by Rachel Khong
“He means a great deal to us,” Theo reiterates.
Then Theo makes me take down his number. I don’t write it down the first time, but he asks me to repeat it back to him, and says “Ha!” when I can’t, so I fish a receipt from my purse and write it there.
January 16
I kept a pair of running shoes in my locker at the medical center. Whenever I grew weary—every other day, approximately—I’d eat a few Falafel Planet falafels and head to Kezar Stadium, and attempt to run myself into a euphoric state. It never worked, but I never gave up—I’d make like a hamster and run. If I was lucky I could run myself into a stupor, which was the next best thing.
Here I jog up and down the staircase, and count the flights like laps.
Eat, I try to communicate to the blue jay that’s hopping on the arm of our lawn chair. It is four hops away from the feeder, which I yesterday filled with sesame seeds, when it flies away.
I take the Christmas tree, with its dried-out needles, to the sidewalk. I wanted to see how long I could keep it alive with sugar water. It’s fought the good fight, but the tree, it’s obvious, is no longer with us.
On Family Feud, one of the categories is “Advantages of artificial trees over real trees.” One of the popular reasons is “no smell.” More and more, I get this feeling I don’t know a thing.
January 19
Dinner is take-out enchiladas and tamarind sodas. Yesterday was filets-o-fish. The day before it was rotisserie chicken. To Mom, it seems not to matter that these restaurants most likely use aluminum. She got tired, I think.
Mom and I eat our enchiladas in the living room, in front of the TV, on which Dr. Oz is measuring a woman’s calf. This number will reveal her risk of stroke and liver problems, he says.
About the ripped piece of yellow paper hanging from the sleeve of my mom’s cardigan, she says, “A glue-gun accident.”
When I ask how she’s doing, Mom says, “Fine, fine, fine.”
What I’m telling her: Aluminum is in cake mix, antiperspirant, antacids. There’s aluminum in the earth’s crust.
What I mean is: You’re not to blame for this.
What I mean is: It’s not your fault.
“Put on a sweater,” Mom replies.
I’ve been taking from the top of my suitcase, not exhuming any farther.
“I’m cold looking at you,” she says.
January 20
“Dad? Please.” I’m sitting outside the door.
“Go home,” he says, for the two hundredth time.
I slide him a tortilla, into which I’ve folded jam.
What do I do all day? I don’t even know. I dig hair out of the bathroom drain with a chopstick. I listen to what sounds like a dog whimpering, and which turns out to be a squirrel talking to another squirrel. I watch a woman in scrubs walk by our living-room window, neatly eating a taco.
I read messages on Alzheimer’s caregiver forums—threads about Medicare, about the best brand of adult diaper, about what to do if your loved one accuses you of stealing his money. Consensus: Be calm, apologize.
On a different board, I read the messages about how to find your life’s passion. Consensus: Try everything! Be sure to do all the quizzes in What Color Is Your Parachute?
How unfair, that he isn’t sad—that Joel never spent time mourning us. What goddamned fucking unfair full-of-shit bullshit.
“Ruth,” he joked once, “I’m going to change my last name to ‘Less’ and then marry you.” I was never planning to change my last name anyway, so joke’s on him, I guess.
January 23
I find Levin’s phone number and extension on the college website. Now I’m calling him.
“Hello?” he says, sounding very tentative. I realize it’s my father’s name that shows up on his caller ID.
I introduce myself, and apologize: I don’t know if you remember me. The last time he saw me I was probably twelve or thirteen. I remember being rude to him—no ruder to him than anyone else, but rude just the same.
I remind him that I’m Howard Young’s daughter, and Levin asks, reluctantly, how my father is.
I tell him: My father has never been better! In fact, that’s why I’ve called! I realize the semester has already begun, but is there any way for him to get his job back?
I’m being as polite as I can manage. I’ve adjusted the pitch of my voice—it’s higher.
After I’ve stated my case, there’s a long pause.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” the dean says.
“Would you be open to a trial period?” I ask, pleasantly.
“I would not,” he says.
“But why not?” I persist.
Something like twenty seconds pass.
“Ms. Young,” Levin replies, not having any of this. “You understand: your father is unwell. My decision takes into consideration the safety of all involved. I hope I’m being clear.” He pauses. “If I see your father on campus, I’ll have to call the police.”
They’d always had a rivalry, Levin and my dad, but they had always been cordial. Years ago Levin got the promotion that Dad had wanted. I could see why it enraged my father, to be at Levin’s mercy. His smug voice made my blood boil.
I call Theo to admit defeat. Not exactly in those words, though.
January 24
At five this morning, while my parents are still asleep, I drive to the doughnut shop. There are two people in line: a stout woman in a short sequined dress buying crullers, and a tall, messy-haired man who looks to be in his thirties, with his hands in his pant pockets. Noticing me, he takes a hand out and gives me an awkward half-wave. His wallet falls out of his pocket in the process; he bends to pick it up, sheepishly.
“Ruth?” he ventures.
“Theo,” I say.
Theo asks what kind of doughnut I want, and I tell him glazed. He proceeds to buy us a few glazed doughnuts, a matching number of doughnut holes, and a couple cups of coffee. We settle into a table in the middle of the shop, as though someone might notice us in the window.
The plan is to meet on Mondays, because Levin, our nemesis, isn’t on campus on Mondays. But first we need to find a classroom: morning to night, the History Department building is back-to-back full.
“I’ll let your dad know that the department changed its mind about letting him teach,” Theo says, putting the smallest splash of cream into his coffee with his left hand. I notice a scar, an inch between his index finger and thumb—pale and shiny. And then I notice there are at least four other markings, streaking the back of his hand.
“My cat gave those to me,” he says, because I’m the worst at not staring. “I was ten. Anyway, I’ll e-mail him with the list of enrolled students.”
“Who are the enrolled students?”
“Former students. Grad students who’ve been in his civil rights class.”
“What about his office?”
“I’ll tell him it was moved,” Theo says. “And that he can use mine.”
“Where will you be?”
“I’ll share space with my friend Joan,” he says. “It’s only a semester. It’s no big deal.”
He chews a doughnut hole. “I feel like I have to buy the holes,” he says, “because doughnuts have their holes punched out of them. Whereas bagels’ holes are made by stretching. Not buying them feels like being part of the problem.”
All the doughnuts are gone and I can tell he’s trying to decide whether or not to say more. I attempt to take a drink from my empty coffee cup.
“He was sending these e-mails,” Theo says.
E-mails to the provost insisting that Levin be dismissed. List after list of his shortcomings, one after another, and the president had mentioned some of these complaints.
So Levin was none too happy about it.
But that aside, the myriad grievances were true—things had been slipping. Dad had mixed up dates—shown up for Thursday classes on Fridays, Wednesday classes on Mondays. He’d left classrooms of student
s waiting. Forgotten names. Forgotten tests. Forgotten grades.
“He seems okay,” I say.
“He seems okay,” Theo agrees.
“Hey,” I ask. “How’d you know I’d be home? You know, when you called?”
“Your dad,” Theo says, “talks about you all the time. He was so excited that you were coming home for Christmas.” I have to look away, embarrassed.
At home I save Theo’s number into my cell phone and give him a code name: PHILLIP. I throw away the receipt that I’ve written Theo’s number on. It was from years ago—for a meatball sub and a Coke I shared with Joel in the cafeteria. I remember Joel had been in a good mood, and it had helped to buoy mine. That morning I’d had a woman scream at me. In her ultrasound photo, it looked as though her baby didn’t have a foot.
“YOU SAID SHE WAS NORMAL,” the woman shrieked.
I tried to point the foot out to her, but it was too little too late. The woman was already inconsolable.
“She should be fired!” she’d screamed to everyone, storming out of the exam room while pointing damningly at me.
And even though my coworkers laughed sympathetically about it afterward, and even though this patient was known to be a drama queen, and even though Joel said, “You can’t let that get to you,” I couldn’t help it—I let it, anyway.
January 26
When I call Dr. Nazaryan to tell him the idea, he seems unperturbed—even excited. He says it so happens he’s actually rescheduled his Monday seminar, so we can use his classroom for our first meeting.
“Have you seen Bonnie?”
“I have.”
“I’m glad to hear you’re in touch again,” he says, gently.
“I’m glad, too,” I say.
January 30
“They changed their minds?” is Mom’s reaction to Dad’s news about the semester of class he’s going to be teaching after all.
She is pushing an iron down the sleeve of one of Dad’s dress shirts. The smell of ironing is a smell I love. The iron travels down the sleeve, like a ship on a shining river.
She says nothing for a moment. She glances at me—my face is doing I don’t know what. Suddenly, she gets it. I see her decide not to object.
“Take Ruth with you,” Mom says.
“It’s work, Annie,” Dad replies, avoiding my gaze.
Mom’s looking at him in a funny way. It’s pity, I think—possibly even disdain. It’s two seconds, maybe, then passes.
“Please, Howard.” Mom touches his upper arm. “Maybe she’ll learn something.”
“Can you assist?” Dad says, skeptically.
“I’m a professional assister,” I say. “I’m at your service.” I salute him.
Reluctantly, he tells me my duties: I am to make sure that the library has the textbooks the students need. I am to photocopy the materials that aren’t available in book format, and get them bound.
“Can you handle that?” Dad asks. I tell him I can.
February 2
We drive to campus, Dad in his ironed shirt and a shiny tie. He always used to point out the types of trees to me. He points to one now and looks at me expectantly.
“Holly oak,” I ID.
He points at another, a crape myrtle. There’s a southern magnolia, and a California pepper, which is my favorite—knobby with drooping leaves like a willow’s.
Barring two exceptions, there is no such thing as a native California tree, he says to me, in his teacher’s voice. It’s because of him I already know this. All the trees in California at some point were carefully selected, then planted, coaxed into growing here.
Except for redwoods. The other exception: ancient bristlecone pines, the oldest trees in the world, which somehow live in California—in Bishop. The oldest one is five thousand years old, and its location is a Forest Service secret. It’s in Bishop, and that’s all the public can know. We can’t be trusted.
Dad’s parking permit has expired, so we park in the visitors lot.
“Make yourself useful,” he says, peeling the permit sticker off and tossing it at me. “Renew this thing.”
“I’ll look into it,” I lie.
We meet in Dr. Nazaryan’s classroom where, sitting around a conference table, are eight students. The room is small with a powdery chalkboard in front and fluorescent lighting overhead. He greets each by name, then introduces me and says I’ll be helping this semester. They all call him Howard.
Dad says: This course is California History, Pre-European Contact to the Present.
We’ll cover the Spanish arrival in California, the hide-and-tallow trade, the Mexican-American War, the gold rush, the building of the railroads, the San Francisco earthquake, the importance of water: the rise of Hollywood and the failing of the St. Francis Dam.
We’ll touch on California’s environmental diversity and abundant—seemingly inexhaustible—natural resources. Immigration, agriculture, and so on. I hand out photocopies of the syllabus.
Actually, I never finished college. Joel was two years ahead and had been accepted to med school in Connecticut. I miss you too much, he said, on one of our phone calls, during the long-distance year—a thing I took, and ran with.
I’m flattered too easily, is my problem. One of them, anyway.
This is why a person would, seven months shy of finishing college, decide to drop out. I’d had pretty good grades.
In Connecticut, I got a job cutting fabric at the Discount Fabric Outlet, where mothers would come to buy the fabric to sew their kids’ Halloween costumes. I could still tell you what fabric to buy to outfit a reptile, or a Power Ranger. Six months of that, and then I enrolled in my associate’s program. Then Joel’s residency took us to San Francisco, where we both got jobs at the medical center.
And I liked it. It seemed like fate: a roundabout route to your happy career, and I did, I did like it. It seemed romantic.
After class, outside the seminar room, students linger. Someone says she read it was safe to eat cows with eye cancer. Someone else says that in Chicago, where it is twelve degrees below zero, a peacock was found frozen to a pine tree. A biplane is flying overhead: toward sunset, west.
“Theo, my daughter,” is how Dad introduces me.
Theo, who’s wearing the same crumpled shirt he wore to the doughnut shop, sticks out his hand and says, “Pleasure to meet you,” very coolly. We shake hands like perfect strangers.
Across the courtyard, Dr. Nazaryan is hurrying somewhere and carrying a briefcase that appears to weigh him down on one side. He waves hello.
They’re serious about their fountains on this campus, and as kids, so were Bonnie and I—tossing in dimes and quarters whenever we had them. We’d pull connected pine needles apart like wishbones. I don’t know how we came up with so many wishes; I can’t remember a single one. But what could we have wanted back then?
We never shared those wishes. We were scared that by sharing them, they wouldn’t come true. But now it occurs to me that if we’d divulged them to each other then, we’d be better able to remember them now: we’d have someone else to help with half the work of remembering.
Summer afternoons, one of our dads would pick us up from our day care and seat us in the back of their afternoon classes. We’d whisper and wriggle through the two hours. On the days it wasn’t too hot out, we would lie out on the lawn with our fathers’ students, who found us funny: their professors’ strange little girls. What I remember are the days when there were clouds, when they’d try to get us to see shapes. We were always disappointing them, I think. Clouds looked like scrambled eggs to me.
“Cotton candy,” Bonnie would suggest, not helping.
“Ground beef?” I’d try, and they wouldn’t be pleased with that answer, either.
“But what else?” they’d persist.
My parents don’t have a clue that I didn’t graduate. I had to lie to them only barely. I told them I didn’t want them to fly all the way to see me walk—the ceremony would be silly and expensive. I
told them I’d been mailed my diploma. They had no reason to believe otherwise, and they didn’t insist, because I so vehemently out-insisted them.
I try not to make a habit of playing out the possibilities: if I’d finished college, I’d have been this or that, or something else. It’s a game I try not to play because it doesn’t end any way but the way that it does—the way that it has.
It was idiotic of me not to finish school, though. Idiotic, and stupid, and now what?
February 5
There’s a lone page on the kitchen counter.
Today you had me excavate your nose, which you’d put corn into.
Today, while I was trying to teach you to swim, you asked how deep the pool was. When I said four feet, you looked incredulous, and said, Whose feet!
Today we went over to your mother’s friend’s house for dinner. We’d asked you to be polite, so you said, “No more, please, it’s horrible thank you.”
Today was my birthday, and you asked me how old I was. When I told you thirty-five you seemed stunned. You asked me if I started at one. Then you asked: When do we die?
Today you said, apropos of nothing, “Good corpse, bad corpse.”
February 7
Bonnie and I are lying on Vince’s little black couch, in his little adobe house in Highland Park. I can count the number of times I’ve hung out with Vince on one hand. Right now is the fourth. Vince, whom Bonnie has dated for the past three years, is tan, compact, and doesn’t read the news or eat anything with legs. He will sometimes press eyedrops into his eyes while he’s talking to you. At some point I stopped judging friends’ boyfriends, because who knows? But even Bonnie is aware of Vince’s ridiculousness.