The Father's Day Card Story

On Sunday, I treated my dad, mom and sister to a Father's Day dinner, but arrived without a card. I realized this as I spotted my sister perusing the menu posted in front of BJ's. My mom held the restaurant pager, a little device that allows you to roam around and spend money in other parts of the mall while waiting for your table. At some point, somebody presses a magic button and the device starts buzzing and flashing as though you shoplifted merchandise.

Suddenly aware of my faux pas, I devised a dumb plan to buy a last-minute card. I asked my mom, "Where's Dad?"

"He's parking the car. The table won't be ready for another twenty or thirty minutes," she replied.

"Oh. Okay. May I borrow a pen, please?"

My sister, D, turned from the menu and with a disapproving look and a hint of suspicion in her voice asked, "Why do you need a pen?" I gave her a blank look and she scoffed, "You didn't get him a card!" She snorted, rolled her eyes, shook her head and turned back to the menu. I can usually anticipate and avoid the Eye Roll of Death, but this time I didn't try. I deserved it.

My mom handed me a pen, a souvenir from the Aston Waikiki Beach Tower. I thanked her and headed into the mall. As I closed in on Hallmark, I spotted my dad walking towards the restaurant. I quickly ducked into the store and hurried by the display cases of ornaments and decorative widgets to the card section. There was still a surprisingly large selection: funny, dumb, sappy, inappropriate, from daughter, for uncle, unoriginal, from both of us, en Español. I perused them all and finally settled on one that was sentimental and short.

After paying for the card, I signed it, stuffed it in the envelope, hid it under my shirt and tucked the pen in my pocket. As I walked, the paper edges jabbed me in the small of the back, pointed reminders to be more thoughtful in the future.

When I got back, my sister and dad were still waiting outside. My dad greeted me with a smile, one indicating that D had apprised him of the situation. It was a smile of quiet disappointment. My sister asked sharply, "Where's the pen?"

I carefully pulled it from my pocket and showed them. My dad said, "Not a very large choice of cards left, huh?"

"No, not really. Only a few Shoebox and Spanish cards," I lied. My sister gave a derisive, how-typical-of-you laugh. Although I screwed up, my pride was still desperately seeking a way to minimize the damage. It's too soon, it said, wait until everyone has ordered before giving him the card. You won't emerge unscathed, but perhaps you'll salvage something.

With little left to lose, I did just that. After ordering, I slipped the card out and, with an apologetic and anxious sigh, slid it across the table to my dad. D made a you've-got-to-be-kidding-me sound, but he accepted it good-naturedly and thanked me. I wasn't scot-free, but at least the darkest guilt clouds had lifted. The rest of the dinner went well.

It's these lapses in considerate behavior that trouble me the most. I've been striking out lately in my role as the good son. Somehow, I need to redeem myself.