If a liquid stream of strawberry decadence spewed from the nozzle of an aluminum keg, my dad would be mouth open under the spout. There’s no flavor in this world that could satisfy his lust for “something sweet” as much as sips of confectioned berries do.
Brown paper bagged secrets, embellished coughs to cover sneaky indulgences, defensive arguments turned into distant memories; it was an endless cycle, his guilty pleasure, the fuel to the flames of family destruction.
We all saw what he was doing, questioned his habits, but for a while, I still saw my dad. Besides, I also loved strawberry milkshakes. The only difference was that I drank my strawberry milkshakes out of a stainless-steel cup, the old-fashioned way.
My dad, on the other hand, preferred his strawberry milkshakes on rocks.
______
When I was in middle school, my dad took me to the diner down the street from my childhood home. We ordered breakfast for dinner, filled in the maze on the back of the placemat with dull crayons, and never finished our father-daughter meal without a strawberry milkshake for dessert. Extra whip, always.
It was simple. He cracked the worst dad jokes and I always laughed. I don’t remember the jokes, or if I even thought they were actually funny, but I do remember the way his eyes crinkled on the sides when he grinned at my reaction, his boisterous laugh joining mine in a song.
Time stood still during those moments with him.
Recently, I asked my dad if he remembered those days. He said he doesn’t.
Maybe his milkshake was spiked the whole time.
Or maybe I made the whole thing up for my sake.
Now, at 20 years old, I still go back to that diner for my pancakes, race to get to the end of the maze, and never forget to have a strawberry milkshake for dessert. Extra whip, always.
Just as I remember.
______
The translucent glass feels like a melting icicle between my warm hands. Tracing my finger down the rippled edge, I chase the tired condensation beads. The dripping drops form a puddle on the placemat sitting beneath it, soaking the jagged green lines I had just drawn into the maze. The welcome chime graciously following the entrance of new guests sounds meaningless to me but acts as a war cry to the diner staff already scrambling amidst the dinner rush. I glance up at the sound of hurried footsteps following the silver bells, a sound I only ever hear in places like this.
Disheveled brunette curls pass in an instant as the sound of small footsteps pound against the checkered floors, which date back to the 50’s. A little girl storms by me as I watch her create her own path through the madness, her coral-colored puffer jacket struggling to stay on her shoulders.
“Come on Daddy!”
He’s following her as she leads the way to the red booth across the diner. I glance down at the bendy straw mounted in the blush milkshake mountain in front of me, in an attempt to distract myself from the growing knot in my throat.
I was her once.
I could only imagine myself lucky enough to have a real father-daughter relationship with my dad. One full of honesty, lightheartedness, and love. I notice all the young daughters who clutch onto their dad’s hand as they walk through the grocery store parking lot. The slightly older daughters who roll their eyes at their dad’s remarks with a smile while he laughs at her annoyance. The grown-up daughters who look at their dad the same way they used to when they were kids.
I watch and wish that my dad didn’t take that relationship away from me. I wish I didn’t have so many Friday nights where my mom would sit with my brother and me in my room, promising us that things would change while my dad was enjoying a few strawberry milkshakes in the family room, alone. I wish I never blamed my mom for staying and forgiving him over and over again, but I still do sometimes.
I’m still working on learning how to forgive, and that’s okay.
______
There was a picture of my dad and me that sat on his mantle like a pawn piece in his game of chess. He’s kneeling next to my 9-year-old self, my sparkly opal princess dress flowing down to my patent leather Mary Jane mini heels. The pale pink tie around his neck stood out against his charcoal blazer, his caramel-colored skin reminding me of the drizzle he likes on his favorite coffee.
Somehow, I thought he looked just as pretty as I did.
In the picture, his wide wingspan encapsulated me in an embrace that secretly made me wish I could travel through time and space to be back in his arms.
We were at a gala, I suppose. I remember seeing all my friends, but I don’t remember seeing my dad at all that night. That picture that stood on his mantle was the only form of physical proof that he existed in my childhood.
Perhaps I stood on top of his brown dress shoes as we slowly swayed to the father-daughter song. Perhaps he indulged in a few special strawberry shakes elsewhere.
Always dusted and pristinely polished, that square framed snapshot in time haunted me. It had more power over me than I’m ever willing to admit.
A moment like that, with him, just never felt like it could’ve been real.
Sometimes I’m convinced my father liked his strawberry milkshakes more than he ever liked me.
Every one of our outings came paired with a brown paper bag hiding his favorite sweet treat. I can still hear the crinkle of the bag as he awkwardly held it behind his back from my eyesight, but not from my knowledge. He never could go a day without it.
My dad was happiest when the drink took over. He pranced around the house like nothing could hurt him, like nothing was hurting him anymore. For a while, I thought it was me. I think my brother did too. I thought I had something to do with his bitterness and the constant discomfort that led him to intoxicate himself daily with the addicting sugar of those milkshakes.
Maybe I shouldn’t ask for so much. Maybe I should stay in my room so I’m not in the way.
And so, I did.
My middle school years into my high school years were spent in my room. The only time my brother and I came out was for dinner. It was always a painstakingly long meal. Dad sat at the head of the table, my mom sitting opposite to my brother and me. My brother was always the first to finish, shoveling food into his mouth as fast as possible to escape the absent conversations and thick awkwardness in the air. I never blamed him because I followed right on his heels, leaving my mom to deal with my dad like I thought she deserved. She was the one keeping him here after all, right?
Over the years, I learned a lot about my dad and his habits purely by watching him until his ending credits rolled.
My dad couldn’t feel the same measure of happiness naturally.
No matter how many times I messily wrote “I Love You Daddy” with broken crayons on construction paper, it didn’t invoke the same spark that drowning in his favorite liquid poison did.
Or who knows, maybe it did.
But it wasn’t enough to curb his cravings.
______
“Hi. Two strawberry milkshakes please. Extra whip.”
My dad’s voice skips through my head like a broken record when I sit in our red booth with the tarnished leather seats. The table that wobbles when you put too much pressure on one side. Not once have I been able to resist the urge to purge the same words you’ve said more times than I can count.
“Hi. Two strawberry milkshakes…”
My regular order – his regular order – uncontrollably flows up my throat like a type of acid reflux.
Freshly ripened with a freezer burn tang, slightly tart but generously sweet, my beloved strawberry acts as the bittersweet middle ground between the sentimental and sacrificial memories carved into my mind.
Maybe it’s the shade of baby pink that makes me feel like a little girl again.
Or maybe it’s the way that a perfectly blended strawberry shake is the only thing my father and I have in common.
The picture of him holding that delicate, feminine looking dessert between his two masculine hands is the only image of him I choose to remember. As most reminders of him do, a flavor so delightful now contains an abundance of insufferable ingredients that only deepens its richness. The clumps of chewy strawberry bits get stuck in the narrow straw as my breath used to catch in my throat when he stumbled through the garage door long after he was supposed to. The unapologetic obsidian holes that decorate the exterior of each diced chunk sucks me into the black hole of his story that I still know nothing about. Just how I want it to be.
Its diabetic misery served in a crystal glass.
The decadent appearance and marvelous taste allow the toxic ingredients to remain undercover. The thick glob of extra creamy whipped topping that garnishes gracefully garnishes is the last reminder of what was once just a milkshake… but is now a resemblance of you.
Yet, strawberry milkshakes are my favorite.
Mostly because they remind me of you, but only the image of you holding that gentle dessert in your fatherly hands, just as you once, maybe, held my fragile hands on the dance floor. The same hands that once protected me from the world.
I wasn’t prepared to grow up without a father. To have one, maybe even the best one, and then lose him to a fixated poison. Or how it felt to lose him when he’s still here, but just not here for me.
I guess I’m hoping that each fruit filled sip can wash down the unpleasant taste you left in my mouth.
Maybe that’s why I keep ordering them…
