Beep

By Patti A. Pierucci

I called my dad today, two days after his funeral.

I paced around the kitchen as the yellow phone cord snaked behind me. My dad’s answering machine whirred into action, and his deep, precise voice wrapped around me like one of his warm hugs.

“This is Lou. Leave your message when you hear the beep.”

Beep.

“Dad, I wanted to tell you that I miss you.”

There was, of course, no answer back. It was enough that his recorded voice greeted me.

“I’m sorry …” My voice broke. “I’m sorry I wasn’t a better daughter.”

No judgement from dad.

“I could’ve taken better care of you. I could’ve called you more often. I should’ve driven you to your doctors’ appointments when you needed me. You had to rely on my brother, and that wasn’t his job. It was mine.”

I knew what dad would say. “Don’t be ridiculous, daughter. You’re busy, and you didn’t need to worry about me. Your brother was closer, and he didn’t mind.”

“But I mind!” I yelled into the phone. “I mind that I wasn’t better. I mind that I took you for granted.”

I tried to compose myself. What’s wrong with me? I’m talking to my dead father. But I couldn’t stop; there was still more to say.

“Dad, I have some good news, and I wish you were still here so I could tell you in person. I finally got a publisher for my book. I’m going to dedicate it to you, ‘For my father, my biggest fan.’”

I remembered how my dad encouraged my writing, how he called once a week to ask me to send the latest chapters. How he always praised my writing, even while making suggestions for improving the story.

“Remember when you offered to help me write the love scenes, dad?”

He would have laughed and said, “Your mama and I wrote those scenes before you were a gleam in my eye!”

“Ok, dad, TMI,” I said into the phone. “But speaking of mom, I remembered something she told me once about you. She said when your friend asked her if she would go out with you, she refused to consider it until she’d seen you. So, you and your friend walked down the street while she walked in the opposite direction, giving you the once over.”

In his white bucks and voluminous pompadour. That was the story, the family legend.

“Then, at the very beginning of your first date, you grabbed her and kissed her. You told her, ‘Might as well get this out of the way now.’ Smooth, dad.”

He would have been pleased with himself to remember that. What bravado to kiss the prettiest girl in nursing school, when all he really wanted was just a chance to take her on a date.

Time to get serious. “Dad,” I said into the phone, “I know you wanted all of us to get along, but I’m not sure it’s working.” I was thinking of my contentious relationship with my older sister and her husband. “I forgive them, dad, but just barely. If you were here, you could talk to me about my feelings and tell me to let it all go. You’d have been right, but it’s easier said than done. Since I’m being frank, one of the things that always bugged me about you was your willingness to turn the other cheek, forgive, live and let live. It was infuriating to watch you and mom pretend like my brother didn’t try to get all the money he could from you. They lied and cheated and cost both of you a ton of money. I don’t know how to forgive that.”

I paused and sighed. My breathing quickened as I remembered those dark days, family drama and resentment that I was holding onto with a tight grip.

“But it’s also the thing I love about you,” I said to the phone. “It’s what makes you you.”

“Let it go, daughter,” I could almost hear my dad say. “They’re family, and you’ve made mistakes, too.”

“Let’s not go there,” I said. I was remembering my first husband, who I married in a rush without telling anyone in the family. Then, on a trip home for Christmas one year my husband blurted out to everyone, “We’re married, by the way.” Oh, the stunned faces on dad, mom, and all the siblings.

“What? When!” My mother was aghast. “How could you not tell us!” But my dad, Mr. Still Waters, just cocked his head and looked at me. And said nothing. Ever.

I was so angry with my husband that I separated with him the next week and divorced him a few months later. Good Lord, what a mess I was.

“Sorry, dad,” I said into the phone.

“Before I get cut off, I want to tell you how much you’ve meant to me as a role model. Always honest. Always in good spirits, well almost always. Always madly in love with mom, even after she died. Always willing to turn your pockets inside out for any of us when we were in need. And we were so needy.

“I have great memories of our family vacations. All eight of us would pack into the station wagon, along with the dog. Mom, up front beside you, turning around every few minutes to yell at us to shut up, sometimes to smack us for making too much noise. Sounds awful, right? But it wasn’t. I loved those vacations.

“Dad, do you remember when the whole family vacationed at Lake George? Mom and I were watching you through the window of the lodge try to water ski, but you kept falling down. Mom was howling, dad. She thought it was the funniest thing to watch you try and try and try to get up but fail each time. Then, frustrated, you joined all of us in the lodge, gave mom a kiss, and lit up a cigarette.”

That stopped me. Cigarettes. Lung cancer.

I put the phone against my chest as I allowed the sobs to overwhelm me. Then there was a vibration against my breast and I heard

Beep.