Why Now?

The chime of my phone stirred me from sleep. I narrowed my eyes, trying to dilute daylight as I scanned the room. I recalled my night before…and the guy. He was gone. My sleep haze lifted, my heavy lids gained vigour. With a wide grin, I plucked my phone off the night table. “Hey,” the text read? Hey? It wasn’t a “hey” kind of night. It was an “I hope you slept well and I want to see you again,” kind of night. At least, it was for me. I think. I read the three letters over and over trying to decipher the meaning concealed by those three letters.

           When my obsession with the word got to be too much, I moved on to the number. That wasn’t the number he gave me. Did he give me the wrong number? And why text me after giving me the wrong number? I’m too old for mind games so I called it. My tongue grew heavy with the words my mouth wanted to expel. Words fought to escape my lips but my mouth forgot how to function when I heard the voice at the end of the text. I hung up and flung the phone across the room. It was suddenly unclean. A vector, a conduit for all the damage I tried so hard to escape.

           The last time I heard that voice, I was fifteen. The conversation started much like this one, except it was in person. An awkward greeting followed by long pauses, uncomfortable silences. A quietness that made me feel invisible to the man who is supposed to know me best. The man who gave me life but didn’t value it enough to stick around. When I saw him, it took a minute for me to know it was him. We arranged to meet, so I knew he was the dude in the blue shirt and the white shorts. But I didn’t know him. Nothing about him was familiar to me.

           Though he told me where to meet him and what he would be wearing, I felt like I was walking up to a complete stranger. The fact that he had to describe his wardrobe to be recognized by his daughter, must have made him uncomfortable…or guilty because he stuck around a few weeks. Just long enough for me to learn him again. Long enough for me to know the dimple on his right cheek. Then he left. Without warning or explanation. He left. I hugged myself, rubbed my shoulders as I waited in the booth that had become “our booth” in the diner that had become “our spot.”

I nursed my hot cup of coffee till it became tepid and then cold. When I grew tired of the waitress's offer to top me up, I finally had to admit he wasn’t going to show up. A tear descended my cheek. I rubbed it away and my mind dried the others that were trying to follow in its trail. I remembered that tears had never worked. They will never woo him. My hurt, my want, my longing were never things he tried to remedy or satisfy. They were inconveniences to him, so they became baggage to me. Deadweight to be shed. I was hurt but not broken. He shattered me as a child. There was nothing left for him to rend. I steeled myself and vowed never to entertain the idea of him again.

Yet now…“Hey.” Couldn’t he have done better? Not that I wanted more but for accountability’s sake couldn’t he have…I don’t know…tried? After years of absence, the best he could do was, “hey”? The phone kept ringing and I watched it from the safety of my bed.

Maybe he was trying to offer up the balance because he kept trying. But would he have had the strength to speak all the words required to fill ten years? How long would that call have lasted? I pulled my knees up to my chest, buried my head between my hands and knees, shielding myself from the phone and the weight it carried. The phone dinged at the end of each ring. Voicemails. An explanation of his absence or a declaration of his current wishes, I supposed. Whenever I got intrigued enough to check, the phone started to ring again before I collected enough courage. Whatever he said to the phone, couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds. Maybe not words but more awkward pauses and uncomfortable silences. I let it ring until he gave up.

I’ve spent so many nights needing him. Wanting him to recognize me as me. Me as his daughter. Me as his priority and not an inconvenience to the life he’d chosen for himself. I’ve watched him over the years. Befriended him on Facebook under an obscure name. I wanted to remember the dimple in case I ran into him. In case I didn’t want to run into him.

 I know that the life he chose over me, didn’t quite pan out. I wonder if he has regrets. I wonder if he had known the outcome if he would’ve chosen me? Not that I would want him to choose me in the absence of glory. I just want to know if he would have convinced himself that the prediction of his life was false and chosen to pursue his passions all the same. Telling himself that without me as a shackle, he could soar to the clouds. I suspect he now knows that I’m the only prize he’s ever won. But it’s too late for him to claim me.

So, he can keep his “hey.” His conversation opener. His “Hey…would you like to my friend?” Or his “Hey…would you like to be my daughter?” It’s far too late for either. I got up, blocked the number, erased the messages, and deleted his “hey.” I took a final look at the dimple and unfriended him as well. I’m sure I’ll never again forget the face of the man who broke me before I ever knew I could be broken.