knew enough about me to know that Wyman wasn’t my biological father, then she also knew that Wyman was the only father I’d known. Why not conjure him up? And why conjure anyone up? I had a hard time believing it was just for a sensational story.
It had started to drizzle, and so Bix turned and began leading me toward home. He just doesn’t like the rain much.
By the time we got home and I’d toweled down my dog, I’d forced myself to examine the possibility that Erika, despite her absurd last name, might be the real thing. And if she was... then the man whohad died before I was born just remembered he had something to tell me. And as soon as I stopped doubting, as soon as I let a little hope seep in, it overwhelmed me. Then I told myself I was being silly—the dead don’t talk—and all that hope whooshed out of me, leaving me so empty I thought I would deflate.
And then there was what he said—don’t move your mother. The money exists.
“Right,” I said to Bix, who continued chomping on his rubber rabbit.
I poured myself a scotch over ice and dribbled a tablespoon of water in it, then scrolled through the caller ID numbers. There was a cellular number I didn’t recognize, a call from M Hughes and then there was my mother’s number on the monitor, which made my stomach clench. When she called at night, she was invariably more confused, anxious and demanding than usual. Sometimes she’d accuse of me things I couldn’t possibly have done, like stealing her money or moving her car. They call it sundowning; I call it heartbreaking.
Voicemail had two messages for me and, as I feared, one was from my mother.
“Robyn? Where are you?” Her voice had a panicky edge. “I’m ready to call the police. And your father... he hasn’t come home from work yet. I’ve got a pot roast in the oven?... who is going to eat it?... Robbie? Is that you?... I’ll call you back, Robyn. I think he’s at the door.”
Robbie? I quickly dialed the nursing station on my mother’s floor, talked to Vera, the night nurse, and learned my mother was napping. Crisis had passed. Yes, she’d been agitated, but not beyond the usual.
“Did she have any visitors tonight?” I mentioned the interruption.
“No,” Vera said. “That must’ve been me checking up on her.”
I thanked her and asked her to call me if things got rough again and then said a silent prayer that my phone was through ringing for the night.
I had one other message. This one was from Mick.
“Hey, how’d talking with that dead guy go? Can’t wait to hear. Oh, and I’ve got a way for you to take a few thousand out without paying any penalties. Call me.”
For a second, I almost did call him. Just to have someone to tell this to.
Instead, I changed into a pair of cut-offs and a T-shirt, pulled my hair up into a pony tail, then curled up in my comfy chair with my laptop and drink and brought up the internet.
The circumstances surrounding my father’s death had been a fact of my life that I’d never questioned. Why would I? He had died just outside of Colorado Springs, where my folks lived at the time. He’d been delivering mail when a guy driving a Chevy Impala swerved to miss hitting a turtle crawling across the road and plowed into my father. I was probably the size of a cantaloupe in my mother’s womb at the time. She moved to Illinois right after I was born and married Wyman a few years later.
In the past I had used the internet to search for records of my father, but had always come up empty. I had chalked this off to bad record keeping on Colorado Springs’s part. But now I began to wonder. And since my mother was less than forthcoming these days, I knew of only one other source where I might find some answers. That paper-filled box she’d asked me to get rid of was probably just that— a bunch of miscellany I could toss with impunity. But maybe now was the time to see if that was the case. I dug my key to the basement door out of the
It had started to drizzle, and so Bix turned and began leading me toward home. He just doesn’t like the rain much.
By the time we got home and I’d toweled down my dog, I’d forced myself to examine the possibility that Erika, despite her absurd last name, might be the real thing. And if she was... then the man whohad died before I was born just remembered he had something to tell me. And as soon as I stopped doubting, as soon as I let a little hope seep in, it overwhelmed me. Then I told myself I was being silly—the dead don’t talk—and all that hope whooshed out of me, leaving me so empty I thought I would deflate.
And then there was what he said—don’t move your mother. The money exists.
“Right,” I said to Bix, who continued chomping on his rubber rabbit.
I poured myself a scotch over ice and dribbled a tablespoon of water in it, then scrolled through the caller ID numbers. There was a cellular number I didn’t recognize, a call from M Hughes and then there was my mother’s number on the monitor, which made my stomach clench. When she called at night, she was invariably more confused, anxious and demanding than usual. Sometimes she’d accuse of me things I couldn’t possibly have done, like stealing her money or moving her car. They call it sundowning; I call it heartbreaking.
Voicemail had two messages for me and, as I feared, one was from my mother.
“Robyn? Where are you?” Her voice had a panicky edge. “I’m ready to call the police. And your father... he hasn’t come home from work yet. I’ve got a pot roast in the oven?... who is going to eat it?... Robbie? Is that you?... I’ll call you back, Robyn. I think he’s at the door.”
Robbie? I quickly dialed the nursing station on my mother’s floor, talked to Vera, the night nurse, and learned my mother was napping. Crisis had passed. Yes, she’d been agitated, but not beyond the usual.
“Did she have any visitors tonight?” I mentioned the interruption.
“No,” Vera said. “That must’ve been me checking up on her.”
I thanked her and asked her to call me if things got rough again and then said a silent prayer that my phone was through ringing for the night.
I had one other message. This one was from Mick.
“Hey, how’d talking with that dead guy go? Can’t wait to hear. Oh, and I’ve got a way for you to take a few thousand out without paying any penalties. Call me.”
For a second, I almost did call him. Just to have someone to tell this to.
Instead, I changed into a pair of cut-offs and a T-shirt, pulled my hair up into a pony tail, then curled up in my comfy chair with my laptop and drink and brought up the internet.
The circumstances surrounding my father’s death had been a fact of my life that I’d never questioned. Why would I? He had died just outside of Colorado Springs, where my folks lived at the time. He’d been delivering mail when a guy driving a Chevy Impala swerved to miss hitting a turtle crawling across the road and plowed into my father. I was probably the size of a cantaloupe in my mother’s womb at the time. She moved to Illinois right after I was born and married Wyman a few years later.
In the past I had used the internet to search for records of my father, but had always come up empty. I had chalked this off to bad record keeping on Colorado Springs’s part. But now I began to wonder. And since my mother was less than forthcoming these days, I knew of only one other source where I might find some answers. That paper-filled box she’d asked me to get rid of was probably just that— a bunch of miscellany I could toss with impunity. But maybe now was the time to see if that was the case. I dug my key to the basement door out of the
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