a short story cosplaying as a 4chan post 

 

> be me 

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Twenty-three, half-drunk, sidling out of my room to see if the coast is clear. The den looks empty so I glide barefoot across freezing tile. Halfway to the kitchen, I hear my name. 

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> mom is lying down on the couch 

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I turn and see her, swaddled in a blue blanket, pink satin scarf slipping more and more as she shivers. The scarf hides patches of grey hair that she refuses to shave. It’ll all grow back, you’ll see, she would say. I doubt that, I would reply, but then, moments later, I would Google: Does your hair come back after chemo? and tap on the same blue link from the last time I searched it. 3-6 six months, I remind myself. Three to six months to forget how harrowing the last year and a half have been. Three to six months to bury it all beneath a thick crop of silver hair. I ask her what is going on, and she says it’s a slight fever. Nothing to worry about. I nod slowly, transfixed by her slight stutter, each word bouncing back and forth in rhythm with her shivers. I offer to wet a towel and she refuses. Instead she warns me not to steal any meat from the pot in the kitchen.I roll my eyes. 

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> dad is coming down the stairs and sees u enter the kitchen. he’s been asking you difficult questions

 

He bellows and the hairs on my neck stand. Our conversation last week replays in my head. > deerinheadlights.jpeg 

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I shove a piece of fried beef into my mouth. I can’t answer any questions if my mouth is full. It does not stop him from asking. The questions are assaults, rapid fire. So what's the plan? How’s job hunting going? Have you been going for therapy? What is in your mouth? I need you to take your life seriously. WHAT ARE YOU CHEWING. My friend, can you answer me? 

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Ironing the tell-tale tilt of my loosened tongue flat, my answers manage to match his questions in sharpness. He nods loosely and is about to walk away. 

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> u tell him u want to do a mfa 

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He turns around and blinks. 

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> he doesn’t know what a mfa is 

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I hurriedly explain. He stares blankly, then gestures that I follow him into the den. There he settles on the head of the couch and softly caresses my mother’s head. He asks more questions like: what do I plan to do after I graduate, and how do I plan to make money, and if I know school is for something sustainable and practical. I answer each one and shrug at the last. I see him turn my

answers over in his head. I already know what's next: Are you sure? But before he can ask, my mother groans. Reflexively, he strokes her head faster, slipping the scarf more and more, while muttering under his breath. It’s okay, it’s okay. I offer to wet a towel again. I’m fine. I’ve taken medicine. I swallow a lump and insist. My father continues muttering, hiding most of his words as soft rumbles in his chest. The words that do escape lose me, but I understand it as prayer. Life can’t bend me because I pray, he had said last week. Prayer is the substance of strength, he said. Prayer as balm, prayer as fertiliser, prayer as deliverance. My mother finally relents, gesturing to a small hand towel in her bag. I run to the bathroom and wet it under a tap, blood pumping in my ears, so I can’t hear when my father is calling me. 

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> he wants to know how much a mfa costs 

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My father, stroking my mother’s head, is asking me how much a MFA program costs. I see the thermometer on the table, and while rattling off costs per course unit, I point it at her head. Beep. 37.4 degrees Celsius. That's manageable from home, so we can avoid the sterility of another hospital waiting room. I can finally make out the TV in the background, stuck on two men arguing in a store. I drape the towel over my mother’s head and she recoils, teeth shattering. She begs me to take it off, but I make a dry joke about how she’d do the same when I was younger and ill. My father blinks too many times. Then he asks about how much a full year costs and then he goes, wow. He asks how I’ll pay for it. I shrug and say something about finding scholarships. Then he tells me to pray. Prayer as support, prayer as hope, prayer as possibility. Gazing softly at my mother, he says ‘All you need to do is pray, have faith, and leave the rest to God. Sometimes there’s nothing you can do’. I nod. He blinks faster, eyes reddening. 

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> he’s supportive? 

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He sighs. He says: hope you've thought it through. 

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> surprisedpikachu.gif 

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He asks if I believe in my writing. I say yes. My mother shivers. He asks if I’m sure. I say yes. My mother groans. He asks if it’s good enough to earn a scholarship. I say probably not. My mother suddenly mumbles, ‘You should believe in yourself. Don’t be a loser.’ I smirk. My father smiles wanly. In three to six months, this will be funnier. 

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> he’s supportive! 

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He tears into a long story about a woman he once knew and the power of her faith. The story eats itself, an ouroboros that I slip along, mindlessly nodding as we move past conclusions and beginnings until he arrives at the word faith again. On the TV, the arguing men have pulled in the owner of the store. My mother is still shivering, but less so. In three to six months, all grief will be subsumed in a crop of silver hair and laughter. 

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Umm what do I do with a supportive African father? Is he broken?