Three Bars

44%

“Dad? Dad? Can you hear me?”

Static roiled through his cell as the train passed through another tunnel, but he held on to the connection.

“Yeah, I can hear you, Jamie. As I was saying, you don’t have to pick me up this afternoon. Libby has to head into town anyway, so I’ll tag along with her.”

“Are you sure, Dad? I just got off the station.” That was a lie. A stupid one. His father would have heard the squeals and rumble of the car as it cruised over the tracks. Whether his father knew, though, he didn’t indicate.

 “No, son. It’s fine. I can’t be late-- last time. I almost didn’t get to see Dr.-- if it-- cancellation.”

“Don’t worry about it, Dad. I’ll get you there on time.”

“Jam--, I can’t ---you. Spe-- --der"

“Dad? Dad?”

The line disconnected. Jamie looked at his phone. Three bars of coverage. He craned his neck above the crowd of passengers to glimpse at the windows outside. They were outside the city now, and steel-gray storm clouds roiled and brewed above them, chasing the train as it escaped into the suburbs. Jamie snapped at himself for forgetting his umbrella.

He looked back at his smartphone, and the screen was dark, reflecting off the huddle of passengers squeezing into him. He tapped the screen several times, signalling his increasing frustration with every press.

A fog slugged through the streets of his hometown as Jamie got onto his stop. Biting off his right glove and dragging them off his middle finger, he long-pressed the narrow button on the side. He was sure he charged it last night. Finally, the phone vibrated, and an hourglass glyph showed on this screen. The cold was already biting his fingers, and he moved to put his ill-fitting glove back on as he crossed the road. He almost stumbled over himself as a driver screeched to a stop in front of him. The driver honked his horn and mimed at him to watch where he was going. Jamie responded with the universal fingered response.

The unfamiliar hourglass symbol dropped three-pixel crystals before turning over again. Phone restarts shouldn’t take this long, Jamie wondered. He had received this phone as a birthday gift only two months ago. Finally, a chirp and vibration of the phone indicated that his home screen was active again. A soft patter of raindrops dogged his stops as he began a brisk walk to his childhood home.

37%

Every couple of seconds, his apps and widgets appeared and slowly took their place on the screen.

Jamie selected 3 on his speed dial list and was met with an unexpected error: There is no contact assigned to this speed dial number.

Jamie long pressed the number again, but the same error appeared. He wondered if he lost all his contacts in the restart. He couldn’t remember his dad’s phone number, so it was always number 3 on speed dial. D for Dad. Scrolling through his contacts, he found his father’s cell number. He tried again. One ring. Two rings. Three.

Finally, an interruption in the fourth ring as the call picked up.

“Dad? Dad? Can you hear me now?”

“Hello? Who is this?” a stranger answered back. His voice was husky and groggy from a mid-afternoon nap.

Jamie frowned. He was sure he had picked Dad from the contacts.

“Excuse me, is this 576-222-3684?

“Yeah, who is this?”

“I’m looking for Walt Robinson. I’m his son Jamie.”

“Wrong number.”, the caller clipped and cut the phone before Jamie could respond. He checked the contact list and tried calling again. The phone rang two times before it cut to voicemail halfway through the second ring.

30%

It was now pouring. Fat raindrops started to soak through Jamie’s blazer and ran down his neck, the chill settling permeating through his layers into his bones. A shard of lightning strode through the slate skies, and a distant rumble of thunder brought. He ducked under the tangerine awning of a nearby coffee shop, formerly a convenience store where a younger Jamie would meet with his buddies and count pennies and nickels to exchange for Marlboroughs. The blackboard easel on the sidewalk stood forgotten, small rivers streaked through proclamations of pumpkin and cinnamon-spiced offerings.

A new approach. Speed dial number 6. N for Naomi. Formerly M for Mom. Naomi should have picked up Gillian from school by now. Their morning was rife with stress. With Naomi fighting a losing battle with a particularly nasty bout of flu, and a sleepy toddler with a penchant for morning tantrums, Jamie was exhausted when he dropped his daughter off at school with two minutes to spare. Thankfully, Naomi had offered to pick up their daughter in their car, so he could drive his father’s car to this impromptu doctor’s appointment and then drive back home.

 One ring. Two rings. A familiar voice cut through in the middle of the third ring.

“What is it?”

“Hey Nomi, how are you feeling? “

“Fine? Why do you ask?” she clipped back. Her congestion was gone. The late-night raid of the medicine cabinet cough syrups, lozenges, and rubs enough to knock someone seemed to have done its job.

 “Thanks for picking up Gillian, Noms. I’m sorry you had to do that. I just wish Dad would have given me a better heads up about this appointment so I could have found someone else to pick it up. I’ll remind him when I see him today.”

“What are you talking about, Jamie? Are you drunk?”

Taken aback at the accusation and the edge in her voice, he retorted, “What? Don’t you remember our conversation this morning? I’m picking up dad for his appointment, and you’re picking Gillian up from school, right?”

“Look, Jamie, I knew that this would be a tough week for you, but I need you to step up. Gillian has been waiting for hours for you, and I must pick for her now since you didn’t pick her up...I don’t have time for these games. Are you coming to pick her up tonight?

“Pick her up? For what?”

A sigh of frustration. “...It is your weekend with Gillian, James or did you forget? We had discussed this just two days ago. “

Anxiety bled into his voice as he pleaded. “Naomi, please, I’m sorry. Could you tell me what Dad’s number is, and I’ll pick up Gillian as soon as I see him?”

“Honestly, Jamie, I don’t know why you’re doing this. Have you been seeing your therapist lately? I think you should make an appointment with Dr. Brooke. You’ve been acting more unhinged than usual since we signed the papers.”

The rain grew in its unrelenting tempo, soaking Jamie’s sneakers and climbing up the canvas into his feet. A tinny sound rang in his ears, growing in volume and masking Naomi’s hurried goodbye and the click of her disconnection. Jamie struggled to breathe, swallowing gulps of air while stumbling back first into the cafe door and almost falling over as it gave way.

Customers stared at him as he picked himself up. The barista called out to ask if he was okay. Still breathing hard, Jamie nodded, got back on his feet, walked to the closest open table next to a group of high schoolers, and sat down. He put his head between his arms and closed his eyes, and started counting multiples of two. A trick his father had taught him after experiencing his first panic attack before his high school finals. After a couple of minutes, Jamie started to breathe normally again. The café patrons had already turned back to their conversations. He brought the phone back into his ear, but Naomi had disconnected. He thought of calling her again but suspected she wouldn’t pick up this time. Jamie checked the home screen; the time was consistent with the cafe clock. He knew today was Tuesday. But the clock was showing Friday, and the year was 2021. The phone was two years ahead.

He interrupted the intense conversation with the neighbouring table, sipping at their frappes. “Excuse me, what’s the date today?”

The only boy spoke up, “Don’t you have a phone, old man?”. Two of his friends snickered.

Frustration gnawed at him. Through gritted teeth, he replied, “It’s not working right now.”

One of the girls piped up, “It’s Tuesday, October 15th.”

“Thank you. And the year?”

They glanced at each other, weighing whether he was joking. The teenage boy scoffed, “2019, obviously.”

He nodded in thanks and turned back to this now unfamiliar device in front of him. The students rolled their eyes before continuing with their conversation.

The chirp of a notification. A calendar reminder. A meeting with Dr. Brooke tomorrow at 4 pm. His therapist, according to Naomi on the phone. He felt a gnawing unease. He had never had a therapist, never believed in them. Therapists always signalled foreboding. There is never a “good” reason to go to one. You only go to one if something is wrong. Something is wrong with you, your family, or your marriage. But he had a sense that person may be the only one who could answer his questions.

25%

He hovered over the call icon for a few seconds, collecting his nerve. Steeling himself, he pressed and waited. One ring, and the phone picked up.

“Jamie, are you okay?” a soft voice answered.

“Hey, Dr. Brooke, I’m not sure. I feel very lost and confused right now.”

“Call me Diana. Have you lost your memory again?”

Shock bubbled up into an awkward laugh. The timbre of her voice reminded him of his mother. He understood why he would have stuck with her as his therapist.

“You could say so, Diana. You sound like I’ve done this before.”

“Yes, Jamie. What year is it?”

“It’s 2019. October 15th, to be exact.”

“Okay, now tell me. Are you in a safe place right now?”

“I’m at a cafe near Derby station. Thirty minutes from my dad’s. I’m supposed to drive him today to his appointment, but he wanted to go with his neighbour instead.”

The downpour grew to crescendo outside the cafe. Rain slapped at the window, and Jamie felt the chill permeate into his bones.

“Mm, okay, and this is the house on Rollingwood avenue.”

“Uhh, yes. Diana, could I ask you a question or a couple?”

“Of course. But it seems that you have not experienced your triggering events yet, so don’t be alarmed.”

“Does my wife hate me?”

Dr. Brooke replied with a gentle admonishment. “Hate is a strong word and one that I wouldn’t have associated with your wife in our time in couple’s therapy, Jamie. There is still love there, but it is in a different form now. You must understand that she went through the same experience as you and trying to move forward in her way.”

Anxiety ran through his shivering fingers as he struggled to form the words of his next question. Thunder tore through the dine of the cafe, and the lights flickered, and the remaining customers cowered in the silence that followed.

“Diana, where is my dad?”

A pause. The seconds stretched across the silence, louder than thunder.

“Your father passed away, Jamie. Today is the anniversary of his death.”

The weight of her words fell into his gut like a boulder.

He cradled his head between his knees, rocking slowly. He barely whispered the one word, “How?” but Diana must have already anticipated it.

“Walt got into a car accident on his way home from the doctor. The roads were slick, and the car hydroplaned into oncoming traffic.”

Fuck. Jamie cut the call and pushed his way out the milling crowd of storm watchers near the window. The rain slapped him as he sprinted, barely seeing the sidewalk ahead of him, relying only on childhood memories walking home.

15%

He couldn’t see the car on the driveway. No, no, no. His lungs were on fire. The taste of blood filled his mouth as he forced himself to push through one last sprint under the furious storm.

He hammered the door, panting against its frame. “Dad! Dad! Open the door!”

Two seconds, Fifteen, Forty-five, a minute. Finally, Jamie heard a shuffling and a hesitant pull of the door. His father’s eyes poked through the small gap, recognized his son’s soaked face, and pulled the door open just enough to drag him in.

“Jamie! What are you doing here?”

Jamie gulped handfuls of air and replied in a strained wheeze. “I told you I’d take you to the appointment.”

An exasperated sigh. “You shouldn’t have come, son. I was just about to wall over to Libby’s. Just sit here and wait for me. I just put out the fireplace, but it shouldn’t take too long to start it up again.” Jamie tried to shake his head as Walt started to shoo him upstairs. “Your old clothes are still in your bedroom. Go on and change. You’re going to catch a cold like this.”

“It’s okay, Dad. I want to drive you there. You know Libby has an old car. She shouldn’t be driving in this weather. We can grab her groceries on the way, too, if she needs it.”

“It’s fine, Jamie. I’m not as old as you think; I can handle myself. I’ve taken care of myself just fine since your mother passed.”

Jamie felt an unexpected tinge of guilt with that last line. Nevertheless, he didn’t move. “No, Dad. Either I’m taking you, or you’re not going”

His father stared at him, considering. After a few seconds, he signalled his assent with a grunt, “Fine. But you’re not soaking my seats like this. Get some dry clothes, and I’ll wait for you in the garage.”

2%

A wall of rain covered them the drive home. The vintage windshield wipers could barely catch up to the wet onslaught. The visit was standard, but Jamie was glad he joined his father: Dr. Goldman had concerns about the recent blood test, especially the dangerously elevated cholesterol levels. If Jamie hadn’t dropped him off, his father would have likely shoved the prescription into his jacket and forgotten it was there by the next day.

Jamie’s phone peeked out at him from the cupholder. He had not had a chance to check on it at the doctor’s office. He wanted to know if it worked. If Dad survived tonight, then speed dial number 3 would work.

He glanced over to the passenger seat. The old man fell asleep as soon as they got onto the main roads. His slow breaths lifted his frail frame, and Jamie wondered at the dramatic transition of the husky working man from his childhood to the wisp of a human being right next to him.

He reached over and grabbed the phone with his right hand, his left on the underhand of the steering wheel. The red battery sign at the top of the screen was blinking at 2%. He didn’t have much time. He had to know.

Finger memory navigated him to the phone screen while he kept his eyes on the road. Pressing 3 again, he waited. The error message didn’t show up. The phone was ringing. One ring. Two rings.

A high-pitched squeal from his blind spot. A shock impact to the right rear of the Caprice forced the vehicle to veer to the left before Jamie over-corrected. The car turned far off into the ditch before landing on the driver’s side in a thick hedge.

The vacuous silence in the minutes after was broken only by faraway sirens and a disembodied voice from a cracked cell phone before it died.

You’ve reached Walt Robinson. I can’t come to the phone, so leave your message at the beep.