Can’t Keep a Good Girl Down: Chapter 7

The session musicians emerge from Studio A at 5 p.m. on the dot — the close of their second three-hour shift. Most of them walk straight to my desk to check for new phone messages. The session players are always pleasant, sometimes even friendly. Are they being especially nice to me on this day? Do they know? Do I have a scarlet letter on my forehead to symbolize my insane grief? Doubtful, but I do feel like I’m wearing a tattered veil to protect my thoughts from the outside world.

I’m a few minutes away from heading home when the phone rings. Again. I mash the blinking light and hope it’s something simple.

“Hi…It’s your Dad,” And then it dawns on me. Oh holy crap. I completely forgot that we’re supposed to have dinner tonight. We made plans last weekend, when John was alive.

“So where do you want to meet for dinner?”

“Uh, well, I don’t know. I’m sorry. I…something happened a couple days ago. Remember John, the guy I had been dating for a while?”

“You mentioned him a few times.”

“Well…he died. Wednesday night. In an accident.”

I tell my father the basics: the fall, that he left to get the elevator and never came back. My Dad and I spent every Sunday together since my parents divorced when I was 14. For years, we went to the movies, took day trips to Fall Creek Falls way out near Pikeville, Tennessee, and saw orchestral performances at MTSU.

When I started working on Sundays, we made weekly dinner dates. I cherish those just as much. I don’t think I’ve ever missed a week without seeing my Dad — until this one.

“So, I’ve been a little distracted,” I continue with a nervous laugh, my shoulders up to my ears again. I am terrified of my father when he’s angry. I’ve spent most of my life trying not to push him to that state. “I forgot about dinner. Can we meet some time next week? All I really want to do is be with his roommate, Warren. I was there all day yesterday. But I can meet another…”

Dad cuts me off. “Can you hold on a minute?”

I wait. After a brief pause, Dad comes back on the line. “I have to go. Debbie is in my office. She needs to ask me something. I’ll call you later. Bye.”

I hold the dead phone in my hand, as if I expect him to suddenly return to the line and say, “Oh! I’m so sorry! How rude of me to cut our conversation short. I’m so deeply sorry for your loss. Yes, by all means, spend time with your friends. I will call you tomorrow.” Those words never come. My father all but hung up on me because I forgot about one dinner because the closest person to me just died.

Angry? Not immediately. I wanted — needed — my father to show some compassion. I didn’t expect him to drop everything he’s doing and rush to my side, but I would have loved some wise fatherly words of assurance. That’s what fathers are supposed to do, isn’t it? My father offers sound guidance when it comes to “safe” topics, such as my education or my career. But apparently when it comes to emotionally intense topics, he runs.

I wouldn’t be surprised if some of my friends “run.” It’s uncomfortable to be around a grieving person. But a parent’s love is supposed to be unconditional.

I shouldn’t be surprised by my father’s reaction, either, really. He ran from my mom and me ten years ago. He left my mom with not much more than a credit card and daughter that didn’t understand what was so terrible that made him leave. Now he’s married to Debbie, a woman ten years younger than him that he met at the Moose Lodge.

I thought I was special enough to him that he would understand my oversight and give me some comfort. I thought I could count on him, the first man to leave for no good reason.