Dad's Number

“Hello?” A man asks.

“…” I swallow. “Hi.”

“Who is this?” His voice is gravelly and low.

“Sorry, um… my name is Sammy.” I pause as a wedge of air holds my vocal chords in place.

“Oh, uh… Can I help you?”

He doesn’t sound particularly friendly, but he hasn’t hung up yet so I take a slow breath to dislodge the lump in my throat. “Hi, uh, sorry,” I clear my dry throat. “You don’t know me, but I was wondering if you could spare me some of your time. You see,” I rush on, desperate to keep him from hanging up, “the phone number you have… used to be my dad’s.” It feels like a fist has gripped my trachea and I make a faintly choked sound.

He must’ve heard something, as his next words are softer, “How long has it been?”

“A few months.” I blink rapidly. I try again to clear the blockage in my throat.

“I’m sorry.” His voice is hushed, the deep tone soothing.

“We were...uh… We were talking on the phone. We were gonna… gonna hang out that Sunday and he said, uh, he said he still wasn’t feeling well but we could, we could probably do it the next weekend.” I coughed.

“Mmmhmmm,” he hums.

“And then, um,” I swallow hard, “and then he said to call 911.” I pause for an eternity of moments, wishing I could have spent them all with him. “And then he, um, and then when they got there, he wasn’t. They couldn’t…” And then they come.

The tears fall like a torrent on cracked, dry desert. My shoulders shake as my world, which had been held together with plaster and mud, finally crumbles. I’m beside myself, watching as I break down curled on my couch, knees held tightly to my chest, one arm thrown around them. The other hand grips my phone, pressing it to my ear as I cling to the last vestige of a man who’d been a lifeline for me. A man whose bear hugs let me know I was never alone and whose smile was more a home than all the places I’d lived.

As it came to a close, I realize that the voice on the other end of the phone had been singing ‘Risen Savior’, one of the songs I’d often sung with my dad. My lungs ache, and my throat feels as thick as if I’d just had a spoonful of peanut butter. I can barely see through my marshmallow eyes and my head feels like the warehouse for a whole cottonfield.

So, I listen. I listen as the gravelly voice starts in on another song, practically feeling his resonant voice through the speakers. After that one he sings another and another. The private concert, though not quite the same, brings forth all the quiet evenings, all the car rides, all the Christmases and family gatherings and sabbaths that I’d ever spent with my dad, singing for as long as we had songs on our tongues and air in our lungs.

I shift to lay on my side, stretching my drained body out on the couch. As he pauses between songs, I hear him take a drink.

“What’s your name?” I ask before he can start another song. I wonder if he heard the question.

“Samuel.”

“That was my dad’s name.” I feel like I’m stuck on a chunk of broken ice, drifting numbly on a river of my own tears.

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” I yawn. “I was named after him you know.” I let my eyes close; they’re too heavy to keep open.

“I also had a child named after me.” His voice sounds tired.

“Oh?” I ask, faint interest stirring. But that melts into guilt and sadness. “Had?”

“Yes. Samantha. She passed a couple years ago.” I waited, listening to his breath in the silence.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

I was starting to drift off.

“Is it..” I pause. I want to ask, but I don’t know if I should. With a mental shrug, I acknowledge that I’m too tired to think it through appropriately. So, I ask, “Would it be okay… if I called again tomorrow?”

There’s silence on the other end. Had I overstepped? Did I seem too creepy? I’m probably being a nuisance, of course he’d have more important things to do than talk to a weird stranger.

“I would like that.” There was more gravel in his voice, a thick emotion I knew all too well.

Maybe. Just maybe. Tomorrow wouldn’t be so bad.