I moved to Omaha, ten hours away from my father, not because I wanted to be far away physically or emotionally but because sometimes identity needs distance from its greatest influences in order to grow. My spiritual explorations needed air to breathe and now established, we’re able to have the necessarily theological conversations without me feeling constantly on the defense without having had time to research. My third Father’s Day in Omaha is the one when perhaps two of the most significant experiences in our lives end up dominating our conversations. I don’t know if my parents ever thought I’d get married to someone they like so much. I never thought I’d ever marry someone they like so much. Then again, I never thought I’d marry someone I like so much, either. My dad and I are hopeful and pessimistic all at once most of the time, I think. I don’t know how pessimistic he is about his medical difficulty, transverse myelitis. He always notes that many people have it worse. No sign of it going away after two months. Doctors usually say that if it’s not starting to recede after three months, it probably won’t. Dad talks like he can bear with it and I have no doubt he can, but to live the rest of his life numb from the chest or waist down isn’t a thrilling prospect.
When he first went into the hospital and no one knew anything but that he was mostly numb and his chest was tight and painful, a brief self-absorption moment worked to make me question if perhaps I should feel regret over the distance. Did I really need to move so far? No need for details, but we all know I am where I am supposed to be and when Stacey’s and my reasons for being here are no more, then we’ll probably move back to that area. We both have directions in life, however, that necessitate us to be here, now, doing what we’re doing.
Ten hours isn’t much anymore. Sure, in an emergency it’s no good but we’re in the same clenching Midwest, country, continent. Stacey and I are quite fond and attached to China Town, a small restaurant only several minutes away. We laugh about the fact that their sign says “buffet” yet they don’t have one (and haven’t in the two and a half years I’ve lived here) and would really rather not eat there, but their food is the best Chinese we’ve ever had (and our friends and relatives that we take when they visit generally agree) and very inexpensive so we end up picking something up from China Town fairly often. As far as we can tell, the same three people are always there (not counting mysterious kitchen people we’ve seen maybe once), all Chinese and barely English-speaking. The most any of them have said to us is “Where your girlfriend/boyfriend?” if one of us happens to show up without the other. For some reason they all chose today to be chatty. The middle-aged man came out and with a question mark in his voice, said something to me like “farrar?” I didn’t understand until he asked more pointedly, “You farrar?” He was saying something about a father. The young girl who always works the cash register and answers the phone always briskly, always intelligently, is pregnant. Stacey and I have joked about trying to find out who the father is and often wondered if the girl’s father knows who the father is because the girl is always working. This guy may or may not be her father, I don’t know, but for a split second I wondered if he was asking me if I was the girl’s baby’s father. I make up scenes in my head for possible storylines but try not to get carried away. I told him I’m not a father, probably won’t be for a few more years, but am getting married in July. He beamed a smile. I asked if he was a father. He thought I was asking about his father. He communicated using near-English that his father is 80 and still lives in China and he hasn’t seen him in a long time. He went back in the back and the young man came out and started talking to me about the wedding, asking if we’re in school, what our jobs are, and finally what the wedding cost. I know not to be offended because I’ve read books by Maxine Hong Kingston. In fact, I’ve often wanted to talk to my acquaintances at the China Town restaurant and discover their interesting stories and family heritage. Finally the girl comes out and even she asks me a couple questions. Her belly curves out from her small petite frame in a beautiful pronouncement. Stacey shows up with the extra money for the crab rangoon and I tell her about the pleasant chats when we get back in the car. She jokingly asks me if I inquired as to the baby’s father. I tell her we’ll wait for that until a couple more conversations down the road.