So I moved. But now I’m a stranger in a strange land, in a city I barely recognize, so changed it is, with its new freeways and tunnels and high-rise buildings and fancy precincts. But at least friends of Millie no longer lurk at every corner offering me casseroles.They were so thoughtful, but they kept reminding me of my loss.
Fresh vistas carry no memories. Strangers never ask about Millie. Nor do they even know I was a doctor. There are no impromptu conversations about bunions, bad backs or rumbling coughs that refuse to clear. I’m a free man.
“Dad?”
“I’ve joined a choir.”
“Oh, that’s great, Dad. I didn’t know you could sing.”
“I didn’t know either. Walt insisted. You remember my friend Walt? From college. He convinced me there are never enough baritones and all I have to do is turn up each week and open my mouth.”
Dee laughs. I crack a smile and she seems pleased, pushes her hand across the table and puts it over mine, warm and pleasant. And then she holds hers up in the air.
It takes me a while to register. A high five. I’ve high fived hundreds of miserable children, summoned their bravery when their broken limbs were finally encased in plaster, forced them to smile through their tears.
I high-five Dee back, hating the realization I’m no longer the Doc, the one to make others smile.
“Still super serious, Dad.”
“Do I have to apologize?”
“No. We all just want you to be happy.”
“Kind. Thanks. I’m not unhappy.”
“Not the same as being happy, Dad. How’s the apartment?”
“Still great. Thanks. Clean. Quiet. Comfortable. Everything’s in order, thank you. Housekeeper leaves me food and does most of the laundry. I make my own toast and eggs; order takeout. I’m not starving, as you can see. And the cherry pie was the best I’ve ever tasted.”
“What cherry pie?”
“Mrs West’s, I guess. Oh, Carla sends you her best wishes. I bought one of her paintings.”
“That’s great, Dad. Oh, did you hear about the fund-raiser for dementia research?”
“No?”
“You remember the Fontaines, don’t you, Bettina and Raymond?” says Dee.
“Friends of Millie’s, yes.”
“Raymond died a year ago. Bettina’s set up a foundation. There’s a ball. Matt can’t come. He has to go to the Caribbean for a conference first thing next morning. Will you come with me, Dad? It’s no big deal. I know you still have a dinner suit. I made sure we packed it for you in case an event like this came up. Just say ‘yes.’”
“When is it?” As if my calendar is full. As if there’s anything in my life beyond sitting in my perfectly renovated, perfectly clean apartment and staring out the window, walking now and then, and catching up with my children, and choir once a week. I’m still not used to it. My life was a whirlwind. Now it’s too quiet.
“A week from Thursday. I’ll text you the details. It’s at the Town Hall.”
“Okay.”
“Maybe get a haircut, Dad?”
“What’s wrong with it?” I pat the back of my head and Dee shakes her head and laughs.
“Just get a haircut. Please?”
I nod. I might or I might not. Millie used to cut my hair, and one of her friends did it ahead of her funeral; all over me with her pity and powder and polished pink fingernails, as if she could step right in where Millie left off. She meant well, but it was too soon, and she reminded me too much of Millie. I shudder and shut out the memories.
