Untitled.

Sharlene Ferguson

Untitled.
 Untitled. Sharlene Ferguson

This work is called “Untitled” because there just aren’t enough words to

describe the man I’m writing about, my father. I’m not sure why i’m writing this

now 5 years after his passing, but I think it’s what i’m meant to do. Either that,

or i’m just telling myself that so I don’t have to pay for therapy. I deleted and

recovered the file so many times, because I wasn’t sure if I was ready for this.

This is not Milk and Honey, this is not the book you’re gonna read that will send

you some magical fucking sign that it’s time to leave that no-good man you

should’ve left a long time ago. Untitled is not a work of fiction; this is my real life,

my real memories and experiences. If my writing sounds good, its because my

daddy sent me to school and it wasn’t for nothing. If it sounds bad, I don’t care

because you’re not gonna beat my ass. If you’re reading this, thank you. If you

read this until the very end, I thank you eternally.

For my father, Richard C. Ferguson 1960—2015

Matthew 5:8

“Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God”
 Untitled. Sharlene Ferguson

Three

My earliest memory of him. We’re sitting in my mother’s old apartment, circa 2001. The

decor hasn’t caught up with the turn of the century yet, still riddled with remnants of

the 90s. Abstract patterned couches fashioned with clear plastic covers, tablecloths lined

with cheap gold accents, complete with random porcelain figures of dogs and cats on

the coffee table. On one of the uncomfortable plastic-lined couches, sits my dad. He

came over nearly every day, this day no more special than the last, but I was always

excited to see him, for he was my favourite person. I awkwardly waddled over with my

chubby toddler legs, climbing on the couch then onto him, to get a closer look. I

examined my father’s face and noticed there were scratchy looking holes on it. “Daddy,

you have worm holes on your face!” He laughed. I liked it when he laughed, he had

such a wide, bright smile with a happy face.

 Untitled. Sharlene Ferguson

Five

Sometime in Fall of 2003. I’m at the public laundromat with my mother. I didn’t like it

there very much because it was boring; the tv didn’t work and there were no other kids

to play with. The only cool part about this place was that every washer and dryer were

set up in their own private cubicles for privacy. I settled for making my own fun,

running up and down through the aisle, poking my head into each cubicle to see what

everyone was doing. I was rather nosy back then, truly. I’d grown tired of that game, so

I was waiting not-so-patiently for my mother to finish folding our clothes. She suddenly

said to me to go play my game again, because there was a surprise waiting for me at

the end. I excitedly ran through the aisle again, poking my head into every cubicle

looking for my surprise. What would it be? Was it a new Barbie? Chocolate? Candy? I

finally got to the last cubicle, and there stood my daddy in his burgundy leather jacket,

with his arms outstretched just beckoning for me to jump into them. How did he sneak

past without me seeing him? “Daddy!” I yelled in excitement, forgetting about the

earlier prizes my 5 year old brain came up with; To me, my daddy was better than any

Barbie or candy. I wasn’t disappointed in the slightest.

 Untitled. Sharlene Ferguson

Six

November 10th, 2004. It was the Remembrance Day assembly at school tomorrow, and I

didn’t have a red poppy to pin on my sweater. My mother was busy with my new

younger brother, she was unable to go to Shoppers Drug Mart earlier and buy me a

poppy. I was devastated; “How un-Canadian”, my fellow 6 year old classmates would

say. “How could she forget about Remembrance day?” They’d snicker. I was resigned to

becoming a social pariah at 6 years old; My short life was over. I’d be the only little girl

without one. It was already nine o’clock, there’s no way I’d be able to get a poppy in

time for tomorrow! Suddenly, I heard a tap at the window. I paid little attention

because I was wallowing in despair, and we lived on the 2nd floor; nobody would be

able to reach up here. Tap! I heard again. I decided to investigate. I cautiously walked

over to the window and then Tap! There it was again! I yanked open the window

forgetting my earlier fears, then peered down below. There stood my daddy in his

Purolator work uniform, with his old burgundy Ford Windstar parked wheezing

behind him, grinning with his warm smile right up at me. He had been throwing little

pebbles at the window to get my attention! “Daddy?! I said in both excitement and

bewilderment, “What are you doing here?” “Look here!” he said, inching his hands

upwards so I could see better. In his hands were 2 red poppies. I would’ve loved to see

my face as I mirrored his smile right back at him.

 Untitled. Sharlene Ferguson

Eight

Early July, 2006. My birthday had just passed, and my daddy had promised to buy me

my first bicycle. I was so excited! He said he’d pick me up right in the evening and then

we’d go. All day I was bouncing around the apartment, driving my mother up the wall.

When my mother told me that my dad was here, I ran to the front door to greet him.

“Hi daddy!” I said as I went in for a hug. I no longer yelled his name, for I was a

mature, elegant eight year old lady. “Let’s go!” I said impatiently, I wanted to go get my

bike! “See you later mom” I said. “Hold on a second she says, Isaiah is going with you”

Isaiah is my two year old little brother who was the bane of my existence. He got all my

mom’s attention both while she was pregnant and after she gave birth. It was so

annoying, why did he have to come too? I was going with MY daddy, Isaiah had his

own daddy. He was always clinging to me like sir, I don’t even know you like that. That

put a damper on my spirits a little bit, but I was still happy nonetheless. When we got to

the car, my elder sister was there too. As we all drove to Walmart, my mind was racing

with all the possibilities of the bike I’d get. It should be pink, I mused. With sparkles

and white handlebars and a water bottle holder and and and with the streamers on the

sides! When we got there and headed over to the bike section, Isaiah started playing

with the toddler bikes. Whatever, I thought. I’m the one getting a bike, not him. I settled

on an orange bike and let my daddy know this was the one I wanted. As we took the
 Untitled. Sharlene Ferguson

bike to the register, Isaiah had brought one of the bikes he was playing with to the

register too. “You’re gonna buy that for him?” My sister said flatly. “Of course” My

daddy said as he pulled out his credit card. I quickly glanced at the register and saw

that the total was well over $300. I never understood the magnitude of that gesture

until I grew much, much older.

 Untitled. Sharlene Ferguson

Nine

June, 2007. Something was going on in my house that I didn’t understand. My mother

had told me that she was “going away” and that i’d be going to stay with my daddy. I

didn’t mind of course, because I loved my daddy’s house. There was lots of yummy food

and snacks there, and I could watch my favourite show Inuyasha on TV. At my

mommy’s house, there was no cable, we had to go to churches to get food, and there was

sometimes little cockroaches that skittered around. They scared me, and they certainly

weren’t at my daddy’s house. My daddy picked me up one weekend, and he took all my

clothes with us. We left my pet betta fish at home, but it was okay, I thought. I’d be back

to see him soon anyway. My daddy had lived on the 7th floor of his building forever. I

memorized it by heart. Look for R Ferguson on the registry, buzz 36. Press 7. Turn right

out of the elevator, go all the way down to the end of the hallway, 709 is where we live.

Except this time, when we got out of the elevator, we turned left and stopped at the first

door, 706. “Daddy, that’s not our house” I said. “We have a new house” He said simply.

“And you have your own room!” We stepped inside. It looked much like our old house

down the hall, except it was missing a bedroom. I liked having my own room.

Whenever I went to my daddy’s house, I slept in my elder brother’s room because my

sister always locked her door. In my new room was my own bed, dresser, and a small

white telephone. A week flew by, and I was wondering when I’d go back home to my

mother’s house. My daddy worked evenings, so when I’d come home from school, he’d be
 Untitled. Sharlene Ferguson

leaving for work and I’d be all alone until midnight. One night, the phone rang.

“Hello? I said” “Hi Sha” replied my mother from the other line. “Mommy? I asked.

Where are you? When am I coming home?” “I’m in St. Vincent” she said simply. “But

you didn’t even say bye!” I cried. St. Vincent was my mommy’s home country she never

spoke about, I only knew she was from there and the flag had a green heart on it. I

didn’t understand much from the conversation, except that my mommy and Isaiah were

gone, and they weren’t coming back. A few weeks later, I heard my daddy on the phone

with someone talking about my mommy, mentioning the word ‘deported’. During our

next computer lab time at school, I Googled ‘deported’ and then I understood as much

as an eight year old could understand; St. Vincent my mommy was, and St Vincent she’d

remain. She wasn’t coming back. And she never even said goodbye. But at least I had

my daddy!
 Untitled. Sharlene Ferguson

Nine

Late June, 2007. I’m adjusting to living with my daddy and taking the bus by myself to

school. I have 2 sets of keys now, a swipe card with a key for my daddy’s house, and a

plain silver key for my mommy’s house. One day after school, I decide to go to my

mommy’s old house. I didn’t know what I’d find or if our things were still there, but

something compelled me to go. It was right behind my school anyway, all the kids just

walked through a hole someone cut into the fence. I start my mission. I blend in with all

the kids going upstairs, and I get off at the eighth floor by myself. I nervously turn the

key inside the lock, and it opens, I’m in! I walk inside the apartment. It looks so empty

and lifeless without my mommy and my little brother. My pet betta fish is now belly up,

with a grey sludge covering his gills. I see my little brother’s yellow toy car on the coffee

table, I quickly grab it and stuff it into my bag. I go into my mommy’s room and I see

some of her clothes on the bed, strewn about like she left in a hurry. I grab one of her

nightgowns she always wore, also shoving it into my bag. Then I grab my shoes, lock the

door and go into the elevator with tears streaming down my face. When I get home, my

daddy has already left for work, he left some food left on the stove for me—Curry goat

and rice, my favourite. After I eat, I go into my daddy’s room, take the nightgown and

toy car out of my bag, and cry myself to sleep.

 Untitled. Sharlene Ferguson

Ten

August, 2008. 5:30 am. Along with Purolator, my daddy owned his own truck wash

business that he did on weekends. He’d get up early in the morning, put on his coveralls

that smelled like oil and gravel and go, later returning covered in more oil and gravel,

with dirt all over his face. Those days I’d be home alone all day on the internet, running

up the bill that my poor daddy would pay with his hard-earned money. I’d become

spoiled since it was just him and I, not counting whatever girlfriend he had that month.

One morning, he knocked my door, woke me up and asked me if I wanted to go with

him. I wasn’t fond of leaving my bed early, but I was curious to see what my daddy did

all day, so I threw on some old clothes and off we went. We first drove his car to a

church yard, where he parked his work truck. It was a nice truck with a baby blue cab,

attached was a medium sized trailer that stored a water tank and other miscellaneous

items. That day, we drove all over rural Ontario, just us and the open highways. It was

a simple routine; Daddy driving, shifting gears every so often. I’d play with the radio

and look out the window. We’d stop at our destination, then my daddy would get to

work. Spraying down garbage, commercial and dump trucks with his power washer,

soaping them up with soap that smelled like almonds, rinse, dry, wax and shine. My job

was to answer his phone and write down any jobs he’d do next. “Good Afternoon,

Fergie’s Mobile Wash” I’d say in the most lady like way I knew how. Sometimes I’d fool

around and answer the phone in different accents, becoming privy to a posh British
 Untitled. Sharlene Ferguson

accent especially. Or at least, I thought so. We fell into this routine quite easily, with me

playing the passenger seat receptionist, and my daddy the driver/worker

extraordinaire. One day, when he knocked my door and told me it was time to go, I told

him I wasn’t going. The next time he asked, I said the same thing. Until eventually, he

stopped asking and just started leaving the house early by himself again. I never knew

how precious and numbered those days were, until one day he wasn’t around to ask

anymore.
 Untitled. Sharlene Ferguson

Twelve

April, 2010. My daddy sits me down one morning with a big breakfast—he says we

need to talk. I knew exactly what it was about too. I had recently began acting out in

school, not listening and being sassy to the teachers. I started taking advantage of the

fact that my daddy wasn’t home during the evenings, inviting sometimes the entire class

over to my house to play. We used to run up and down the hallways, wreak havoc in the

lobby, and run around the neighbourhood yelling. That wouldn’t have been such a large

problem in itself, if it wasn’t for the fact that it wasn’t only the girls I was inviting over

—it was the boys too. Obviously nothing like ‘that’ happened, but parents in the

neighbourhood started noticing and talking. The final straw was when someone had

seen me walking home from Mcdonald’s alone, at 9:30 at night. The next time they saw

my dad, they let him know that people were watching, and that Child Protective

Services would get involved if he let it continue. Hence, the morning talk. He started out

by telling me how much he loved me, and how much he didn’t want to lose me. He

recounted how growing up poor in Jamaica, often times he had no money to buy lunch

so he’d just chew ice to offset the hunger. I was unsure of why he was telling me this, but

I cried at the thought of my poor dad eating ice. He told me that he had no choice but to

send me to live with my aunt in a little town outside of Toronto—Like I was the fucking
 Untitled. Sharlene Ferguson

Fresh Prince of Bel Air. I was such a brat back then. I didn’t particularly know this

aunt, I’d only seen her at family gatherings, a quick hug to show respect and that was

it. I didn’t think it would be that bad, as he said I’d still get to visit on weekends. I’d still

get to see my daddy. So, I packed up my life once again and then my daddy drove me to

live in Hell with the Devil’s incarnate.

Twelve

I’d been living with my aunt for some time now, and I absolutely hated it. She was SO

mean! I wasn’t allowed to use the computer, have any friends over, go to any friend’s

house, play outside, or use the phone unless it was to call my dad. She also forced me to

go to church with her, which was actually fun sometimes because I was able to make

friends. I’m not sure when I made the transition from calling him ‘daddy’ to simply

‘dad’ but I wish I never did. That itself wasn’t bad, except that I wasn’t allowed to go in

the fridge without asking first, even for a glass of water. I’ll always remember that

there was a yellow pitcher of apple juice in the fridge. It looked so cold and refreshing,

with the condensation on the sides. I asked my aunt if I could have some, and she said

no because its not for me, its for her daughter who also lived there. She always made the

distinction that I was lesser than her daughter— I’ll never forget the time we went

grocery shopping with the $250 my dad gave her every month to cover my own food

expenses, and I wanted to get some frozen Eggo waffles, my new favourite. She picked
 Untitled. Sharlene Ferguson

up the Eggo waffles, and an off brand box. She looked me square in my eye and said

‘These—’holding up the Eggo brand waffles —are for my daughter’ ‘and these—

holding up the off brand ones ‘—are for you’. That was the day I knew that this woman

saw me as nothing but a monthly cheque. I had no worth outside of that. I tried to call

my dad that night. I went upstairs to my small room and tried to close the door, before it

even got halfway my aunt yelled “Don’t you close that door, you have no privacy in this

house!” So I just called my dad, asked him how his day went, and then cried myself to

sleep like I did majority of my nights over the course of the 2 years that I lived there.
 Untitled. Sharlene Ferguson

Fourteen

June, 2012. By God’s grace and by God’s grace alone, was I able to move from my aunt’s

house back to my dad’s house in Toronto. My aunt’s daughter had gotten married and

pregnant, so they needed the room I was staying in for the baby. I was so happy I could

kiss her myself! I was elated to be back in my home, with my room and my dad. I felt

sad leaving behind all the great friends I made, but we kept in touch thanks to the rise

of social media, so it wasn’t all that bad. The only problem I had now was my mother—

I despised her. All those nights crying clutching the old nightgown and yellow toy car,

festered into pure hatred and resentment until I threw both into the garbage. I only

needed my dad, not this woman and boy that shared my DNA that abandoned me. My

younger brother had come back to Canada a few years prior to live with his dad, I

hated him too and I told him just that. I hated my mom for leaving me, for taking my

younger brother and not me as well. For not explaining to me that when a girl bleeds

from her vagina she isn’t dying, its called menstruation. I hated her for not telling me

that its normal to grow body hair, and for your underarms to smell. That’s when you

buy something called deodorant. I hated her even more for not teaching me a damn
 Untitled. Sharlene Ferguson

useful thing, just calling my phone wasting my minutes that my dad pays for telling me

how sorry she was. I wanted to tell her where to shove her sorries, but my dad taught

me better. So I just cursed her in my head instead. By all means, I was an angry

fourteen year old. One day, when I decided to take her call, she told me I was coming to

St Vincent to visit her. I had to ask her who exactly was coming to see her, because it

wasn’t going to be me. I remember being so upset at the thought, that I screamed at her

and told her I wasn’t going anywhere, then I hung up on her….Which resulted in her

calling my dad crying, blubbering that I didn’t need her anymore and how I didn’t

want to come. While my dad was reassuring her that I was coming, I silently wondered

how one person had so many tears to cry. Ironic, seeing as the fact that I was the same

way. I was so angry at him at the time for forcing me to go, but now looking back I

thank him. He’s the one responsible for us repairing our relationship as mother and

daughter. Because now that he’s no longer here, she’s all I have left.
 Untitled. Sharlene Ferguson

Fourteen

March, 2013. My dad had gone to Jamaica in January, and ever since his phone was

ringing non-stop. It was nothing I hadn’t seen before, after all he had charisma and a

megawatt smile. Women liked him. I’d had so many prospective stepmothers that my

best friend and I made a list and ranked them by cooking, niceness, and beauty stats.I

had already started high school, and came home on an ordinary day just like any other.

Except, as soon as I entered the house, everything felt off. My dad was usually home at

this time, playing loud reggae music, preparing food for when his friends would come

over later that evening to play dominoes, as they often did during weeknights. As I went

into my room to put away my stuff, I got a call from my elder brother’s wife who

normally didn’t call me. Weird, I thought. I answered and she said “Don’t be alarmed,

everything is fine, your dad will be home soon.” Well lady, I wasn’t alarmed until you

told me not to be, what the hell! After I got off the phone with her, I immediately rang

my dad. “Dad?—I said nervously,—Where are you?” “Sharlene—he started—I’m at

the hospital” “The hospital?! Is everything okay?!” I replied. “I’ll tell you when I get

home.” And then he hung up. A million things were racing through my mind, but the

first was that I needed to get to the toilet because my stomach was upset at the mere

thought of my dad being at the hospital. He was always so healthy and lively,

everybody’s favourite uncle. It couldn’t be anything bad, right? An hour later, my dad

came home with a solemn look on his face. “Dad?” I said. “What’s wrong?” “Sit down”
 Untitled. Sharlene Ferguson

He commanded. My dad always spoke heavily accented Jamaican english, and it didn’t

help that he had a stutter too. But the “Sit down” was in such perfect English, it would

give even the Queen of England a run for her money. My dad, the man who had solely

raised me the best way he knew how, the man who was half of me, looked me straight in

my eyes and said “I have cancer.” And to this day I don’t know if the screaming or

crying started first.

Fourteen

“Why are you crying?” My dad said worriedly. What did he mean ‘why am I crying?’—

You just told me you were under a death sentence and I’m not supposed to cry? “Because

you’re gonna die!” I blurted out between sobs. My dad laughed and cracked that smile

that he always did. How could he be so calm and smile at a time like this? “Don’t worry,

I’m not gonna die” He said. (Except what he actually said was “Nuh badda cry man.

Mi nah guh dead” which means the same thing, but it sounds cooler.) After I stopped

screaming and reduced my tears to regular ones instead of the big fat balls of water I

was crying before, I asked him “What kind of cancer is it?” I learned in school that

different types of cancer have different survival rates. I prayed silently that it wasn’t

brain cancer or leukaemia. “Ahhh—He started—Loo-key-me-yah the doctor said I

 Untitled. Sharlene Ferguson

think?” I started with my waterworks and blubbering again—Leukaemia is the cancer

of the blood, you can’t beat that! My dad, growing tired of his youngest daughter’s

theatrics, simply let me cry into his big round belly while he made the appropriate

phone calls to family members, letting them know the new status of his health. “Yeah…

the doctor said I have cancer…yeah its called…Hold on…Sharlene what’s the name of

it again?” “Leukaemia Dad, its called Leukaemia!” I said, in disbelief. How could you

forget the name of your own illness, don’t you care at all?! “Yeah, its called

Leukaemia…yeah I’m good though. Okay bye” And that continued for the next forty

five minutes, with me starting up a new round of tears for each family member he

called.

Sixteen

March 10th, 2015. While age fourteen was absolutely horrendous, ages fifteen and

sixteen flew by mostly without incident. My dad seemed so healthy, that I forgot

honestly that he was sick. So, I lived my life normally (albeit, skipping the Terry Fox

assembly every year since my dad’s diagnosis like clockwork to have a meltdown in the

bathroom) I went to high school, still had my friends, and even got myself a boyfriend.

He was the new transfer student to our school—He knew some people already because
 Untitled. Sharlene Ferguson

he was childhood friends with them, and I thought he was just the cutest thing walking.

He was tall (6’4 maybe?) with brown curly hair, brown eyes with the longest lashes, and

the prettiest tanned skin. Mexican? I thought to myself. But does he like black girls? I

wondered. I later found out he was mixed; half Italian white, half black Bajan. He

transferred right into my math class, and then I also learned he was a year my senior. I

introduced myself and we became friends, exchanging numbers to keep up with math

work, we said. A few weeks later we became an official couple, and I was absolutely

infatuated and enamoured with him. We decided to go on our first official date—to the

movies at Scarborough Town Centre to see ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’. I lied to my dad and

told him I was working that day—I conveniently had a part time job in that same mall

at the time. We had a wonderful evening and he drove me home—I was absolutely over

the moon! When I got home, my dad and his girlfriend were in the couch. His new

girlfriend had been the one calling him non stop since he came back from Jamaica in

January of 2013. By October of the same year, she was here in Canada and had lived

with us ever since. I usually paid her no mind, determined to let it be known that she

was just my dad’s girlfriend—Not my mother or anything of the sort. They both looked

at me and my dad asked “How was work?” “It was fine” I lied. “Is that all?” He

pressed. “Yeah” I said, wondering if he knew what I had really been doing. If he had,

that’s not what he was referring to, what he was really referring to was the date—
 Untitled. Sharlene Ferguson

March 10th, 2015. I forgot my dad’s 54th birthday without even knowing that it was the

last one that he’d ever celebrate alive.

Seventeen

August, 2015. One month before my dad dies.

The summer before I started my last year of high school. It was time for me to visit my

mother in her country again, I didn’t go kicking and screaming this time because we

had repaired our relationship; I would board the plane like a dignified, civilized

seventeen year old. After all i’m not an animal, and I wanted to see my grandparents

too. My dad’s health had been fluctuating over the past few months, he’d even been

hospitalized for a little while. He tried chemo for a little bit in the beginning, but hated

it. He much rather preferred just living the rest of his life out as it was intended to. Years

later, I learned that he only tried the chemo to buy more time with me—it made him too

weak to do anything, so it was better to just see how long he lived instead. Before I flew
 Untitled. Sharlene Ferguson

out to visit my mom, my dad was home. Still working and looking healthy for the most

part, but even I knew that he was weakened. I just didn’t know that it was that bad.

Two weeks into visiting my mom, she gets a message from my dad’s girlfriend saying

that my dad is in the hospital, and it isn’t looking good. My mother, God bless her soul,

asks if she should keep me here with her. I read the message and ask if she’s lost her

damn mind. My grandmother, may God bless her old Caribbean soul also, says “He’s

gonna die you know” As two black crows fly by. Not an ounce of delicacy, do those old

West Indians have. On the plane ride back home Isaiah, now 11 years old, comforts me

by rubbing my arm silently as I look out the window. He’s good and pure, that boy. I just

never gave him a chance. We land at Toronto Pearson Airport and I immediately take

my phone off of airplane mode and call home. I can’t see my dad today, but I’d see him

tomorrow. I just didn’t know how many ‘tomorrows’ we had left.

 Untitled. Sharlene Ferguson

Seventeen

September 2nd, 2015. 22 days before my dad dies.

My elder brother drove my aunt, my little brother and I to the hospital to see my dad.

After all, my younger brother is worried about his Uncle Richard, too. I was wearing a

long tropical floral print dress, with my raven black hair (Courtesy of Bigen semi

permanent hair dye of course) tied back into a sleek long ponytail. On my face was just

some MAC Studio Fix powder, with MAC ‘Sin’ matte lipstick. I wanted to look put

together. My dad told me that I was pretty all the time. I wanted him to say I was pretty

today too, like normal. After all i’m not going to see my dying dad, I’m just going to visit

my sick dad in the hospital. I get to the hospital and there in the bed, lies my dad with

my aunt and his girlfriend next to him. He still looks healthy, just a bit weak. “This is

fine—I think to myself. He’s been weak before, he’ll be alright” I speak with him, telling

him how my the people of my mother’s country are strange, and he laughs. Laughing is

good. Laughing means healthy. There was no doubt in my mind that he’d make it out of

this. I definitely wouldn’t have thought that he only had 22 days of life left.
 Untitled. Sharlene Ferguson

Seventeen

September 14th, 2015. 10 days before my dad dies.

I’m getting used to being in and out of the hospital. Family members and friends

routinely come by, so my dad is never short of visitors. He’s getting weaker, he’s no

longer walking around. At this point, I realize he’s a very sick man. I know what’s

coming but I push it to the back of my mind. Not my daddy. God, you won’t really leave

me all alone, will you? My mom has already left me and can’t come back. Please don’t

take him, He’s all I have. God must’ve been on vacation at the time, because I don’t

think He was listening to my prayers that day.

 Untitled. Sharlene Ferguson

Seventeen

September 20th, 2015. 4 days before my dad dies.

We have a family meeting with the doctor. She lays out all the illnesses he has;

leukaemia (cancer of the blood), lymphoma (tumours), diabetes, and now his kidneys

were failing. “Cancer will claim his life” She said flatly. To her, this must’ve been just

another cancer patient. To me, my entire world was falling apart. She asks if we would

like to resuscitate him if he dies. My aunties argue over this. I answer meekly “I don’t

want you guys to poke him anymore. Please. Just let him go.” We decide to sign the Do

Not Resuscitate papers. I go to see him again. He’s no longer eating and barely opens

his eyes. They give him water by a little pink sponge on a toothpick, they dab his lips

with it. That’s all they can do. I go inside the room to see my dad again. His eyes are

open! “Hey dad!” I say, trying to muster up some cheer. I didn’t want him to see me sad.

He calls me by my cousin’s name and asks what i’m doing here. I then realize that he

doesn’t recognize me anymore. I make up an excuse to my elders that I have some test at

school, and leave the hospital. I never knew you could feel pain right in your heart. It

felt like someone was stabbing me. I wish someone did.

 Untitled. Sharlene Ferguson

Seventeen

My mind.

I recount a conversation I once had with my dad. He was lying on the couch as he often

did those days, listening to the reggae music he had put on. I thought I was so mature

back then, so I stopped hugging him often. That night, something willed me to roll over

his big belly like I used to as a little girl, and speak with him. “Dad?” I started. “You’ll

be here for a long time right? You’ll be here to see me get married and have kids?” “Of

course” He answered with bewilderment, like what I had asked him was so ridiculous.

Of course he’d be there. Except, now he won’t be.

Seventeen

September 24th, 2015. The day my dad dies.

Hollywood needs to answer to me, because death isn’t like how it is in the movies. It’s

not a big dramatic last breath, and then you die. Death is a slow, dragged out process.

If it was like how it was shown in the movies, I would’ve been more prepared. The day
 Untitled. Sharlene Ferguson

my dad died was like any other, he was still weak, except he couldn’t open his eyes

anymore. The only noise you could hear from him was faint breathing, and the

humming of the medical machines. It was night time, almost 9 o’clock. His friends were

in the room visiting him, while I was in the waiting area with my cousins and my little

brother. We were talking, almost laughing even, trying to take our minds off of things.

It’s 9:20pm when one of his friends came rushing out of the room saying “They wanted

you to have the last moment” I don’t remember if I spoke out loud, but all I could say

was “The last moment of WHAT?” and then everything started moving dramatically in

slow motion. My cousin and I looked at each other, then at the nurse and we all took off

running. As we got into the room, My aunt was screaming, everybody was crying, as my

dad’s girlfriend let his head go from her arms. I maneuvered my way through the

tangle of crying people, and went to my dad’s bed side. “Daddy?” I said. No reply.

“Daddy?” I tried again, this time in his ears. Maybe he didn’t hear me the first time and

that’s why he didn’t respond. Still nothing. I kept calling him, over and over again,

until I realized that he was gone. My daddy was gone. I didn’t realize I was screaming,

hunched over my dad’s dead body until the nurse said that they needed to take me out of

the room before I had a heart attack. If I had one, would I be able to see my dad again?

If so, they should’ve left me there.

 Untitled. Sharlene Ferguson

Seventeen

September 24th, 9:45pm.

They announced that the official time of death was 9:24 pm. Or so I was told, because

everything was a blur after that. I was removed from the room, and I remember staring

up at the plain hospital ceiling while lying on the plastic couch. Isaiah was sitting

protectively in front of me on the floor, wordlessly stroking my arm. Everything else was

in chaos around me, but he alone was keeping me here. I contemplated jumping out of

the window in front of us, but I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. My elder brother

arrived with his children, and I got up to see them. Children are good. Happy. I picked

up my nephew and he asked me if I was sad because Grandpa died. I dropped him out

of sheer surprise at what he just said (Thank God he wasn’t a baby) Thankfully he

landed on his feet, wondering what my problem was, most likely. I went back to the

couch with Isaiah. The nurse said that the room was cleared because they needed to

clean up the body before they sent it to the morgue. He wasn’t my dad anymore, he was

just a ‘body’. “I want to go to the morgue with you” I said simply. “Are you sure?” She

asked, surprised. “I want to go to the morgue with you” I said again. With my elder

brother in tow, the elevator ride to the morgue was short. It was just me, him, the nurse,

and my dad in a white body bag. When we got there I said “I want you to open the

bag” This time she didn’t ask if I was sure, she’d probably seen lots of people like me

before—Grief stricken. She unzipped the bag, and there lay my daddy, skin slightly
 Untitled. Sharlene Ferguson

yellowed but mostly looking the same as he was alive. He looked like he was sleeping. I

really wished he was. I kissed his forehead, and she zipped up the bag with my father

in it. The bag with half of my DNA and soul in it. That image of my father in the white

plastic bag is burned into my brain for all of eternity. The elevator ride back up was just

as short, but not short enough because I still had just enough time to contemplate

jumping out of the window again.

 Untitled. Sharlene Ferguson

Seventeen

Late September or early October, i’m not sure. I stopped keeping track of the days

because they didn’t matter anymore. Those days after my dad died, I just know that I

was crying non stop. Being in our apartment was too much for me. Seeing all his things,

seeing where he would’ve been standing in the kitchen or sitting on the couch—was far

too much for me. I stopped going to school. I didn’t care anymore. I didn’t care about

anything. I had my dad’s phone, and I would answer it every time someone called. “Hi,

this is Richard’s daughter. He passed away, so we won’t be able to make that dental

appointment next week. Thank you” “Hi, This is Richard’s daughter. Fergie’s Mobile

Wash will cease operations, my dad just died. Thank you for your condolences.” That

continued until we disconnected the line. It was so strange to me, that life was

continuing on for everyone else, but my time had stopped that night at the hospital.

Then the funeral came. The entire auditorium was packed with people. I knew my dad

was a charismatic social person, but I didn’t know he knew that many people. When it

was time to give a eulogy speech, my sister told the story of how she found our dad

through letters he had written to her that her mom had hidden. She finished off with

saying how she never wanted another sister because she liked being the only girl. I

already knew that, can’t you get through one day without mentioning how much you

hate me?
 Untitled. Sharlene Ferguson

As per my dad’s final wishes, we sent him to Jamaica to be buried on our land. It’s a

decrepit plot of land where my grandparents little blue house used to be, now it was just

ruins of stone and wire. I fretted about him being buried there, I thought he’d be lonely.

At the Jamaican funeral, it’s also packed. A man asks me if the man in the casket was

my father, and I said yes. They called my father “Punce”. It upset me that there was

another side to him that I never knew about, and now i’d never get the chance to ask

him. It was raining heavily that day, mud got all in between my toes and stockings. As

they lower his casket into the grave and pour the cement, a different man starts crying

and throws himself over it. I contemplate switching places with him, but decide not to in

the end. It finally hits me that my dad is really gone. He’s gone. And i’m all alone.
 Untitled. Sharlene Ferguson

Eighteen

There’s a reggae song by Terry Linen called Your Love Is My Love that I’d heard a

million times which I never paid much attention to, but for some reason these days it

kept replaying in my mind. It was originally a love song, but I felt that it fit my love for

my dad better than it would any romantic partner. ‘If I should die this very day, don’t

cry, ‘cause on earth I wasn’t meant to stay, and no matter what people say, I’ll be

waiting for you after judgement day. Your love is my love, and my love is your love. It

would take an eternity to break us, it would take all the stars just to hold us.” I’d never

heard my dad sing, but I’d like to imagine he put that song in my head so that those

words would comfort me because he was unable to.

 Untitled. Sharlene Ferguson

Nineteen

Fate has a sick way of playing tricks on people. I took up makeup artistry as a creative

outlet, plus I decided to go to college for it. An ex-coworker booked a birthday makeup

appointment with me; I was to go to her house. Except, her house was in the same

building, in the same exact apartment that my dad and I used to live in. I wanted to

cancel, but I needed the money. It turns out, that her and her mom moved into our old

apartment after we cleaned it out and left. I walked into the house and was

overwhelmed with memories. I could see where all our things used to be. I walked into

her room (My old room) and saw that the bugs bunny light switch cover that my dad

had installed for me so many years ago, was still there. I excused myself to the

bathroom, and cried. I cried for 5 minutes, as I knew I still had a job to do. I dabbed my

eyes with cold, wet toilet paper, and went to do her makeup. I don’t do makeup

appointments anymore.
 Untitled. Sharlene Ferguson

Twenty
I rarely dreamt of my father, I think he was trying to preserve my spirit so it didn’t

break. At least when I was asleep, I’d be free to think about anything but him, since

that’s what I spent all my conscious hours thinking about anyway. I dream of my

father’s funeral, except the procession is moving through the parking lot at our old

building. Parked behind where they’re walking, is a white car I later recognize as a

BMW. My sister often joked with my dad “Make sure you leave me enough money for a

BMW!” So that’s exactly what I bought for myself as my first car.

 Untitled. Sharlene Ferguson

Twenty One

I reached a semblance of normalcy over the past few years, many things have happened

but majority of it is just me going through the motions. I go to college, meet some new

friends, travel to Japan twice. I even got a job at my favourite make up store. My

coworkers are nice, I regard some of them as my friends. I gain a platform on Twitter of

people who can tolerate me, it’s nice. I get a tattoo of the bible scripture on my dad’s

grave, on my wrist. Not like I needed reminding, anyway. I no longer think about

throwing myself through a window but instead, I think about jumping in front of a

train because its much quicker and less dramatic. I’ve matured, after all. I only have

those thoughts sometimes though, less frequently than I used to. Progress, right? I’m

trying my best here.

 Untitled. Sharlene Ferguson

Twenty Two

I’ve been more in touch with spiritualism, I wouldn’t say my faith in God is restored

completely because he was out to lunch when I said prayers about saving my dad, after

all. But baby steps. I start praying for my dad’s soul and for my own. I hope he’s resting

peacefully now. I know he’s had a rough go of it watching me over the years. If i’m

being honest, i’m still having a tough time but again, much better than before. I still

miss my dad every single day. I don’t know how to move past wanting to be a little girl

again, and him protecting me from everything. Maybe I do need therapy instead of

writing a book but hey, writing a book is cheaper, I work a minimum wage job, plus

Doug Ford screwed all mental health initiatives over anyway. I’m happy I made it to

twenty two, because honestly looking back, I didn’t think I would. If there’s one thing I

want to be true in this world, I want it to be reincarnation. I feel like I haven’t been so

lucky in this life, but God if you’re listening, if you haven’t forsaken me, please give me

the chance to be his daughter again. I have so much to tell him. I will be so much better

this time, I promise. Amen.

 Untitled. Sharlene Ferguson

Is there a resemblance?

END