“中國式”老爸的“我愛你”

“ I miss you，” my father said to me over the phone.

I hadn’t seen him for four days. He had been in the hospital for more weeks than I could keep track of， and had recently been transferred to a specialist hospital about an hour away from home. I was only a freshman in high school at the time， so I had to attend school during the week and could only visit him on weekends. My mom spent most nights at the hospital with him while I stayed home alone.

My surprise lasted only a couple seconds， during which I became very still and swallowed hard. “I miss you too，” I choked out， holding back tears. They were the three most significant words my father had ever said to me.

When he passed away less than a month later， they became the most significant words he would ever say to me. He had never said “I love you” to me. That night was the first and only time he ever told me he missed me.

My father had never been a man of many words. He left that to my mother， the chatty， extroverted half of the pair. For years I barely understood what he did for a living. All I knew was that he was an engineer， which in my young mind meant one thing： trains. I imagined my dad driving steam engines across the back roads of America， always somehow returning home in time for dinner. （He was， in fact， an electrical engineer.）

I’m sure being the only male in a family with three women—his wife and two daughters—didn’t help. My father would often escape to the garage to 1）tinker with small pieces of technology—a circuit board， a watch， a cassette player. He would take a Chinese-language novel with him to the bathroom or bedroom and remain out of sight for hours. Or he would park himself in front of the television to watch a 2）San Francisco 49ers football game.

By the time I was ten， I had become an obsessive 49ers fan. It had started from curiosity， from a young girl’s 3）intangible desire to connect with her father， but it soon became my own passion. I would pepper my dad with questions about the rules， about certain plays， about this player or that coach. He didn’t seem to mind having his younger daughter impose upon his weekly ritual； I suspect he secretly 4）relished it. We fueled one another’s passions for the sport to the point where we drove my mother and sister a little nuts with our single-minded devotion. I promised my dad that as soon as I was old enough to work and earn money， I would take him to a 49ers game.

I began following my father into other 5）arenas of his life. When my mom and sister went shopping for clothes at the mall， I would go with my dad to the bookstore. I watched with awe as he practiced his pseudo kung fu moves with a wooden 6）rod from a closet. I often stood behind his chair with my chin resting on his head as he and my mom lingered after a meal.

He enjoyed telling corny jokes at the dinner table， jokes that often made my mom groan and roll her eyes. I would always laugh loudly at his jokes， even when I didn’t understand them， and was rewarded by a knowing， just-betweenus grin that my dad would send across the table. In those fleeting moments， I may not have understood what he meant， but I felt like I understood him.

It’s hard for me to explain why I felt this way. In many regards my dad was the stereotypical Chinese father. He didn’t trouble himself with the day-to-day details of raising two daughters. He wasn’t the type to shower us with hugs or kisses. He wasn’t the one we went to when we were in need of parental advice. Looking back， I can’t remember a single conversation of deep significance that I had with my father.

But this is what he did do： on one of the rare occasions he cooked dinner for the family， he made salt-and-pepper prawns with so much salt and pepper that my sister and I were raving about it for weeks.（My mother promptly scolded him and switched us back to 7）bland， low-salt food the following day.）

He sincerely thanked my sister and me every time we gave him yet another striped tie for Christmas. He watched Beauty and the Beast and other Disney movies with me. He let me into his world and the things he loved on a regular basis. But he just didn’t let me in； he welcomed me and let me know—somehow， without words—that he was delighted to be sharing these things with me.

And finally， just weeks before we had to say goodbye forever， he overcame thousands of years of cultural norms and said aloud what he actually felt： “I miss you.” At the time none of us thought he wouldn’t make it； we were convinced that a cure or a miracle was just around the corner. I wonder， though， if my dad knew he was running out of time， which is why he chose to give me what remains one of my most precious memories of him all these years later.

Those are not the three words that we typically think of in American culture. “I love you” has taken on the status of myth and legend， three tiny words with the power of giants to 8）slay or fairy godmothers to bring enchanted happy endings. We wonder if any relationship can ever feel authentic or complete without these words. Even I have occasionally fallen into this trap.

My dad never told me he loved me—at least， not in words. In the end， that doesn’t matter. What matters is that I knew he loved me. And with each passing year that he’s not in my life， I know it with even more certainty.

I miss you too， Daddy.

“我想你，”父親在電話里對我說。

我已有四天沒見到他了。我已經(jīng)記不得他在醫(yī)院里待了多少個星期，而且他最近又被轉(zhuǎn)到了另一間專科醫(yī)院，離家有差不多一個小時的距離。那時的我不過是一名高一學(xué)生，所以在平日我不得不去上學(xué)，只能在周末去看他。大多數(shù)的夜晚，我媽媽都在醫(yī)院里陪著他，而我則一個人獨自呆在家里。

我的驚訝只持續(xù)了幾秒鐘，期間，我無聲地咽下心頭的涌動?！拔乙蚕肽?，”我哽咽著說道，努力忍住眼淚。那是我父親對我說過的最有意義的三個字。

不到一個月，他便去世了，從此，那三個字成了他對我講過最有意義的話。他從未對我說過“我愛你”。那天晚上是他第一次也是唯一一次對我說他想我了。

我的父親從不是個多話之人。話都留給我母親來說了，他們這一對中，母親是性格外向嘰嘰喳喳的那一個。多年來，我一直不明白他靠什么為生。我只知道他曾是一名工程師，這在我年幼的心里只意味著一種東西：火車。我想象著我老爸開著蒸汽火車穿過美國的鄉(xiāng)間小路，但不知怎的，卻總是能及時趕回家吃晚飯。（他其實是名電氣工程師。）

作為家中唯一的男性，面對妻子和兩個女兒這三個女人，肯定無助于改變其沉默寡言的習(xí)慣。我父親常常會逃到車庫里去胡亂修補(bǔ)一些小器械——電路板、手表、卡式錄音機(jī)。他會帶上一本中文小說到浴室或臥室里去，幾個小時不見蹤影?；蛘咚麜俗陔娨暀C(jī)前觀看一場舊金山49人隊的橄欖球賽。

當(dāng)我十歲時，我也變成了49人隊的狂熱粉絲。一切始于好奇，始于一個小女孩想與父親親近的難以捉摸的內(nèi)心冀求，但這很快就變成了我自己的嗜好。我會不停地問老爸關(guān)于規(guī)則、關(guān)于某場比賽、關(guān)于這個球員或那個教練的問題。他似乎也不介意他的小女兒摻和到自己每周的例行消遣里；我猜想他沒準(zhǔn)還為此偷樂。我們還助長了彼此對于這項運(yùn)動的熱情，那種一根筋的狂熱快把我的母親和姐姐逼瘋了。我向老爸保證說，等我長大成人能夠工作賺錢了，就帶他去看49人隊的現(xiàn)場比賽。

我開始跟隨父親進(jìn)入他人生的另一個舞臺。母親和姐姐去商場逛街買衣服時，我會和老爸一起去書店。我會一臉敬畏地看著他從某個壁櫥里拿出一根木棍假裝練習(xí)功夫拳腳。當(dāng)他和媽媽飯后小憩時，我常常站在他的椅子背后，將下巴擱在他頭上。

他喜歡在餐桌上講一些老掉牙的笑話，那些笑話常常讓媽媽抱怨和翻白眼。我卻總會因為他的笑話而放聲大笑，即使我并不明白其含義，而老爸則會越過餐桌獎勵給我一個心領(lǐng)神會“只有咱倆懂”的那種微笑。在那些稍縱即逝的時刻里，我也許并不懂得他所講笑話的含義，但我覺得自己似乎懂他。

很難解釋為什么我會有這樣的感覺。從很多方面來說，我老爸就是個典型的“中國式”父親。他沒操心去管兩個女兒成長的細(xì)節(jié)問題。他不是那種會整天給我們擁抱或親吻的人。他也不是那個當(dāng)我們需要家長意見時會去詢問的人?；叵肫饋?，我與父親之間意義深刻的談話我連一次都記不起來。

但他做過這么些事情：有次，他罕有地為全家人做飯，那椒鹽炒蝦里過量的椒鹽讓我和姐姐抱怨了好幾個星期。（我母親毫不遲疑地責(zé)罵他，第二天就給我們換回清淡低鹽的菜式。）當(dāng)姐姐和我每到圣誕節(jié)又送了他一根條紋領(lǐng)帶時，他會真誠地對我們表示感謝。他會和我一起觀看《美女和野獸》以及其他迪士尼電影。他讓我走進(jìn)他的世界以及他平日熱愛的事物。但他不僅僅是讓我進(jìn)入他的世界；他歡迎我，并讓我知道——不知怎的，雖然不用言語——他很高興能與我分享這些東西。

最后，在我們不得不永遠(yuǎn)說再見的幾周前，他突破了千百年來的文化習(xí)規(guī)，大聲說出了他的真實感受：“我想你?！蹦菚r候，我們都以為他能挺過來的；我們都確信某個療法或是奇跡很快就要出現(xiàn)了。但，我想，爸爸是不是知道自己時間不多了，所以才選擇留給我這一場回憶，這多年后我依然珍視的回憶。

在美國文化里，那三個字并不是我們通常會想到的詞句?！拔覑勰恪币呀?jīng)成了神話和傳說，三個小小的字詞便有著巨人殺戮或仙女教母用魔法實現(xiàn)歡樂結(jié)局的力量。如果沒有了這幾個字，各種關(guān)系還能讓我們感覺真實或是完整嗎？甚至連我都時常掉進(jìn)這個陷阱。

我老爸從未說過他愛我——至少，沒有用言語表達(dá)過。但最終，那并不重要。重要的是，我知道他愛過我。而在他離開我生命后的每一年里，我對此更加確信不疑。