Aroma of a sunken city

​It was 10:00 a.m. and the familiar aroma of dad’s coffee filled the house. It smelled like the special occasion kind, too, rarely brewed and a near-permanent fixture of the freezer. What was going on? Coffee late in the morning and special at that. He only drank coffee after eight a.m. when he had a full day project to conquer. Mom still jokes about the three pot built-in shelves, dad was buzzing that day – back and forth from the garage to the living room, making cuts and measuring each angle. That was the first time he tackled a project like that and he was jubilant, and caffeinated.

​That day changed his life and all our lives. He went from a man who wore expensive suits but never a smile to a man who loved working with his hands. And he set up shop, literally. We moved into a smaller house with a two-car garage in our backyard. Both places were perpetually covered in saw dust and smelled like the combination of Folgers and lacquer. It has been nearly fifteen years since we lived those lean days of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and hamburger helper. Those days lasted about four years before he first made the celebratory coffee.

​We were celebrating dad’s business taking off, a feat that aged them both but changed the dynamics of our house. What were we celebrating today? I sat up in my twin bed, still decorated from high school with a bright pink comforter and glittery purple pillow cases. Everything was stuck in a time capsule – the posters on the walls, the framed pictures on my desk and even me. Sleeping until the afternoon was a past time of mine. I was an insomniac then, never falling asleep before three in the morning.

​I hopped off the bed and put on my old pink fuzzy slippers. Shuffling down the stairs, I could hear my dad humming and the clash of dishes and water in the sink. There really is something big or new going on; between the special occasion coffee and the humming, the vibe was undeniably upbeat. “Good morning,” I said to my dad’s back as he worked feverishly in the sink on dishes. He didn’t hear me. Why was he even washing dishes when a dishwasher is four feet away from him. “Hey,” I shouted this time and he shimmied, startled by my voice.

​“Good morning ladybug,” he said, walking towards me with his arms out. He wrapped his arms around my shouldersand leaned down to kiss me on the forehead. Something he had been doing as long as I can remember. “What’s the deal?” I asked. He scratched the back of his head and furroughed his bushy, dust-colored eyebrows. “What do you mean? I thought I’d make the special coffee since you’re here,” he smiled and walked back towards the cabinets. He pulled a mug, my mug, out of the sage green cabinet. He proceeded to fill it up with coffee and the special creamer only I like.

​“Here,” he said, handing the mug to me, as I now leaned onto the cold granite island. The mug was at least twenty years old, the formerly bright red Detroit Redwings logo now barely visible. It smelled divine and took me back to the days I’d visit him over long Fall weekends at college. We had our ritual; morning coffee while we watched the pre-game and then chili during the game. Dad was superstitious, we had to have our chili right when the Lions game started.

​Maybe my visit was the reason for the special coffee. It was what he made when I came home during college too. Still, something seemed different. “Dad, what’s the deal, really?” I pressed, now looking at him. “Well, truly it is because you’re here,” he started as he unrolled his flannel sleeves and buttoned them up, obviously uneasy about the conversation. “And, there’s something else, E. I met someone really special.”

​He was giddy, there was a twinkle in his cold blue eyes I hadn’t seen in awhile. I smiled to hide my apathy and concern. The last someone special was a Russian woman he met on the internet who ultimately made him poorer while she got her citizenship. “Oh, that’s great Dad,” I said, doing the best I could to fake my enthusiasm. He was pleased by my response and leaned onto the island, mirroring my posture. He then proceeded to tell me about her. She was in her forties and had her own veterinarian practice in town. She had two dogs that he knows I’ll love. And, she wants to meet me while I’m here. The horror.

​I’m barely a human these days and was certainly not equipped to do something like this. My low point is what got me here, to my Dad’s house in a remote area where I had an existential crisis or lived in a second dimension the last time I was here. I avoided this place at all costs, not that our paths crossed in any manner since I moved to Boston. Despite the trauma, I built a pretty nice life for myself. I’m an intern at the local hospital, just a few years into my residency. I found a beautiful apartment with great views of the city and, I had a boyfriend. Had being the operative word. I hadn’t been to my dad’s house since the incident but I needed to escape.

​It was different this time though. I just wanted peace in my old room with no responsibility and minimal stimulation. The attending physician I worked with agreed and ordered me to take some time off. And here I am, away from my job and far away from the man I broke it off with. I invested more time than I should have with someone who filled a void but didn’t have my heart. It wasn’t fair to him at all but it was what I needed. Part of pursuing a medical career as a physician is devotion, above all else, to the job. I love it and I always knew I would. What I didn’t know is how it would change my personal trajectory.

​“Now, you want to tell me your deal. Why you showed up here after all these years,” he asked, going tit-for-tat with me. I didn’t want to come back. “Sure, dad. The TLDR here is that I immersed myself in everything in Boston once I got there. I dragged a nice guy along for it until I couldn’t anymore.” Better to cut to the chase with people you love so you get the most authentic reaction. His expression remained unchanged but his tone softened.

​“Kiddo, that was a long time ago and you’re here now. You’re with us again,” his voice quivered as he spoke. I wanted to ask him about it because I wanted to know what really happened that night. I have my own version of it but I avoid recalling it out of fear it wasn’t real. I didn’t want to be a fool to myself as odd at that is. “Dad, what happened after I fell into the lake?” I asked, ripping the band aid off. He turned his back to me and walked to the sink where he stared out the window.

​My recollection of the incident was that I fell into the nearby lake and sunk to the bottom and found a city. I was chasing my dog into the water but never found him. Instead I found a city where few humans lived and I was on borrowed time down there. What I was told is that I was in a coma after hitting my head on a rock on the beach when I jumped in the water and spent several months in a coma. While I know what’s real but no one around me has ever validated what I experienced.

​“Well hon, you fell into a lake and we thought we lost you forever,” he said, still facing out the window. “We don’t know what really happened, we’re just glad you survived.” He turned back around with a big smile. “What’s bigger to celebrate than having my two girls, you and Kalipso?” My stomach sank when he said her name. There was a Kalipso in the sunken city.