When Dad Calls

            I answer the phone. My throat is dry. I hear the creaky voice, the shaky tone. He sounds mad. He sounds drunk. I push a hand through my hair.
            “It’s gonna be a long night,” I think.
 
            My leg moves uneasily. A nervous habit. A bottle of water sits before me gathering condensation. The dog scratches at the door.
            I lift myself out of the chair. My body moves slowly over to the kitchen sink. I sigh.
            The warm water moves slickly through my fingers. I clutch the pan and push the steel wool against it. I hum along to the nameless tune in my head. Steam rises from the sink. My hands burn, but I keep scrubbing.
            Roast beef sizzles in the microwave. My eyes wander as the timer beeps loudly. I scratch the reddened scar on my forehead and wonder out loud, “what am I doing?”
            The fork clicks against my teeth. I chew, swallow and then pause. My eyes meet the warped plastic of the once frozen meal. My phone vibrates against my leg.
            My eyes scan the phone. I stare at the front screen. The phone continues to vibrate. I grip the phone tight. It reads: Dad.
            I scowl at the word. I push the phone across the table. It vibrates onto the floor.
            The vibrating stops. Crickets chirp outside. Quiet. Tears form and fall. I crouch down onto the floor.
            My fingers move slowly through my hair, feeling each strand. It feels soft and I’m comforted. I ask, “are you even there anymore?” No one answers. The phone begins to vibrate.
            I throw open my bedroom door. I tear open my dresser drawer. I push through the clothes. I remove an old, unopened- unmarked- letter. I tear it open. I scan the words written there:
            Don’t forget: leave it all behind.
            The balled up letter lands skidding across the floor. The dog chases after. The phone vibrates. I reach down.
            My eyes stare as the phone is silenced. I watch as his name disappears. I wait. I wait. I wait. The phone becomes alive with light. The thing vibrates against my skin. His name reappears. Dad. My stomach flips. My teenage nausea resurfaces. I’m sixteen again.
            I answer the phone. My throat is dry. I hear the creaky voice, the shaky tone. He sounds mad. He sounds drunk. I push a hand through my hair.
            “It’s gonna be a long night,” I think.
 
            I nod my head. I hear his problems. I feel his pain. I’m dragged down again. I’m in that old place. And I can’t help but think: why did you leave us? Where did you go? Why did you die? But mom doesn’t answer. She never does. She never will.
            So I answer the phone. And I think, “it’s gonna be a long night.” And it is.

A guy