Breaking Up With Dad
by Charles C. Cole
My sister and life-long second-mom called one Saturday afternoon, while I was taking a well-earned post-lunch nap in my favorite recliner. She asked me to visit Dad, that very day, for her peace of mind. Few details exchanged.
Our elderly widowed father lived alone, an hour’s drive away compared to a 3-hour flight for Sissy. She called him daily, dutifully checking in. I called weekly. He mostly watched television - even when he was asleep, it was still company - and gave little acknowledgement to his reduced social circle, downplaying the fact that he rarely left the house except to visit the mailbox.
I rang the bell five long times. He arrived eventually, wearing a red-plaid robe over familiar pajamas, but he didn’t open the door, holding back in the shadows.
“Who is it? What do you want?” He was pale and his thin hair tousled.
“Dad, it’s me. I was in the area. Let me in; I’ve got to use the bathroom.”
“Dario?”
“Guess we can rule out dementia,” I allowed.
“Who’s got dementia?”
“According to your daughter, you do.”
“I’m fine. Thanks for stopping by. Tell her we’ll talk tonight. Can’t wait.” He started to turn away.
“Dad, you want me to pee in the bushes and startle the neighbors or are you going to let me in? I won’t stay long, promise.”
“Keep it brief; I’m on a commercial break.”
“So, I got five minutes?”
“More or less.”
I feigned my business and found him on the couch. He had two crocheted Afghan blankets over him, with tightly closed living room curtains.
“You cold? You want me to turn up the heat?”
“It’s just another bill I can’t afford. A blanket’s fine.”
“Yeah, but two’s better. Am I right?”
“Thanks for visiting. Tell your sister there’s food in the fridge, including some pie she shipped me from somewhere. I don’t live like a hoarder, and even the kitchen sink is clean.”
“No hug?”
“At your age? You still want me to baby you? There’s leftover Halloween candy in the cookie jar. Grab a couple for the road. Give one to your wife, what’s-her-name. Number 2.”
“We’re separated, Dad. I thought you knew.”
“She probably still likes chocolate. You be nice to her, and maybe she’ll be nice to you. And get your head out of the gutter! You never know when your car’s gonna break down and you could use a friend.”
“That’s what Roadside Assistance is for.”
“My show’s coming back. Is this gonna take long?”
“How are you? Don’t say fine.”
“Rough,” he joked. “Old.”
“You need help with anything?”
“I did, but then I stopped doing it. That seems to work for me: I keep cuttin’ back.”
“Can I get you some groceries? A couple of magazines? Maybe one of those jumbo puzzle books.”
“You don’t owe me anything. You did fine by me. No need to fix us. Go home. Tell your sister I look great, for my age, and we had a few laughs remembering her awkward high school years.”
“Dad!”
“You can leave that last part out.”
“Maybe I could take you out to dinner. Would you like that? I’ll bet it’s been a while.”
“Waste of good money.”
“So, you’re okay? You don’t need anything?”
“My online friends think I need this new videogame for something called the Switch. They also think I’m in sixth grade.”
“No comment.”
“Wanna take a selfie with your phone for proof of life?”
“You really don’t mind living like this?” I asked.
“There’s no inheritance, son. No reason to suck up to your old man.”
“Last question: When’s my birthday?”
“I don’t remember. In the winter, I think.”
“August!”
“That’s winter in Australia!”
“What’s my favorite movie?”
“Something with guns and explosions.”
“What’s the last thing Mom said to me, on her deathbed? Remember that?”
“Fine, I don’t remember things like I used to. But why do I need to? I’m retired. From work. From family. From life. I watch soap operas, all of them, because I can eat popcorn for breakfast with flat cream soda. Sometimes I go to bed without brushing my teeth or flossing. I always hated flossing. I bet there are M&Ms under the couch cushions and little piece of potato chips. I still shower a couple of days a week. And shave. It’s my life. I’m living it my way. Go live yours. I won’t judge, if you don’t.”
“You make it sound like this is good-bye.”
“Might as well be. Why wait for me to croak? You knew me when I was at my best. I bet I came to all your games.”
“Some.”
“I never told you how to raise your kids.”
“Like you knew how!”
“Look, I promise not to kill myself or embarrass you. And I’ll send cards on the major holidays: ‘Thinking of you’ and stuff. But, other than that, let’s break up, while we still respect each other. You did it with two wives and survived. And at least a couple of jobs from what I remember. What’s the big deal?”
“Dad...”
“Maybe you should take a box of your mom’s best china before something happens to it.”
“I’m good.”
“And that’s my peace of mind, in my old age: I’m proud of you. Now get out before I start drooling like Niagara Falls on steroids.”
“Wow!”
“Hey, your coming here wasn’t your sister’s idea; I called, did a little acting. Pretty good if I may say so: here you are. I knew you couldn’t resist. The legal paperwork’s in a fireproof box under my bed. I mailed you the key this morning.”
“You manipulative nut!”
“I love you, too. We had a lot of good times, I think. Don’t forget.”
He gave me a bear-hug, completely unexpected, and shoved me out the door, locking it behind me. That was the last time I saw the old man. I keep waiting for my sister to call back. I’d go again if she asked.
Copyright © 2021 by Charles C. Cole
