(Joy and I. West Michigan. April 2015)
I called my dad today.
I put my head in my hands when he said what he always says: I'm confident that you'll figure it out. You always do.
It's Father's Day and I miss him, so I couldn't yell what I wanted: I need your help! I don't want to do everything on my own anymore.
Sometime after his fourth or fifth brain surgery scare, (I must have been nineteen), (that first summer when I still couldn't eat or sleep), he climbed the steps to my room. I turned my face to the wall when he said: I don't worry about you doing the wrong thing. I worry about it being done to you.
He's always had too much faith in me. (That's a nice way of saying something else entirely.)
I called my mom yesterday.
After I talk to her, I mark it on my calendar with a small blue dot.
I'd like to call her twice a week just to cry, but I don't want her to think I'm as weak as I am, so I'm keeping track. I'm only calling twice a month.
Dan called from Paris. I kept quiet when he said: You gave it the old college try. You can be done now.
Joy called a day later. Dan says you're sad. More sad than usual. Are you?
I re-read that scene in Franny and Zooey -- that one at the very end -- when Zooey calls Franny from the other room pretending to be Buddy. Afterwards, she seemed to know just what to do next.
Who is it I need to call, and who is it I need them to pretend to be?