Leigh
I’d gotten to my car, stared at my phone, and…done absolutely nothing.
How easy it was to think I was about to do something just because I’d gotten alone! How easy it was to believe that a simple conversation with the Cook sisters had been all that I needed to get in the headspace to call my father! No, something that had been twenty-plus years in the making didn’t get undone simply because of a desire and a determination.
By now, it was well into the evening. My father was also on the West Coast right now, so there were no time zone differences, but it was still after eight o’clock, well after the time when I’d wanted to have an actual conversation. News reports about violence in downtown Phoenix weren’t helping matters, either. As easy as it was to say it was worth it, anytime violence popped up, I had a feeling I’d wonder if Sonny would be OK—and westillhadn’t talked since this morning.
This morning.It all felt like a lifetime ago.
I had a glass of wine in my hand. I knew what I was doing. I was trying to rationalize my way into a phone call.If I just do this…if I can make sure I have this set up…if only I make sure I think about this…
Why couldn’t I just pull the trigger? Why couldn’t I just hit dial?
Because that would have been the only thing I could do that would actually make the conversation happen. Everything else was not necessary. It was the only thing that would force my hand.
Maybe I was too scared.
Fuck it.
No, not yet—
I hit call.
Holy shit, I actually hit the call button. The screen went black and showed that it was dialing my father’s number.
Oh fuck.
I put it on speakerphone at first and heard the first dial tone blare in my apartment. It was too loud. I didn’t want to be fiddling with the volume while I was having a hard conversation. I turned it off and held it to my left ear.
Which was fine except that my hands were shaking and my body was sweaty. Not exactly a great combo for a serious call like this. But if it had to—
“Leigh.”
My father.
He answered as he always did. Dutifully, but not warmly. He answered me the same way I imagined a soldier answering his commander. Direct, one word, nothing more, nothing less.
“Hey, Dad, how are you?”
“I’m fine, and you?”
Again, same thing. It wasn’t “bad.” He wasn’t condescending, sarcastic, or dismissive. He always went to my games and recitals and performances as a kid. But there was a difference between physical presence and emotional presence, and while I was certainly grateful he supplied the former, the latter always seemed like a real impossibility to bring out.
“I’m good, I…”
Stop beating around the bush and just get to the point.
“Dad, I want to talk about what it was like growing up with you.”
“What is there to talk about?”
I gulped.
“I just…I’m dealing with some things and need to—”
“I don’t understand. I was there for everything. What do you need?”
There was a defensiveness to his voice that almost seemed to suggest he knew there was something I took issue with. But unfortunately, that very thing was also the thing that would prevent me from getting into a deeper conversation with him. Strangely enough, though, it gave a flash of hope that he at leastknewon some level.
