“Pa.”
“What? The bedroom where I saw my two daughters grow up is special,” he says, and floats closer to the ceiling. “When I bought these snowflake stickers, I also found this instant snowpowder at the toy store. I planned on surprising you with a whole bedroom covered in snow.
“But your mom was worried that you and Jackie would get allergies, so I promised to take you to see snow one day instead.”
He floats back down and takes a deep breath. “I broke all the promises I made to you girls, haven’t I?” Pa wipes his eyes, then gives an excuse thathisallergies are stronger in the afterlife.
I reach to hold his hand, but my fingers just pass through his skin. I move my hand closer to the scar above his left eye, and I try brushing it but only feel the air through my fingers. After my sister told me the real story behind the scar, I’d often touch the spot on Pa’s face and ask him if it hurt. I was never sure if he was telling the truth when he said no. Although, the thing that I was always sure of? Pa would’ve done anything for me. He still would.
My eyes then suddenly find the baby powder Auntie Baby left on the bedside table.
There’s an explosion of powder on my bed when I shake the bottle all over my pillow and sheets.
“What are you…” Pa gawks at me when I sprinkle more on the floor, on the bookshelf, on the desk. I climb up on the bed and cover the tops of the ceiling fan with powder.
More concern floods Pa’s face. “Are you feeling okay?”
“You promised to show me snow,” I explain, climbing back down. When I turn on the switch for the fan, it starts spreading powder all over the room—coating almost every inch in white. If I didn’t know any better, it really does look like snow falling from the sky.
“See, Pa?” I smile at him. “You kept your promise.”
Pa laughs and spreads out his arms to bask in it all. He even sticks out his tongue, trying to catch the powder falling from the fan. “Who knew snow tasted like Johnson’s baby powder?”
I laugh along with him while I start making snow angels with the powder blanketing the bedroom floor.
By the time I climb up on my bed again to refill the fan with more powder, I hear my bedroom door click open.
From the way Ma, Auntie Baby, and Achi are staring at me, you would think they’re the ones who’ve seen a ghost.
11
On second thought, it was a brilliant move to use diarrhea as an excuse.
It might’ve literally saved my life.
While Achi was staring in horror at her clothes that were collateral damage from the powder, Auntie Baby said, “Nika must be so dehydrated. When I had a bad case of LBM from food poisoning, I started seeing things and acting woozy too!”
And since my sister is too polite to murder me in front of Auntie Baby, Achi just stood there in silent rage while Auntie Baby told me to rest and finish the rice porridge she made me. Ma even left one of her green jade bracelets on my bedside table for “better healing.”
Although once Auntie Baby left, Achi convinced Ma to make me clean up this whole mess on my own.
I spend an hour trying to vacuum one tiny section of the room before focusing more on soaking in every moment with Pa. He asks me to catch him up on what’s been happening with Achi and me. When I touch on Ma, I’m very careful to leave out any mention of Public Enemy Dentist No. 1. While I have way more stories to tell him, he insisted that I try to get some sleep once it was past midnight.
When I peek through one eye, Pa is still hovering by my couch in the dark. “Saw that,” Pa says, catching me, and I close my eyes again. He laughs and the sound fills the room. “You used to do that when you were a baby too. Every time we put you down for a nap. One of your eyes would blink open once you thought we weren’t watching.”
“So I’ve been sleep deprived since I was born?”
“You were born talented too.” Pa smiles. “Your mom and I signed you up for voice lessons after we heard you cry in perfect pitch.”
Another thing I haven’t mentioned to Pa—singing isn’t a part of my life anymore.
When I was nine, a doctor told me I had to get my tonsils removed. I was getting tonsillitis multiple times a year growing up and the doctor said this could affect my breathing. I was terrified because I thought it meant I couldn’t sing anymore. Right before the surgery, Pa came to my side and tapped the side of my wrist three times. “Superstar, do you know the secret of the universe?”
I shook my head and he explained, “When something bad happens to you, the universe actually owes you something good in return. So once you get through this operation, something really great is coming your way.”
I’m not sure if I believed Pa at that moment, but a month later, I continued my voice lessons and got to hit notes my voice couldn’t reach before. That summer, I was picked to play Ariel in my first-ever musical.
So I started seeing the world like this—that there was a delicate balance in how things worked out. If something bad happens to you, then the world owes you something good in return. Sounded fair, logical.
