{"id":142442,"date":"2020-01-31T09:00:54","date_gmt":"2020-01-31T14:00:54","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=142442"},"modified":"2020-01-31T10:26:31","modified_gmt":"2020-01-31T15:26:31","slug":"the-phone-call","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2020\/01\/31\/the-phone-call\/","title":{"rendered":"The Phone Call"},"content":{"rendered":"

Jill Talbot\u2019s column,\u00a0The Last Year<\/a>,<\/em>\u00a0traces the moments and seasons before her daughter leaves for college. This essay marks the end of the winter series. The column will return again in March, and then again in the summer.<\/em><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

After driving fifty miles on US 380 to McKinney, I take I-75 south toward the Ridgeview exit. I\u2019m on my way to the cemetery, silk red roses in the passenger seat. In three days, it will be three years since my phone rang at nine twenty on a Saturday morning. My mother, telling me my father was gone.<\/p>\n

I take a right toward the cemetery and follow the winding path to the tree. I park beside it.<\/p>\n

As the first anniversary of my father\u2019s death approached, my mother asked me to put roses on his grave: \u201cI want him to have them for the day.\u201d She wasn\u2019t well enough to do it herself\u2014the cancer, diagnosed not long after his death, had taken its last turn, though we didn\u2019t know it then. When she died, fourteen months after my father, I swiped through the photos on her phone and found his grave, its mound of funeral flowers. He was buried on the first of February, and the dates on the photographs showed she had driven the hour there on the second, the third, the fourth, and the fifth. Disbelief, I imagine, and the need to convince herself it was true.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

My father died in the hotel room where my parents were staying in McKinney, Texas. A heart attack at eighty-three. He was gone before my mother could get to the phone. He was gone when the paramedics asked him his name. He was gone when the ambulance rushed away, my mother following in their car to the emergency room.<\/p>\n

On the second anniversary of my father\u2019s death, last year, my sixteen-year-old daughter, Indie, and I were at my parent\u2019s house for the final time, packing boxes, going through drawers and closets, watching movers load the furniture we wanted before the estate sale. The day came and went.<\/p>\n

I cross the grass to the headstone, the one my parents share. This is the first anniversary I have had the chance to really remember\u2014the daze of a drive Indie and I made on 380 East that Saturday morning, the corners we turned in the ER until we found my mother in the doorway watching for us, my father\u2019s body in the room behind her. I kneel down and press my fingertips to the date: January 28, 2017.<\/p>\n

Indie\u2019s at work today, so she\u2019ll come to the cemetery by herself tomorrow. I will not write her grief here, only mine.<\/p>\n

My father would\u2014get a paper plate and fill it with Nilla wafers, then grab a knife and spread peanut butter on each one; race popsicle sticks with me in the rush of water along the curb after it rained; play his Jerry Lee Lewis albums loud enough to hear while he was in shower; spin our orange VW bug in the mall parking lot when it snowed (\u201cDon\u2019t tell your mother\u201d); recount the entire plot of the movie he had gone to see by himself; prop his feet on the rubber rails of escalators as we descended, one foot on each side; call me whenever Titanic<\/em> was on TV; follow me to my car every time I left to go back to college to tell me, \u201cRemember why you\u2019re there\u201d; write me letters on yellow legal-pad pages; drive me to downtown Dallas and walk the 5K route while I ran; ask the piano player in Nordstrom to play \u201cLa Vie en Rose\u201d; order a waffle, crisp<\/em>, bacon, crisp<\/em>; swim laps at dusk while Indie swam beside him.<\/p>\n

Every time I visit the cemetery, I talk to my parents. I look at the tree, and I tell them things. But today, after I remove the poinsettias and walk them down to the dumpster, after I set the roses in the vase and arrange them until I can hear my mother saying, \u201cPretty,\u201d I stand silent. I think about next year when Indie will be at college, and how, then, everyone will be gone.<\/p>\n

I won\u2019t mind being alone. I\u2019ve always felt most myself when I\u2019m by myself, but still, Indie will go in seven months, and her leaving will be another loss in a litany of losses. All of them, one after another. The soon of Indie\u2019s leaving trembles like a last train car.<\/p>\n

Across the way, a tractor bounces over the grass to dig a new grave.<\/p>\n

Three days from now, on January 28, I will wake while it\u2019s still dark, unable to sleep while the rain slows. I\u2019ll turn over and back again, throwing back the covers, feeling dread. Later, I will sit with Indie at the kitchen table and tell her, \u201cIt\u2019s as if I woke up and felt that phone call coming again.\u201d And I will glance at the chair where my father always sat when I say, \u201cThe body has a memory.\u201d Indie will nod, tell me she woke up in a cold sweat.<\/p>\n

I will not tell her that after I left the cemetery, I drove to the Holiday Inn and Suites on I-75. Or that I pulled into the parking lot and drove around the four-story building and figured out there\u2019s only one entrance to the hotel. Or that I parked, one of a few cars in the lot, and looked in every direction, wondering which one my father took on his last walk. I do not tell her how I stared at the automatic double doors of the entrance.<\/p>\n

Instead, I will tell her about the popsicle sticks, the way Dad would count to three before we let them go, the way he ran alongside his stick, shouting, \u201cCome on, my guy! Come on, my guy!\u201d The way I laughed and ran with him.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Read earlier installments of\u00a0<\/a><\/em>The Last Year<\/em>\u00a0<\/a>here.<\/a><\/em><\/p>\n

Jill Talbot<\/a>\u00a0is the author of<\/em>\u00a0The Way We Weren\u2019t: A Memoir\u00a0and\u00a0<\/em>Loaded: Women and Addiction. Her writing has been recognized by\u00a0the Best American Essays and appeared in journals such as\u00a0<\/em>AGNI,<\/em>\u00a0Brevity,<\/em>\u00a0Colorado Review,<\/em>\u00a0DIAGRAM,<\/em>\u00a0Ecotone,<\/em>\u00a0Longreads,<\/em>\u00a0The Normal School,<\/em>\u00a0The Rumpus,<\/em>\u00a0and\u00a0<\/em>Slice Magazine.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I\u2019m on my way to the cemetery, silk red roses in the passenger seat.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":487,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[59083],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-142442","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-the-last-year"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nThe Phone Call by Jill Talbot<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"January 31, 2020 \u2013 I\u2019m on my way to the cemetery, silk red roses in the passenger seat.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2020\/01\/31\/the-phone-call\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" 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