First Week in January
"Dad's back still hurts," I say as I walk into our family
room. My husband is sitting in his recliner watching TV
and canned laughter fills the room.
David looks at me. "It's probably just a pulled muscle.
Your father's healthy as a horse. He'll be fine."
"I know." Deep down I'm not sure this is true, but I press
my lips together, tell myself not to worry. At seventy-two
years old, Dad's a health nut, a runner, a person who is
never sick.
David turns his attention back to the TV. The huge Sony
big-screen, the actors and the fake laughter have taken
over our living room as they do most nights. The woman on
TV is having a baby and the entire family — husband,
children and mother-inlaw — are in an uproar, worried and
nervous for her.
Our lives, on the other hand, are easy. Our only child is
doing well in college, by choice I haven't worked in over
a year, and David is happy. I taught junior high for
eighteen years, but I quit because I was bored and dreaded
going in each day. We didn't need the money and now I
spend my time volunteering at the library, thinking about
what I'd like to do when I go back to work, and keeping
our house immaculate.
David, in the TV's shimmery light, looks rested from our
uneventful weekend. He laughs again and the sound echoes
against the ten-foot ceilings of our home. My husband
loves TV. He always has. When we were first married, I
asked him why he watched so much. He explained that
watching TV was the only thing to do while his mother
worked nights.
This was the opposite of what I experienced. When I was
growing up, before my mother and father divorced, the four
of us sat in our living room, listened to music and read.
I guess parts of our childhoods stay with us forever. For
a moment, there is a square of silence before another TV
commercial comes on. I hear the winter wind moving
outside. It is extremely cold tonight and for some silly
reason I think about the daffodil bulbs I planted months
ago and wonder if they are all right.
I lie back on the couch, pull the soft beige Pottery Barn
throw over my legs and open the book I was reading before
Dad called. Yet the feeling my father's backache is
something more slips around me like a silk curtain.
Every once in a while I experience a weird intuition I
can't deny. These intuitive feelings aren't anything
supernatural or scary, but since I was about eight, some
things turn out exactly the way I know they will. When
this happens I always feel uncomfortable.
The most poignant one was the time when I was eight months
pregnant. I dreamed about our unborn daughter Jennifer. I
saw her dark thatch of hair, her beautiful slanted eyes
and cupid lips. That morning, right after I woke, while
David was still sleeping and sunlight sprang into the
bedroom, I had no doubt our child would be a girl. And I
was overjoyed even though David was hoping for a boy. Our
daughter was born with the beautiful little face, the one
that appeared in my dream.
Women seem to understand this story better than men. When
I tell a woman about my Jennifer dream, she usually nods
and smiles. Men don't. David thought my dream was a
coincidence. But I knew it wasn't. And I tried to explain
to him how I felt like a fraud and guilty about my best
friend Vanessa's death. How I couldn't stop wondering why,
if I have this intuition, I didn't know my college
roommate shouldn't have gone for a ride with her boyfriend
the night their car overturned.
David always says to forget all that. But it's not that
easy.
I've explained to Elizabeth about my intuition and she
claims it's a gift from God. Elizabeth and I are different
in that way — she has a strong faith, I don't. Before
Vanessa's death I believed there was some sort of God and
maybe a plan for us all. But after, it was like someone
took a rag and wiped my beliefs away. Now I think life is
just a big petri dish.
David laughs again, looks over at me. "That was funny."
"Sorry, I wasn't watching."
"Your Dad's gonna be okay, Melinda. Quit worrying."
"I know." I smile and he smiles back, but at this moment,
underneath my happy facade, I know our lives will never be
the same. ***
My father and I are talking on the phone again. I'm
determined to cheer him up. Last night I left David to his
TV shows and went to bed early. This morning I woke
feeling better, upbeat. Beautiful winter sun was blazing
into each room of our home and I thought, Of course Dad
will be fine. Before I could phone him, my mother called
and I told her about Dad's backache.
"Stanley has always been strong as an ox. He's flawless,
and if he isn't, he'll make himself that way. Don't worry,
he'll survive," she said.
Her words of encouragement made me feel even better.
"I know I'll be okay, honey," Dad says through the phone
line. "But my back sure hurts."
"Does Motrin help?" I'm happy I can give him moral support
and a little advice. We aren't close and I've always
wanted to be.
"No."
"The doctors in El Paso will fix you up. Once you get
their diagnosis, you'll be better."
Dad is going to an orthopedic surgeon this afternoon in El
Paso, fifty miles from Las Cruces, New Mexico, where he
lives. I wish we lived closer so I could drive him to the
doctor. He and I see each other maybe once every three
years. The last few years since his retirement, we've
talked more on the phone and it's nice. But this morning
Grapevine, Texas, seems very far away from Las Cruces.
"Maybe today the doctors will have an answer," he says.
"Of course. Call me when you get back with the good news."
We say goodbye. I walk into the living room where there is
a mélange of family photos on the wall. I study the photo
of my mother and Dad before they divorced — smiling,
standing close. Then my gaze settles on a worn black-and-
white picture — my father at six months — staring into the
camera with a look of baby surprise. His thatch of dark
hair and slightly slanted eyes remind me of my daughter
Jennifer.
I touch the glass with my right index finger, hope I don't
leave a smudge.
Of course you'll be okay. Of course.
For nine hours, David and I have been speeding down
ribbons of Texas and New Mexico highways in my blue Toyota
Camry. He is driving and I have asked him three times not
to go over seventy-five but he won't slow down. A little
while ago I gave up trying to save our lives. Instead I
got my stack of magazines from the back seat and began
flipping through the glossy pages in an effort to not
worry about my father.
The car slows and I look up. We turn off the free-way —
the El Paso Exit 7. I sigh. We are here to lend moral
support to my father who was diagnosed with bone cancer
three days ago. When Dad informed me of what the doctors
had found, I told him I would drive to El Paso to be with
him, help him. He didn't say, No, don't come, but wondered
out loud how I was going to make the drive alone. I pulled
the phone away from my ear, looked in disbelief at the
receiver, then reminded myself my father hadn't been
around much when I was growing up and maybe that's why he
didn't think of me as an adult.
I look over at David as he navigates through the El Paso
streets. I was surprised when he said he'd come with me. I
imagined him staying home, working his regular thirteen or
fourteen hours a day on his projects. But yesterday he
called from his office, told me he'd rearranged his
appointments so he could drive me to El Paso.
I was happy I wouldn't have to make the trip alone. I've
never told him or my father I don't like El Paso with its
dirty air and the long drive up the snakelike highway to
Dad's condo in Las Cruces.
"There it is," David says.
I look through the windshield, see the large sign: El Paso
Hospital.
"Yeah, there it is."
David makes the turn then parks in the parking lot that
spans two blocks. I climb out of the car and take a deep
breath. The air is cold, dry, and I feel like a twig about
to snap. I take my husband's hand as we walk through the
double doors and begin looking for Dad's room. David's
skin is warm, moist. We stay connected, and for a few soft
moments I feel young and in love. When we find the room
number Dad gave me, we break apart.
My father is propped up in bed. His tanned, muscled arms
contrast the stark white sheet and blanket. He is staring
out the window and doesn't hear us come in.
"Dad."
David walks to a chair in the farthest corner, places his
hand on the back.
"Hi, Melinda." Dad's brown eyes are wide.