Flotsam

{This post may not make sense if you haven’t read this.}

So, raise your hand if you got the gist of my last several posts, namely that it is rather a stressful time for Alexa.
Everyone?
Good.
Then you should all appreciate the timing of the incident I am about to describe.

Tuesday evening I raced home from work to participate in an online discussion for school and draft a study proposal. I kicked off my pointy work shoes just inside the door, and headed for my laptop—no rest for the restless, I always say.
The phone rang.
I almost didn’t answer it, because MY GOD, I am BUSY, but in the end I picked it up, because what if someone was dying and leaving me money?
Well, I was half right.

“Hi Lex,” said the voice on the other end, “It’s your dad.”
I contemplated making a gargly “bad connection” noise and hanging up. But I was still feeling guilty about the last time I saw him, and besides, lately I have been thinking about writing a short story about my father, and I could use some new material. Ha ha, only kidding. Sort of.
Anyway, I said hello, and how was he? And yes, I’m fine, still working at the same place, only I am also in school now, and speaking of school, I have an assignment due in three hours—could we talk another day? Or set up a time for me to visit? Yup, like I said, still an editor. No, a different jurisdiction now, New Hampshire.
Then he said something about the Manchester Guardian that I didn’t catch, and I made the mistake of saying “What about it?”

The next thing I know he is talking about Ed Muskie, and George McGovern, and then Nixon and Humphrey get folded in, and did I know that Humphrey only lost by 800,000 votes? (Actually, I did, and GUESS WHY.)
“Uh, Dad?” I say, starting to panic, “I really do have to go…”
Also, do I remember his friend Holly, who lived in New Hampshire? Her grandfather, or something, was president of MIT, and something something his middle name was Holly, and something something HAHAHAHAHA!
“Dad,” I say firmly, “I have to GO now, ok? My schoolwork is due, and–”
“Look, I’m trying to TELL you something, kiddo, you work with New Hampshire, and I am just trying to give you some background…”
“Yes, I know, and tomorrow–”
“I’m dying, did you know that? I can’t EAT anything, and I’m coughing up all this shit, and I need to talk to someone—I’m DYING, kiddo, and all I want–”
“Dad, dad, I know, I’m sorry.” My heart is flapping wildly.
“You’re the only person I can talk to.”
“That. Is Not. My Fault,” I say loudly. I am getting angry, now. He has wife #3, remember, and it’s not like he calls all the time to give me updates on his life and condition—he calls once every few months, when he is depressed, and I am supposed to clear my schedule because he needs someone to talk to–only he doesn’t want someone to talk to, he wants someone to talk AT.
I speak sharply to him for a while.
My father gets weepy. Every time I start to get off the phone, he reminds me that he could die, and that he has all this stuff in his head, and he wants to pass it on to someone, someone who will understand what it means, and who will actually care. I understand this, and I think it is the scariest, most human thing—everyone has a web of connections in their mind, like tiny lights: inside jokes, ideas for books, memories—stuff that isn’t written down, that you have never said. When you die, all of that is extinguished, suddenly, and without anyone noticing it has disappeared.
So I try to be patient with my father, until he starts to manipulate and whine. He reminds me that I stopped breathing as a baby, but he revived me (never happened, according to my mother), and that I was a pirate for Halloween the year I was three. He tells me I am a shining light (that part is true, actually) and that if he dies without telling me about Ed Muskie, I will always regret it. I look at the clock, and then I ask if he is going to shuffle off this mortal coil before eight o’ clock this evening, when my assignment is due.
No?
Then it can wait until tomorrow.
After I hang up, I turn the ringer off the phone. And then I start to cry. And then I start to laugh.
I was a little hysterical, I admit, because come ON. I am starting school, and moving, and clocking overtime at work, and I have peed on NINE OPKs, and am just figuring out that even three months of Metformin shittiness (pun intended) has not caused me to ovulate, and my absentee father chooses this particular week to call and remind me that he is dying? Really?

Fine, universe. You want to do this the hard way, we’ll do it the hard way. Bring it on.