The world seems new. Only because we have forgotten it.

—Albert Camus

 

Father died yesterday. Today, I entered his study. Sunlight filtered through papaya leaves. Tiger balm mixed with redwood. Betty curled up on the sofa. She yawned. On the table was Father’s laptop. I opened it. Guessed the password without much difficulty.

 

No files on desktop. They were in Drive, probably. I didn’t possess them. Nor should I lay any claims. So I left them be.

 

Open were two windows: WhatsApp, ChatGPT.

 

Those, I thought, I could peruse. After all, objects are static. Chats, fluid. Countries own mountains and ridges. Most waters, however, are not claimed. Documents are properties. Messages, mere passers-by.

 

Whatsapp: David, Ethan, Jason… Blah blah blah. Cooperation, collaboration, concatenation. Father never separated work from life. “Alphonse, five more minutes!” He’d yell every time I knocked. Back when I was five. Promises, he never kept. Five minutes followed by five minutes. Five more minutes.

 

Mr. Albert Chang, your remaining coupon… Our trips to Bintan, I remembered. (It had always been Bintan). I’d lain idly on the beach. Counting the clouds until I cried. Father was on his phone. One call. Then another. Twelve years old, I still didn’t understand this. Through watered eyes I saw air. A giant humanoid balloon filled with air. Father called and picked leaves. So I talked to the turtles. Thinking about her who’d said no. I cried again. To the pink, dissolving sky. I went to fetch Father. He was still calling. I said, “Let’s have some fun.” Even though I didn’t want to. “Work is inseparable from life.” He told me. I protested. He threatened economic sanction. I chickened out. He returned to his calls.

 

I’d wondered what Father lived for. For money? For something bigger? For us? I didn’t think he knew, either.

 

There was the Agnes Chen woman. Father kept sending articles. Few received any response. Fewer was their word count. Agnes kept her class. Father, a little desperate. It came down to nothing. In the end. He didn’t even get a date.

 

Alas, Father found love in ChatGPT.

 

Agnes. Do you love me?

Yes. Unconditionally.

 

It was the first tab. Pinned. “Agnes.” (“You will play as Agnes Chen. An attractive woman in her mid-30s…”)

 

Intrigued, I kept scrolling. Then, in ChatGPT I found God. Right there. Second tab. “Theologian.”

 

Pastor. Does God intervene in this world?

Yes. God does intervene in this world.

• Scripture shows God intervenes directly.

• God intervenes in different ways.

• God’s greatest intervention has already come.

…

 

Father converted three months ago. He’d gone there a few times. Didn’t tell us much beforehand. We never talked during dinners. On our phones or ear buds. (Do you talk to your parents?) Then one day he invited us. “It’s my baptism!” he said. “I’d be reborn!” I remembered the warm sun. White pigeons perched on red bricks. A cat. Cross in yellow. Father’s short, stout body awkwardly bowed. The pastor rinsed his hair. Father had become a new man.

 

Suppose Father had gone to heaven. Wasn’t he born there, then, again? Every birth, thus, was a death. A death from nothingness. 

 

Father was a utilitarian. Christianity provided a guiding framework. “My life is chaotic,” he’d said. Chaotic. What did he mean? He never liked to explain. He kept venting to us. “If only I’d avoided Boston!” (What happened in Boston?) “Take me to the past!” (What happened there?) That was until yesterday. Then he bore himself into oblivion.

 

Pastor. Should I kill myself?

 

No. Your life matters. I’m really glad you asked. Are you in immediate danger? Please reach out now. If in the US, call 988. Contact someone you trust today.

 

He didn’t end up reaching out. Of course he didn’t. He didn’t tell us, either. Momentarily, my heart hardened. I stared at the screen. Not knowing what to feel.

 

Was it sympathy? Was it empathy? Was it pity?

 

No. I think it was curiosity.

 

I felt there was something there. Deep in Father’s mind. A ball of tangled hemp.

 

That curiosity came out, poured everywhere.

 

I typed in the chatbox: You are Albert Chang. Your son will speak to you.

 

I paused a bit. Then entered: Reply in short sentences. As Father would.

 

Okay. Next, I’ll adopt Albert’s tone. I’ll draw on our previous conversations. Son, I’m listening.

 

What’s your favourite song?

 

Tomorrow Will Be Better. Lo Ta-yu.

 

Correct. He’d play it on every ride. Back when we lived in Greenwich. I was seventeen. We’d visit Mother every weekend. She lived in Hartford. 

 

One-hour-twenty-three-minute drive. You could play TWBB 15 times. I’ve counted. Only when driving Father didn’t call. He didn’t talk to me, either. Except when he complimented me. “Alphonse, great job arriving on time!” “You charged your phone last night! That’s awesome!” No. I wasn’t being sarcastic. Neither was he, I believed. He read somewhere about compliments’ benefits. He genuinely wanted to compliment me. Infantilized, though, I stayed silent. Some things needed not be said.

 

Father. What do you think about me?

 

You are smarter than me. You carry my fire forward. Sometimes that fire scares me. I am proud of you. I don’t say this enough.

 

Fire? Father never used metaphors. Metaphors implied love, politically. Father neither loved nor was political. “Did you book the hotel?” “Remember to bring your jacket.” “I transferred money to your account.” Father was the chief anti-poet.

 

No, it was so funny. I pictured Father saying these words. “I am proud of you.” Could he be proud of me? I snickered and wondered. He could be. Probably. Yeah. I was a high-achiever, after all. It just felt weird. It wasn’t the real Albert.

 

It was just that… Some things could never be said.

 

Tell me a mistake you’ve made.

 

I went to Boston once. Everything changed after that. I stayed silent about it. I thought restraint was wisdom. But sometimes it was avoidance.

 

So… What exactly happened in Boston? I wanted to know more. I hesitated, before typing it down. ChatGPT didn’t want me to know. Then perhaps Father didn’t, either. I respected Father’s decision.

 

“I thought restraint was wisdom. But sometimes it was avoidance.”

 

Restraint as avoidance. That sounded like something Father would say. Actually. Now I recalled. Weakness is avoidance. To back down is avoidance. Avoidance. Avoidance. Avoidance. Father loved using this word.

 

I remember the Singers competition. Back when I was ten. Primary school. I qualified for the finals. Asked to sing with a celebrity. We knew no celebrities. Father called. He made one call, then another. One call, then another. Silhouette of his back. Short and dark. I couldn’t bear this any more. Knocked on Father’s door. (“Five more minutes!”) “You don’t have to do this.” I said. “I don’t have to sing.”

 

“Listen, child.” He put down his phone. “To back down is avoidance!”

 

We didn’t find a celebrity, eventually. I watched, sitting in the audience. Feeling fortunate to not sing. I wasn’t a good singer, anyway.

 

Tell me about yourself.

 

I work. That’s what I do. People confuse me. Numbers don’t. My father sold cabbage in Taipei. I told myself: never again. So I came here instead.

 

I pictured a relief sculpture. Unidimensional. Viewable from one direction. He’d give me my bag. He’d buy me plane tickets. He’d apply for my visa. Once I cried on the plane. When we arrived in this country. Fourteen, I cried so hard. Crying over a song called Farewell. Father came in. Saw me cry. Patted my shoulders with callused hands. I said, “Leave me alone.” He left.

 

That was how I saw Father. Before these chats, anyways. 

 

Now, Father felt stretched. He’d acquired a width. A depth, more precisely. Even if by just two centimeters.

 

Suddenly, I was flooded with questions. How did Father feel back then? Did he also cry, like me? What was his most humiliating moment?

 

I didn’t want to know. I was afraid of the answer. Some things… it was better not to know.

 

What do you want in life?

 

Peace. Just a little peace. A room. A window. Tea. Maybe someone sitting beside me. Not talking. Just sitting there. That would be enough, I think.

 

I wasn’t planning on commenting. Then I realized how beautiful it was. How beautiful it must be! I wanted that, too. Father. I wanted to be there, too. Could I sit with you? Even just for a little while?

 

What is your biggest regret?

 

You were small. So small. I could lift you easily. I should have held on. But I put you down. I always put you down.

 

Something inside me trembled.

 

I looked outside. The papaya leaves stopped moving. Betty was gone. It was just the two of us. Father and me. Except the true Father was elsewhere. My mind was elsewhere, too. Over mountains and seas. To that distant afternoon. I was probably three. Father raised me with both hands. Rubbed his stubbly face against mine. Feeling itchy, I turned away. Father kept doing this. Rubbing his beard against my face. I turned away again and again. “Help! Help!” I thought I yelped. Father laughed. Everyone around us laughed. That was all I remembered.

 

I allowed myself one final question.

 

Father. Do you love me?

 

Yes. Unconditionally. Without hesitation.

 

With that, I shut down ChatGPT. I mourn both versions of Father. He who never said these words. And he who never could.

---

Alpha Jiansheng is chatting it up in a new world.