in through the open window, immediately cooling my skin, which was hot with frustration moments ago. A crack of thunder sounds in the distance.
“We lost Dad because he didn’t slow down until it was too late,” I finally say. “I don’t want to lose you for the same reason.”
My throat strains to keep my voice steady. It’s a challenge when all I want to do is sob, to make her understand that I’m not doing all this to hurt her.
More silence passes. Another long, quiet inhale ensures I won’t lose myself. When I turn around, she stands up from the kitchen table, her back to me this time.
I would laugh if I weren’t so distraught. We’re so damn alike. We don’t want anyone to see us vulnerable, to see us falling apart, not even each other.
“Fine, then,” she says quietly. I can tell by the way she says nothing more, by the way she walks down the hall and to the bathroom without another word, that’s she’s more hurt than angry at what I’ve said.
Gripping the sink with both hands, I heave out a breath.
She may be upset with me, but she’s still here, living and breathing. That’s all that matters.
Downing another glass of cold water does little to quell this anger and sadness warring within me. I pivot to face the gray ceramic urn sitting on the bookshelf in the living room.
“Sorry, Dad,” I whisper. “You know how stubborn she is. But I’m trying.”
I clean up the kitchen, head to my bedroom, and do the one thing I know I shouldn’t.
I crawl into my bed and close my eyes, my phone gripped in my hand. I swipe to the last voice mail my dad ever left me. The last memento of his voice I have other than the dozens of videos I saved on my phone and backed up on my computer.
Sweetie pie, it’s Dad. Listen . . .
The seconds-long pause after he says “listen” always sends a lump to my throat. I could be in the middle of laughing, and if I heard his low, soft voice in that pained tone, I’d be left speechless, fighting the urge to collapse into a ball on the floor and sob.
. . . I’m sorry to call you like this, but it’s serious. I went to the doctor and I need you to call me, okay? As soon as you can. I love you, sweetie pie. Talk to you soon.
Even with his diagnosis looming over him, he somehow kept that gentle tone. If it had been me who had just been given the worst news of my life—that I had stage four pancreatic cancer and months to live because nothing could be done—I don’t know how I would have reacted. But I sure as hell wouldn’t have that same composure he did during that phone call.
Somehow he was thinking clearly enough to know that going into the details of his diagnosis over voice mail wasn’t a good idea. So he waited patiently those four hours until I fished my phone out of my purse after a night of barhopping. The entire staff at the Portland restaurant I was managing at the time was out celebrating after hosting a stressful corporate party. I was about to indulge in my third shot of tequila when I happened to glance at my phone, the voice mail alert flashing on the screen.
And then when I listened to his message—his voice a mix of love and worry—the floor fell out from under me.
Tears tumble down my face, soaking the pillow underneath my head, but I don’t sob. I don’t want to make any noise that would disturb Mom. Instead I swallow back every almost-sob that grips the base of my throat and stare at the ceiling.
Despite my tipsy state that night, the serious tone of his voice mail sobered me up real quick. I never knew my fingers could fly across a phone screen that fast. And then I was crouched down in the hallway of some random bar because the corner by the bathrooms was the quietest spot I could find.
And then he answered. Hearing his voice was comfort and terror all at once.
“Nikki-Nack!” He practically sang his nickname for me on the other line. I could tell he was smiling.
“Dad, what’s wrong?” My voice broke before he said anything because, despite the joy in his voice, I just knew. It was so, so bad.