Goodbye, Dad
K.C
You get a flurry of text messages and missed calls.
One is from a friend you haven’t spoken to in a long time and it glows hot blue against the black of the screen.
It reads: Pick up the phone.
You listen to the last voice message. It’s one of your brothers. His voice is toasted with concern.
Call me back, he begs.
You ring him and your mother picks up.
She tells you your father’s in the hospital.
Pneumonia.
You can hear your brother in the background; ‘Tell him this could be it, hey, this could be it.’
‘Dad’s in the hospital?’ you ask.
‘He’s been sick for a while sweetie.’
‘Sick?’
‘Lung cancer.’
‘Cancer?’
Mom doesn’t answer right away.
She allows the silence to sit there.
‘How come I’m learning about this now?’ you ask.
Your mother didn’t want to worry you, she didn’t want to bother you.
Now, Dad’s in hospital, potentially dying, and you’re over six thousand kilometers away
with an expired blue passport.
You rush an emergency one and you can do nothing but wait while your father is in some sterile room, surrounded by the ones he loves,
minus you.
You’ve never felt so angry about being a negative one.
Why didn’t anyone tell you?
Dad was a pack a day kind of guy, so you shouldn’t be that surprised, but why didn’t anyone tell you?
You text daily with your brothers while you suffer the agony of waiting.
‘Well that was scary’ they say. ‘Almost lost him…that was a close call.’
Why were you the last to know?
They repeat the lines that come out of your mother’s mouth: ‘Ma didn’t want to worry you, she knows you're busy.’
You’re at the airport in Venice.
You’re surrounded by brightly lit stores filled with knick knacks, crime thrillers, and posh Venetian masks.
You ignore all that and head for a semicircular bar.
You order a double scotch, raise the glass to eye level to appreciate the floozy honey color, and bring down the glass to gently tap it on the table, to scare away the evil spirits.
You rehearse the stern lecture you'll deliver to Mom.
The flight was awful.
You can’t sleep while the airplane skips across continents and oceans
because each bump feels like a death threat,
and you never know when they’re coming.
When you land it’s dark-o’clock in the ungodly morning.
It’s both too early and too late to be picked up.
One of your brothers will arrive in a few hours before he opens the butcher shop.
You booked a room and as soon as you fall asleep the text message wakes you.
Your brother’s outside. You walk out to a slight chill.
You see his truck, a rickety RAV4, its black color blending smoothly with the darkness of the parking lot. You’re so groggy that no amount of coffee can wash out the jet lagged gunk coating your insides.
‘Hey!’
He’s happy to see you. You weren’t sure if he would be.
It’s been about a year, you wonder if he’s going to bring up the stupid fight you had on social media.
He never brings it up.
Ever.
And you appreciate it.
You silently thank him. Call him a saint in your quiet mind.
After a few minutes you ease into it, the natural conversation.
By the time he hits the freeway, it’s like you’ve never left, by the time he gets to the Route 24 exit, you’ve caught up on each other's lives.
Brothers again. Reunited by dying.
‘How’s your new girlfriend?’
‘We’re married actually," he says.
‘Married?’
He tells you about how he went to the courthouse for a quick ceremony.
Just the two of them and their witness.
‘Dad was too sick to go, so we went to the house afterwards and took photos.’
He’s married now? You didn’t know this either.
You look at him for a moment.
‘Congratulations.’