Page 138 of Cakes for the Grump
“I…don’t think we have one,” I say honestly, my cheeks heating. Saying a word against your parents to another adult feels disrespectful.
“That’s completely understandable,” says Dr. Mangat.
“Not to say, we’ve never had one. The past—that’s when I have the brightest memories of us together. Him helping me with my homework—and our food stalls.”
“Food stalls?”
“Every two weeks, he would save enough money and take me out to try a different food stall. I think… Well, I think, being able to try different dishes when I was younger is also what led me to knowing I wanted to be a chef.”
My chest constricts mentioning what I really want to do in this life. An ache echoes deep inside me. One I’ve been neglecting the existence of.
“It’s normal for your best memories to be of that time.” Dr. Mangat sends me a reassuring smile. “In the beginning of an alcohol use disorder, a person is often able to escape the ill effects of drinking. It’s only as their tolerance builds, do they need to drink more and more, and start presenting withdrawal symptoms between their binges.”
“I remember. His fingers got a noticeable tremor. He started keeping his hands in his pockets more and more. Looking back, already with his leg hurting from work and how I was always asking about that, I know he didn’t want me to worry about his hands, too.”
“I bet.” Her brown eyes evaluate how I’ve picked up one of those fidget spinners. “Do you want to stop, Rita? We don’t have to go any further than this.”
“No. I’m okay.” The words have already risen from an alcove deep down I’ve kept locked. I want to get them out. “There was this one night I caught him throwing up in our bathroom. Violently. That’s thefirst time I said the words. Told him he has a drinking problem. Not in a nice way. I’d seen him drink before and been disappointed by it, but this night was the first time, suddenly, I hated him for acting this way. For worrying me.”
“And how did he react to that?”
“He denied it, obviously. Blamed it on bad alcohol. Said it was fine. Not to worry.”
I laugh because the alternative is to be miserable, and despite promising to keep myself emotionally honest, I want a break from that.
Dr. Mangat nods. “It’s normal to be mad. It’s normal to even hate a father who put you in that position.”
I stand up and walk around the office a bit, still talking. “Most of it was heartbreaking, actually. Watching him kill himself slowly and not being able to stop it. And then there’s the guilt.”
“What do you mean?”
I stop and stare at a painting on the wall she has. It’s two empty white lawn chairs parked in the sand somewhere looking out onto a glorious sunset. I wish I could close my eyes and transport myself there, but I can’t. I’m here bringing up what I thought I’d buried. The guilt I told her about. It’s enlivened as if fed by memories.
“He didn’t yell or hit me,” I say in a carefully neutral voice. “He didn’t really get sick over drinking either for the longest time, and it seemed to make him happier. So I never said anything. And after that initial time, I said nothing as it got worse and worse because I didn’t think it was more of a problem than anything else. Men drink. Punjabi men drink. People in my college drank. I drink myself. Even when he got irritated when Uncle forgot to buy him more alcohol, I didn’t say much. I tried to make jokes, to keep our house happy, to watch the same movies together we used to when I was younger. He drank openly, we laughed, and then I put him to bed.”
“You think you should have said more in the beginning, earlier, so it wouldn’t have gotten to where it is today.” Dr. Mangat’s analysis is brilliantly accurate. I clutch at my stomach, half-hugging myself.
She continues, allowing me the privacy of keeping my back to her. “You were a child. He was the adult. He was not, and still is not, yours to parent. I would like you to hear this, Rita. There is nothing you can do until they decide to quit, and often the addiction doesn’t let them. Even now, any relapses are not on you. If you are having trouble believing that, it’s okay. If you are willing, I can help you set achievable goals. That way, you canspend time with your father without feeling personally responsible for his success. Or you can decide what is healthier for you is distance. You can choose not to be around him. It’s okay not to trust him. It’s okay to have your guardrails in place. His treatment is his responsibility, not yours.”
“It’s not my responsibility,” I repeat, tasting release in those words. “It’s not my fault. It’s not my responsibility.” I suck in a weak breath. “I’ve struggled to pay for this.”
“That was my worry. We have a financial counselor on site that I will set you up with. We want your father here, but not at a financial or emotional cost you can’t afford. There’s actually been new funding given to us by the government. I believe your situation is a great one to qualify for this subsidy.”
Walking back, I sink into the couch kitchen, unable to stand steadily any longer.
“As a child of Punjabi parents,” says Dr. Mangat, “I know it can feel like you owe them. That your life sacrificed is the return payment for everything they’ve sacrificed for you. Your dad supported you driving a bus after your mother passed away, and he was a good dad for doing that. It also doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to put energy and time into finding your own happiness.”
“The subsidy—thank you. Thank you.” I’m gripping the arm rest.
Dr. Mangat looks at her watch. “I hate to stop here, but I believe that ends our first impromptu session. I hope it was helpful to you. Technically, it’s time for you to meet your dad, but only if you still wish to do that. No one chooses to become an alcoholic, but you are allowed to have complicated feelings about him, so again, there is no wrong answer here, Rita.”
“I am,” I say. “Ready, that is. I would like to say hi, at the very least.”
“Alright. Let’s go see him in the courtyard.”
It’s a short walk outside. You can tell a sizable piece of their funding is spent on the courtyard, and for good reason. The air is perfumed by so many flowers that it tastes sweet and somehow devoid of the heaviness of any city smells, reminding me of an idyllic garden in the middle of some lost mountains. Residents of the rehab park themselves on cozy, cushioned chairs that recline in various degrees with the push of a handle. Some sit out here under the sun, bathing in relaxation, and some have joined a class of Hatha yoga.
Dr. Mangat leads me to a man partially lounging in the shade.
