Hanging Up

by Delia Ephron

  Joe makes a little wave with his hand—Have it your way—and turns on NPR. I stew. “I want you to come with me to UCLA to visit him. Tomorrow morning.”

  “Fine, Eve, of course I’ll come.”

  “And I wish you would talk to Jesse. He has no intention of seeing my father and he doesn’t care about him.”

  “Shush,” says Joe. “They’re supposed to be running my promo now, what happened to my promo?”

  I switch the radio off. “You are so self-centered.”

  Joe pulls over to the side of the road and stops. “Do you remember what your father did? Because I do.” He is talking to me the way I talked to Jesse, as if I had thrown my apple juice can out the window.

  “I remember.”

  “I don’t forgive him for it.”

  “He feels guilty. Even in this demented state he feels guilty about Jesse.”

  “He did it to you, Eve. So I don’t know what all this sympathy’s about or why you expect Jesse to care about a grandfather who’s ignored him.”

  I look at Joe but don’t see him. I focus on this little pulse on the side of his head. “Because it’s kind. Because he’s dying.”

  Joe throws his hands up. “How do you know? How do you know, when no one else knows?”

  “Well, for one thing—”

  “What?”

  “He’s stopped phoning.”

  “Thank God.” Joe pulls back into traffic. My father’s stopped phoning, Joe can get on with his life. “You’re building this whole thing up,” he says. “He’s never been normal, now he’s less so, that’s all.”

  “I don’t want you to go with me.”

  “Where?”

  “To visit my father, Goddamnit.”

  I look out the side window—it’s the closest I can come to turning my back on Joe in the car. “Having you here is worse than having you away.”

  He doesn’t respond. My remark hangs there, all alone, unencumbered, giving it extra kick. I’m not giving you a kidney, Joe, no way, so don’t ask me.

  We don’t speak the rest of the way home, except when I ask if Joe wants the radio back on and he says no. It’s just a stab at pretending that we’re not angry with each other, and I have no idea why I do it, since he should be apologizing to me. I wait in the car while he deals with his luggage and gets inside the house. I don’t even want to share the front door with him.

  When I go in, the wind slams the door shut behind me and the force of it opens the door to Joe’s study. He is sorting through the mail that is piled on his desk, organized by me, with newspapers on one side, personal mail in the middle, and then a disgusting bundle of things with the words “car-rt sort” on them, whatever that means. I hope it takes him a week to go through all the charity appeals, magazine appeals, and campaign appeals. I hope he has received his fifteenth offer of life insurance from MasterCard. I hope someone wants him to plant a tree in Israel, and that he has at least six requests for a subscription to The Nutrition Action Newsletter.

  I stomp up the stairs and then realize that the reason I have a scratch from my wrist to my elbow is still in the car.

  I bang open Jesse’s door without knocking. He jerks up from where he’s flopped across his bed, listening to music. Ifer is lying on her back on the floor. She barely blinks. “Are you all right?” she asks me.

  “Your father is here, Jesse, and I left Buddha in the car. You’d better go get her.” I leave the room.

  “God, you could knock,” I hear on my way out.

  “What, Jesse?” I stick my head back in. Ifer looks nervously back and forth between us.

  “Noth-ing.”

  The phone is ringing. “Oh God.” I go into my bedroom and dump my purse on the bed. “Hello.”

  “May I speak please to Mrs. Mozell?”

  “It’s Ms. Mozell or Mrs. Marks, take your pick,” I snap. “Listen, Dr. Kunundar, I spoke to your mother—”

  “She is worried about you.”

  “What?”

  “She says you have a problem very serious with your father and you should not be worrying about cars at a time like this.”

  “Oh.” I sit down on the bed. I sit as if someone had bopped me on the head and I had no alternative. “You mean you will let me pay for the repair?”

  “Of course, that is no problem, but you know I am a doctor.”

  “Of course.”

  “So I may ask, How is your father?”

  “I don’t know. According to his physician, he’s become senile, but he could live a long time.”

  “That is sad.”

  “How kind of you to say.”

  “May I ask also, is any fixing possible?”

  “We’ve already taken our car to the repair shop. I was worried about yours.”

  “I am meaning your father.”

  “Oh no, he can’t be fixed.”

  “That is very, very sad. When did this start? Was it sudden?”

  “Well, he was difficult when I was growing up. He was an alcoholic and a manic depressive, and now that he’s senile, it’s like he’s the same, only worse.”

  “Hmmmm.” He makes a cozy, mulling sound. “You are kind to take care of your father. You are good.”

  “No, I’m not. I went to see him two days ago and he freaked me out. Before that, I hadn’t been for a week.” This must be what it’s like to be Catholic. All alone in a room, confessing to a voice.

  “I think you should go again. It will be okay.”

  “You are like a Ouija board.”

  “Like a what, please? I do not know this.”

  “A Ouija board tells the future.”

  “You must throw this out right now.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You must not be superstitious.” He is emphatic. What would he make of Ifer? He would probably want me to throw her out too.

  “Do you like cats, Dr. Kunundar?”

  “I do not wear hats. It scares the patients.”

  “I said ‘cats.’”

  “Oh, that is my accident. I work too hard for a pet. I am in operations too much. Maybe someday, but not a cat. Fish is better for me.” He laughs.

  “I think it’s better for me too.”

  “Mrs. Marks—”

  “You can call me Eve.”

  “Oh, you are the first woman. Eve.” He says my name in a velvety way. “Sometimes when they are like your father, they are in and they are out. You knock on the door, you say hello, no one is there, or someone else is there. If someone else is there, it is best to say ‘Excuse me’ and call again. Then you go back later and see if he has come home.”

  “If he were home, he would telephone me.”

  “Maybe not. But you must go to your father because it is necessary for your heart. And I will go to the mechanic because it is necessary for my car.”

  “Just get one price, Dr. Kunundar. You don’t need to get several, what is that thing called? Estimates! God, I couldn’t even think of the word ‘estimate.’ Is it normal to start to lose your memory? I’m”—I balk at telling my age—“in my early forties.”

  I don’t want to consider why, when I have never concealed my age, I suddenly will not tell a doctor I’m forty-four. Do I want to seem desirable? Am I flirting? If I am, it’s Joe’s fault, I’m so angry with him. I feel a hit of guilt. I push it away, tamp it down, but dimly I know that what has just happened is not quite betrayal, but it’s something.

  “A little forgetting is nothing,” says Dr. Kunundar.

  “Good. Well, this is really sweet of you. Just tell me the estimate and I’ll mail you a check.”

  “Right before.”

  “Excuse me? Oh, you mean ‘right away.’”

  “Yes good-bye.”

  Joe walks in and throws his hanging bag on the bed. I get up. “I’m going to see my father. Would you mind getting dinner for Jesse and Ifer?” This is not a question. I leave.

  When I get to UCLA, the Santa Ana winds are blowing more fiercely. They whir thro
ugh the jacarandas, tearing off blossoms, and whip litter up off the street. I have to shield my face while crossing from the parking lot to the tall brick Mental Health building, but the minute the heavy entrance door clicks shut behind me, it’s tomb silent. It might even be peaceful.

  Maybe he’s in and maybe he’s out. If he’s out, I’ll call again. As I go up in the elevator, I prepare myself with Dr. Kunundar’s wisdom.

  I buzz, and a nurse I have never seen unlocks the door. “I’m here to see Lou Mozell.”

  “He’s in his room,” she says, and continues on past me. “I’m out of here, yes!” I hear her say as she smacks her palm on the elevator button.

  My father’s door is closed. I knock. “Dad?”

  “Evie?”

  I look in.

  He’s lying on the bed, curled up on his side, still dressed. His body has a soft, malleable quality, like bread dough. It has almost no definition. His eyes are open. Big and watery.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  He tries to push himself up, but either his arms are too weak or he can’t tell them what to do.

  “Here, let me help.” I try to lift him by his shoulders. I pull; he slides right out of my hands. I pull again but stop because it feels as if I could pull his shoulders off, just disconnect them from the rest of him. There is too much dead weight. To get a better grip, maybe even leverage, I have to move closer. I have to hug him. I stand rooted to the floor. “It’s okay, Dad. You don’t need to sit up.”

  “I want to.” His voice is there, the safe one. I check his face less fearfully. Yes, he’s in now.

  “I don’t think I’m strong enough to help you. Would you like me to get a nurse?”

  “What time is it?” he asks.

  “Seven thirty-two.”

  When I was an antsy kid, wanting to go somewhere or waiting for something like my birthday party to start, I would ask over and over, “What time is it?” “You’re watching the clock,” my mother would exclaim, exasperated. That’s what my father is doing now—watching the clock. With his attention span blown, along with his ability to concentrate, there’s nothing else for him. He’s in time hell: it’s too late for everything and life stretches out interminably. “What time is it?” It’s the saddest question. Do you know what you’re waiting for, Dad, or is it the only question left?

  I look around his room. There’s no life here, really. No magazines on the bedside table. No pens, or scribbled notes, or photos of people he might intermittently recognize. His clothes are scattered on the floor. I pick up his shirts, his shorts. A pair of pants. They are shiny brown with a silver glint like the fake fabric of a carpet. The waist is huge.

  “God, Dad, you’re so fat.”

  “I know,” he says with a sort of wonderment. A genuine “How did it happen?”

  And for one second it feels like a real conversation. Like he’s normal and the only “How did it happen?” about him is not his entire crazy life and not this final frying of his brain, but just “How did he get fat?”

  I measure the waist of his pants, using the width of my hand open wide as a ruler. One, two, three, four, five. Not quite six. What’s that? About forty-six inches. “I think you need some new clothes.”

  I glance over. He’s trying to push himself up again. He huffs, he puffs, and there is the slightest little lift; then he thuds down permanently. It’s the opposite of a baby, who tries and tries and finally succeeds. He tries and tries and finally fails. I collapse into a chair, the pants a heap in my lap.

  “We had something special, didn’t we, Evie?”

  You won’t let me go without an answer, will you? You won’t go without hearing what you want to hear. “Yes, Dad.” It’s so much easier to say than not.

  “What time is it?”

  “Seven thirty-five.”

  “I want to go to sleep.”

  “Okay.”

  I walk over to the cage. “My father needs some help getting undressed. He wants to sleep.”

  Two nurses come back with me to the room. They stand at his bed and stare down at him. “You want to go to sleep, Mr. Mozell? It’s very early,” one of them says.

  “Aw, what the hell,” says my father.

  I kiss him on the check. “Bye, Dad. Bye, Daddy.”

  “What time is it?” I hear him ask as I close the door.

  The Santa Anas are now blowing fitfully, as if they can’t decide whether to go or to stay. I hit a calm spot as I walk back into the house. I pass Joe’s study. The door is closed, but I know he’s still there—we always hang out in our respective studies when we’re angry. I hear music coming from upstairs. Undoubtedly Jesse and Ifer’s. I start up, toward bed. I’m not going to speak to Joe. I have no desire to. I turn on the stairs and head back to his study.

  “The thing that really bothered me—” I have opened his door but am not looking at him. I am speaking to his space. “The thing that really bothered me is that when I went to pick you up at the airport, you didn’t ask how my father was.”

  “I know how your father is.” Joe leans back in a particularly self-satisfied way and puts his feet up on his desk.

  “Really.” I give the word Georgia punch.

  “I spoke to Doris.”

  “Doris the nurse?”

  “Did you know she plays the harmonica with a group called the Harmonettes? They went to Agoura Hills High School together—two nurses, a nun, and a flight attendant. Two months ago, they went on Star Search. Doris, on Star Search!” Joe’s normally bright eyes are on high beam. “They’re entertaining at the National Bowling Championships in Dubuque.”

  “I suppose you may do an interview with them?”

  “Right.”

  “The point isn’t how my father is, it’s how I am.” The Santa Anas rear up and clap two windows shut for emphasis. “It’s completely beside the point that Doris is a harmonica-playing geriatric nurse.”

  I rage up the stairs. Joe is out of his chair after me. “You’re as crazy as your father,” he shouts. I slam into the bathroom and lock the door.

  “Eve?”

  I don’t answer.

  “Eve, for God’s sake, knock it off.”

  I will not knock it off. I’m going to stay here in this bathroom. I will not talk to you and I will not be charmed. I am going to contemplate my sad sagging behind and my chin, which is threatening to double, and the unwanted lines around my eyes. I’m going to stare at them until I feel really bad, and I know, I absolutely know in my gut, that this overwhelming need to feel awful (or is it angry?) is my father’s fault.

  Seven

  Georgia was the first person I knew to buy an answering machine. The summer of 1975, a few days before my father’s wedding. She recorded her magazine voice on it, the one that was an octave lower than her normal voice.

  “Hello, this is Georgia Mozell. Yes, it’s true … I’ve taken my last name back. Please leave a message, preferably short, after the beep.”

  “Yes, it’s true …” There was a long pause after this. Georgia always knew how to create dramatic effect.

  I spoke to the machine. “Hi, it’s me. I was wondering what you’re wearing to this event. I guess you’ve already left.”

  “Don’t hang up, I’m here. I’m screening calls. This machine is wonderful. It’s like having my secretary at home. Go right out and buy yourself one.”

  “To record whose calls? I haven’t had a date since Philip. Let’s see, we broke up last October, now it’s July, that’s—”

  “Nine months,” said Georgia. “Eve, you must be optimistic.” I knew she wasn’t talking just about me. “You cannot be single and not have an answering machine.”

  There it was. No sooner did Georgia have this invention than she had a rule about it. “It’s the single woman’s security blanket.” A rule and a cover line.

  “What are you wearing to the wedding?”

  “Basic black. I think I shall wear it for the rest of my life.”

  “In honor of your divorce?
”

  “No, silly. Because I’ve decided it’s best to find one look and stick to it.”

  A look was something I could never manage. It required more than bottoms and tops. It required scarves, pins, a variety of shoes. In other words, accessories. I owned one purse. Even at the age of twenty-four, I knew I would always own one purse. At this time it was a large brown leather thing with a flap, and I knew I would wear it to my father’s wedding even though it did not go with … what? While talking to Georgia, I’d been standing in front of my closet unable to decide what to wear.

  “Georgia, I’ve got to get dressed. I’ll see you later.”

  “Eve?”

  “What?”

  “Did Richard ever kiss you?” She said it so fast I almost didn’t understand it.

  “What? No. Why?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I saw this idiotic cartoon by your roommate Adrienne, ‘Reasons They Broke Up,’ and reason four was ‘French-kissed your sister.’”

  “I was never French-kissed by Richard.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  There was an uncharacteristic quiet here. Georgia was always in a hurry.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, dar-ling.” She mocked herself, putting extra zip on the last word. “Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  The phone rang.

  “Hello.”

  “I’m a Yankee Doodle dandy …” He was singing, actually belting the song, maybe he was even using hand gestures.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “Yankee Doodle, do or die … Did you ever think you’d hear Lou Mozell so happy again?”

  “I’m glad.”

  He hung up.

  The phone rang again.

  “Hello, this is Lola Carlton. Your father is marrying—”

  “Sure, of course, hi.” Do I say congratulations? Do I warn her about what her poor mother is getting herself into? Do I tell her not to give my father her phone number under any circumstances?

  “I’m looking forward to meeting you. I’ve heard so much about you from your dad. He raves and raves.”

  “Really, that’s nice. I’m looking forward to meeting you too.”

  “I wonder if you would mind if I brought my portfolio to the wedding?”