Other stuff:
—Spent all day with Luke… floated on inner tubes at the lake. Made out a little in the water… and in the van… and in my room until Mom came home.
—Jamie’s in L.A. until next week
—Call Dad
Nerves rage through me as I slowly, carefully dial.
This is our third phone call—the third of what I know will be many more. I woke up this morning remembering bits of him, but I know from notes those memories are new.
I hit the last number, and feel like I might throw up at the sound of the first tinny ring. Another sound, and I check the door to make sure it’s shut. A third, and I wonder if he forgot.
Then he’s there.
“Hello?” says a deep, gravelly voice that makes me both happy and sad at the same time. We’re rebuilding our relationship, both in real time and in my memories, but I can’t help but feel his underlying heartache.
“Hi, Dad. How are you?”
“I’m just fine, Pumpkin. What’s new with you?”
He does that, I’ve noticed: diverts the conversation to me. He doesn’t talk about himself; not yet, at least.
But he will.
I rub my fingers over the delicate beetle brooch that was my grandmother’s. A note from last week said that it arrived in the mail shortly after our last phone call. Apparently he wanted me to have something of hers.
He could have just saved it and brought it with him when he visits at the end of the summer. It will be brief, but he’ll come.
He doesn’t know that yet, but I do.
“Not a lot is new on my end,” I say breezily. “Just hanging out. Enjoying the summer.”
“That’s good,” he says.
“Dad?”
“Yeah, Pumpkin?”
“Are you okay?”
“Of course I am,” he says quickly, as if fathers can’t be upset. “Why do you ask?”
“It’s just that my note today said Mom called you… about Jonas’s kidnappers.” I feel funny talking about Mom; I know by the way Dad will look at her at my graduation that he still loves her deeply.
“Your note said that, huh?” Dad asks with a strange tone to his voice. My condition is still weird for him. He hasn’t lived with it for all these years.
“Yes,” I say quietly. “Anyway, I was just wondering how you’re feeling about that.”
“Well, I guess I’m feeling a mixture of things, London,” he begins. “Probably like you and your mom are.”
I’m silent, so he continues.
“Your mother said that the kidnappers are giving out names and addresses of the people who bought the babies, so that’s encouraging.”
“But they haven’t heard anything about Jonas specifically?” I ask.
“No,” Dad answers, adding, “your note didn’t tell you that part?”
“No.”
“I guess I’d say that the way I’m feeling is both heavy and hopeful,” my dad says, which is exactly how I’d describe my own emotions right now. “I don’t know, London. Most bad things in life take a while to sort out, but eventually they get sorted. Believing that there will be resolution to all of this has helped get me through some pretty rough years.”
I’m not sure what to say; we’re both quiet for a few moments. Then I switch it up.
“Tell me something about him,” I say softly.
“About Jonas?” Dad asks, as if he doesn’t know who I’m talking about.
“Yes,” I say patiently. “Just something nice. Something I might not know.”
“Hmm,” Dad says as he pages through his functional memory. “He loved sweet potatoes?”
I laugh and Dad laughs and it feels almost normal for a moment.
“Okay…” I say through giggles. “What else?”
“He always chewed on your mother’s cell phone…. No wait, I’ve got a good one! Jonas loved bouncy balls. He’d waddle through the house, collecting any ball he could find, whether it was a real one or just something like an orange that looked like a ball. He’d say, ‘ba, ba,’ and point to whatever round object he wanted until someone gave it to him.
“At Christmas your mom decorated the tree a few weeks before the big day. It was when he was about a year and a half. He was so good; he didn’t touch the ornaments, despite the fact that most of them were round.
“Finally comes Christmas morning, we’re handing out gifts from under the tree, and I think Jonas thought, ‘Oh, so this is the day we get to touch them!’ He toddled on over and grabbed as many ornaments as he could, then proceeded to try to bounce them on the hardwood floor.”
“They broke?” I ask.
“Of course,” Dad says with a chuckle. “They were your mother’s vintage ornaments. They shattered into little pieces all over the floor. Jonas loved the noise but was a bit more careful around bouncy balls after that.
“Anyway…” Dad says, his voice trailing off.
“Good story, Dad.”
“Yeah,” he replies, sounding nostalgic. “Maybe we’d better cut this short today. I’ve got some work to do outside and I don’t want to keep you from that boyfriend of yours. What’s his name again?”
“Luke,” I say, knowing that he’ll start remembering Luke’s name soon.
“That’s right,” Dad replies. I have a feeling that the story about Jonas made him sad, and that he doesn’t much feel like talking anymore. And that’s okay.
I understand, because more than he could know, I understand him. It’s all there, in this delightfully warped brain of mine. It’s all there before he says it. It’s all there before he does it.
I adore my father, and that adoration is based mostly on the relationship I know we’ll have eventually. Because of that, cutting one call short doesn’t bother me.
“Okay, Dad, we can pick this up next time,” I say.
“Sounds good. Same day next week?”
The corners of my mouth turn up; we’re on our way to better.
“Yes, Dad,” I say. “Same day next week.”
There is silence for a few seconds, and then:
“I love you, Pumpkin.”
“I love you, too, Dad.”
In the middle of the night, the memory rips me from a dead sleep. I switch on the lamp and wait for my eyes to adjust, then throw off the covers and run.
“Mom,” I whisper loudly. She doesn’t stir.
“Mom?” I say in a quiet speaking voice. Nothing.
I move closer and put my hands on her shoulders. I shake her lightly. When that doesn’t work, I shake her harder and raise my voice. “Mom!”
She gasps, shoots upright, and blinks wildly.
“What’s wrong?” she shouts. Her gaze moves from me to the door to the far wall to the window and back again.
“Sorry,” I say, sitting down on the edge of her bed. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Nothing’s wrong.”
She checks the digital clock on her nightstand. “Then why are you waking me up at two in the morning?” she asks.
I hold up the photo of Jonas.
“This isn’t exactly what he looks like,” I say as my eyes well up with tears.
