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I laugh. “A minute. Let’s relax downstairs. I could go for a margarita.”
“Consider it done.”
thirty-one
. . .
Abel
Voices
I’mat the stove the next morning, reading Google’s instructions for making an omelet on my phone, when a call comes through.
I don’t recognize the number.
Or—wait a second, I actually do. Came up on my phone a few months back.
My stomach flips. Glancing over my shoulder, I see Jen sitting at the island, brow furrowed as she types on her laptop. The dogs are at my feet, noses already in the air in anticipation of breakfast.
A voice inside my head tells me not to take the call. But what if Dad is hurt or in trouble?
What kind of son would I be if I didn’t pick up?
A smart one.
Last time Dad and I talked, our conversation didn’t end well. He was asking for more money for his commissary so he could buy food “because they weren’t feeding him enough”. He sounded strung out, slurring his words at some points while forgetting words altogether at others. His case workertold me he’d been disciplined for possessing “illegal contraband”, but Dad swore up and down he wasn’t using drugs.
I pressed him on it. He got defensive. It turned into a shouting match.
I still ended up sending him the money, but the whole thing put me in a funk for weeks. I’m the only family he’s got left. And even after all this time—all the ways he’s let me down and screwed with my head—I still felt like I was the one who lethimdown.
What happened to Dad isn’t his fault. Guess I’m still holding on to hope that I can convince him to get the help he needs.
“I gotta take this.” I hold up my phone. “Y’all okay?”
Jen looks up from her laptop and smiles. “No problem. Just answering some emails, so no rush.”
I step outside onto the back deck, closing the door behind me. The sun is already strong, the humidity thick in the air. Summertime has arrived.
I find a tiny spot of shade and glide my thumb across my phone screen. The operator goes through the usual script.Collect call. Correctional Facility. Press one to accept charges.
An elephant plops down on my chest as I press one. “Hello?”
“Abel? That you, son?”
Everything in me balks at his use of that word. “It’s me. Hey, Dad. How’s it going?’
“I been better, you know.”
“You seeing that counselor? Nadine told me they’ve got a really good one who specializes in?—”
“I saw her. Didn’t do nothing. She’s nice enough, but.”
“I think you should keep seeing her.”
“I will, I will. Things good with you?”
I glance through the window. Jen is feeding the dogs, the girls leaping toward her with their tails wagging a hundred times per second.
