Chapter 3
By the third year of my father's illness, he was much worse.
His swollen feet stopped him from walking. His eyes blurred, as if covered by mist.
I woke at five daily to make soup, prepare medicine, and portion doses into plastic bags.
At seven, I took Dawn to school.
By 7:30, I rushed to the supermarket.
At 5 pm, I finished work, biked home, cooked, gave Dad his medicine, and soaked his feet.
Sometimes while I soaked his feet, he'd say, "Iris, are you tired?"
"No, I'm not."
"Take a break for a bit."
"I'm not tired, Dad."
He fell silent after that.
Once I was cutting his nails and noticed a hole in his sock.
His toe was sticking out. The nail was thick and yellow.
I said I'd buy him new ones.
He said no, these still worked.
I went to the supermarket and bought two pairs of cotton socks—5 dollars.
When I got back, Candace happened to be there.
She rarely came and was lounging on the couch, eating sunflower seeds.
She shot a look at the bag in my hand.
"What'd you buy?" she asked.
"Socks for Dad," I said.
"Oh," she replied.
She whipped out her phone and snapped a pic of Dad sitting in his chair.
"Dad, look over here," she called out.
Then she posted it to her feed.
She got up and said she was heading out.
It was eleven minutes from when she walked in to when she left.
I checked the time.
After she left, I crouched down to change Dad's socks.
Dad looked down at me and suddenly spoke up.
"Iris."
"Yeah?" I replied.
He didn't say anything else.
After a moment of silence, he said, "Go make dinner."
I went to the kitchen.
While I was chopping vegetables, I heard a sound from his room.
I thought he was going to the bathroom.
I pushed the door open and saw Dad sitting on the edge of the bed, holding a notebook.
When he saw me, he slipped the notebook under his pillow.
"It's nothing. Go cook," he said.
I didn't think much of it.
Now I knew. That was the blue notebook.*****
It was the fourth year of Dad's illness.
Dawn started elementary school.
Tuition, books, and uniforms added up to over 1,000 dollars.
I skipped buying medicine that month, not Dad's meds, but my stomach meds.
My stomach had started hurting back in the second year.
Every night, after I gave my father his last dose at eleven, cleaned the kitchen, and Dawn finished her homework and went to sleep.
I'd sit on the edge of my bed in the small room and eat biscuit.
Sometimes the biscuit had gone cold. I washed it down with cold water.
When my stomach hurt, I clenched my teeth and bore it.
Ibuprofen was one dollars a pack.
Sometimes, I couldn't bring myself to buy it.
One night, Dawn woke up out of the blue.
"Mom, why don't you turn on the light?" she asked.
"Just trying to save some electricity," I answered.
She stretched her hand out from under the blanket and touched my face.
"Mom, why's your face all wet?" she wondered.
"It's just sweat," I said quietly.
Dawn paused for a second.
"Mommy, when I grow up, I'll buy you medicine."
I said, "Okay."
After that night, Dawn never mentioned it again.
She was only seven.
Kids that age didn't really remember things for long.
But she wrote those words in her diary.
Later, I found out Dad had also written those words in his blue notebook.
[Dawn said she'll buy medicine for Iris when she grows up. Iris hides her stomach pain, but every night while Iris is washing dishes, bent over, I hear the faucet running from my room, and I know it hurts again.]