but he insisted. I followed him into the hallway as he threw the light switch and tipped back and forth down the carpeted stairs. He too had been suffering from a cough so his empathy was sky high. Our feet contacted the cool wooden floor and we stood in the kitchen a moment. This terrain of father and daughter bonding was uncharted. He became an unfamiliar man. To compensate, I became awkwardly gracious with his concern. He picked up a heavy glass bottle of a Chinese serum which contained, among other things, menthol and a lot of sugar. I told him that I didn't want to drink something so sweet before sleeping. He pressed on that it would help. I insisted otherwise. Eventually, he relented. He was tired. The dog stirred in his canine bed. It was like I was staying the night at an inn and my father had become the kind innkeeper. The light from the downstairs hallway shone a bright yellow rectangle onto the kitchen floor. We stood between the microwave and the dishwasher. He put his arm around me and said "I just want you to feel better." I could feel the spark of tears coming to my eyes.

I did not grow up with this. Childhood coughs that belonged to my sisters and me at various times were always met with annoyance and frustration. Our fault for allowing ourselves to become ill, I guess. Our fault for not saying what we meant or thought. We could never. The cough would choke the truth down into our bellies. No, those coughs only agitated our parents. The man who was roused from his sleep and who released this unfettered caring was strange and sweet. I lacked the words to say to him. I just tried to stop coughing. It was the least I could do for this rare and grand gesture given to me on Christmas. An action representative of what I had craved my whole life. I would remember this night forever.

We climbed the stairs together. At the peak, we parted ways, the concerned father and his befuddled daughter. The bedroom door closed behind him as I twitched my head its direction and whisper-asked my sister "Who was that guy?" There was no more coughing that night. Just the slow and steady slumber of a household newly, if not surprisingly contented.