Call Me Charlie

It was three rings before the call connected. Then a few more seconds before I heard his voice.

“Hello?” he said. There was something in his voice that took me by surprise. It was gravelly, distant, different. Was it a bad connection? I said happy birthday and he said thanks but with no cheer. He was 69. Would he make it to 70?

I’d started calling him once a week or once every two weeks since the diagnosis. It used to be that I never called my dad unless I couldn’t get through to my mom. Being far away from him all the time, this was the only thing I felt I could do. Every time I was about to call I wondered what we would say. Would the conversation be awkward? Sad? What should I tell him about? Will he want to get off the call?

I asked him how Aruba was. He’d gone with my mom and twin sisters. The four of them still lived together and always went on vacation together. This one, though, we were all a little worried about. Dad had been getting worse. What would the flight be like? Would they even have fun? But they were able to get a wheelchair, and because of that, he said it was really nice. No issues with the flight.

I couldn’t hear him anymore. “Hello?” I said. “I’m going to call you back.”

I called again and this time it went to voicemail. His voice sounded strong, clear, him. This was my dad’s voice. I would never hear this voice in real time again.

I called again. “How was the Christmas party?” I asked.

They’d hosted a big Christmas in July party the week after they’d gotten home from Aruba. Fifty adults and twenty kids attended. Mom made too much food. She always does. Watermelon slices in the shape of Christmas trees, boozy pina colada bites, Thai spaghetti salad, Tortellini caesar salad, roast beef sandwiches, pulled pork, brats, baked beans, buffalo chicken egg rolls. Goodie bags for all the kids. Dad’s family came, too. His older sister and brother and their partners. His niece and nephew.

“It was great,” he said. “Really nice. Aunt Sue was the big hit of the party.”

“Oh yea, I heard about the white elephant exchange,” I said. My sister had mentioned it in our family text thread, which I thought my dad never read. Aunt Sue stole a bottle of vodka and when anyone tried to steal it back she wrapped her arms around it and gave them evil stares to deter them.

“Yea,” Dad scoffed, “Merry Christmas. Sheesh!”

His humor, which I used to roll my eyes at, made me happier than anything else. A sliver of light, of joy, when he spoke, even if it was sarcastic.

“Where are you right now?” he asked.

This question would have bothered me in the past. He never knew, never cared, never paid attention. But now I thought that it was difficult to keep up with all our travel, and anyway he was just making conversation. I told him we were in Charlotte, at Sam’s parents’ house.

“And then where?”

“I’m coming to Jersey by myself on the ninth, then we go to California on the 25th for a week, then we’re off to Japan.”

“Why isn’t Sam coming?”

It had been ten years since I’d visited home by myself. Ten years since I’d met Sam. He was always with me. I thought it would be nice to come alone.

“That’s what happens when you get married,” Dad agreed. “I never went back home without Patricia once we were married.”

It was a small thing, calling my mom by her first name. It was also the second time he did it in this conversation. He never called her Patricia. It was always “Mom” or “your mother.” What did it mean that he was referring to her in a formal way? Were things tense between them? Were they distant? Was this something that happened as you got closer to death?

We were nearing the last part of the conversation. My final question. The answer to the final question seemed to get worse every time. How are you feeling?

“Horrible,” he said. The defeat in his voice was enough to make me curl up in my bed and stay there the rest of the night. “I haven’t eaten anything today. And I’m not hungry.”

It was after 4:00.

He’d gone to the doctor’s office that morning, and he asked the nurse if she ever knew anyone with ALS. She said yes, her sister.

“And how long did she live after the diagnosis?” my dad asked.

“Three months.”

“Do you think you’re going to die soon?” I asked. I wondered if I was being too blunt, but I also felt like he invited the question. Maybe it was better to speak about it plainly.

“Not tomorrow,” he said.

This is what he always said when I asked how much time he had, if he knew anything more, if the doctors could give him any sort of timeline—but usually his voice went up at the end, like he could still joke about it. This time it felt heavier, like maybe death was closer than he thought.

“They all sang me happy birthday at the doctor’s office, as I was leaving.”

“They did?” I said.

“Yea, I said how’d you know?? They said it’s all over your paperwork.”

I laughed. “Well that’s nice.”

“Yea, it was nice” my dad said, a little chipperness in his tone. He always loved to be recognized, appreciated. When he cooked dinner for everyone you could see him sitting at the head of the table, waiting for people to tell him it was delicious. Is it good? Do you like it? My sisters and mom were often annoyed at his questions. Yes Dad, they groaned. The people in that office probably didn’t know that they’d made his day.

“Well I’m looking forward to seeing you in a couple weeks,” Dad said, bringing the conversation to a close, “and I really appreciate you calling.”

—

Until next week,

Charlie