When my phone rang recently and I saw it was my stepmother Janie, I realized with a start that I didn't have to worry about it being some scary news about my Daddy. I even said it out loud to Joe. "Well it's not about Papa. He's dead." I didn't mean for it to sound calloused or funny, it's just true. It's been five months now since he died, and I am still waiting for phone calls about him, maybe even from him.
I got a lot of calls from Daddy last year. No matter how much I tried to prepare him for the days I wouldn't be with him, which were few, he still would call and ask where I was.
"I'm going to work tomorrow, Daddy."
"Okay."
"Call if you need me. I'm never more than one hour away."
"Umhmm." He'd act nonchalant, always adding, "Thank you."
But then he'd call. He'd call in the middle of the night, he'd call on the days when I went to work, and one night he called when I was on the way home from the ER where my own husband had landed. "Where are you?" he'd begin, and then he'd go on to tell me he thought he was dying.
And no matter what I'd get in my car and drive to him. "I feel like I'm dying," he'd say, "this is it." I knew those times were not it, I didn't imagine he'd call me on the phone to come attend his death. When I'd arrive, he'd say he had "crippling anxiety," and I'd stay with him until his happy pill, his Xanax, kicked in, or longer. I hated leaving him. Not because I was scared, but because I just wanted to be with him for as long as I could. I am stunned even now at the clarity I had about this, and at how easy it was, really, to push everything else aside.
I saved the last two messages I got from him. I wish I'd saved more. Those last two are both the same. "Mary? Papa. Where are you?" I cannot bring myself to delete him as a contact, and sometimes, just to torture myself, I'll click on his name and see the picture that used to light up every time he called. I can hardly bring myself to write the words, right now, that I can't believe he'll never call me again.
I heard his voice unexpectedly the other day, listening to an episode of Discovering Alabama on my headphones while working. All of a sudden I heard my Daddy saying something about gopher tortoises. I looked up and there he was on the screen, smiling and chatting, wearing his white sweatshirt with the fox on it.
Where are you?
It's been a warm wet February. I can stand at my open kitchen window and hear the chorus of frogs right now, rising up and swelling beautifully in the night.
