Page 1 of Broken Hearts

It’s latewhen my phone begins to vibrate across my nightstand. The low rumbling wakes me, but I don’t bother to answer it. Glancing down at my watch, the time glows bright in the dark room, and I see it’s nearly three in the morning. I quickly scan my brain, trying to remember if my mom is out of town, but she isn’t. She’s here in New York, not traveling till next week.

I’m sure it’s just a wrong number, some drunk ass trying to call an ex, but just as I’m falling back to sleep, it begins again.

Rolling over, I watch it light up on my nightstand, glowing ominously in the blackness of the room, and I’m hit with this strange sense of panic. My heart begins to race, my thoughts following, and when I take the phone from the nightstand, the number is unrecognizable.

But the area code is not.

It’s Hawaii.

My dad.

I swipe the screen, answering with an unintentionally groggy, “Hello,” but there’s silence for the longest few seconds of my life. “Dad?” I question when the person doesn’t say anything for what feels like forever. I feel stupid for saying his name, like he’d call in the middle of the night.

“I’m sorry,” a woman’s voice suddenly says, and I’m caught off guard. “I didn’t expect you to answer, and I was trying to decide if I should leave a message. Is this Sage Harris?”

“Who is this?” I ask, but it comes out as more of a panicked demand. Something isn’t right and I can feel it in my bones.

“I’m a friend of your father’s. Alana Hale,” she sniffs, and I can tell she’s been crying. “I’m sorry to call so late. I know you’re in New York, but I didn’t get a chance to figure out the time there.” She’s rambling, and as she does, I sit up in bed, swallowing hard. “I’m sorry, Sage, but your father passed away.”

“What?” It comes out in a rush, as I hear Alana let out a stifled sob. “My dad is dead?” I ask, my words shaky and scared.

“Yes, I’m so sorry,” Alana says, her words filled with the sound of tears. “It was a surfing accident.” She falls silent, the line only filled with labored breathing.

I don’t know what to say, almost wishing I were religious so I could tell her something to ease her pain, but I have nothing, staying as silent as she is.

“We’re having a memorial service in three weeks, and we’d love for you to be there,” Alana now says, trying to force some positivity into her words but failing when she sobs down the line. “I know it’s last minute, but it would mean a lot…” She trails off, and I can’t help but wonder if she was about to say that it would mean a lot to my dad for me to be there.

“I’ll be there,” I respond without even giving it much thought but knowing it’s the right thing to do. “Can you send me the information?”

“Of course, I’ll text it to you,” she says, and with that, we end the call.

I have no idea how to process any of this: the call in the middle of the night, finding out my father is dead and having to go to Hawaii in three weeks. It’s all a lot, a lot that I was not prepared for, and I’m not prepared for the onslaught of emotions I feel.

I fall back against my pillow, staring up at the ceiling, watching the ceiling fan spin as I try to understand this.

I haven’t seen my father in person since I was twelve years old when I spent the summer on Maui with him. It was awkward. I was difficult. He worked a lot, and I was resentful. He had a life that didn’t include his only child, and something about that hurt.

Not that I had any right to be hurt at twelve. He tried his best to be involved in my life. Calling every Sunday, sending birthday presents and showing up when I graduated from high school, but I always resented him.

He even asked me to move there and live with him when I was twelve, and nothing sounded worse than leaving my mother, the only true parent I had. She might have had a job that took her all over the world, but she took me with her. We did everything together, and my dad was left in the background, only showing up at those important times. If anything, I didn’t try hard enough, and neither did my mom.

I can say that now because he’s dead, and there’s something about it that’s completely disingenuous. I feel like the shittiest person in the world, but I also feel this horrible sense of relief.

I shake my head, my eyes welling with tears. I should be sad. I should grieve the loss of my father, but how can I grieve for a man I barely knew?

The last time I spoke to him was over a year ago, and that was just to ask how classes were going. I stopped answering his Sunday calls years ago, but he never gave up, always leaving a message telling me to call him when I got a chance.

But as time went on, I stopped calling him back, and when I did call, it was like talking to a stranger. So instead of being an adult, I just cut him out, bothered by the inconvenience it was to try.

Now he’s dead, and I have to deal with how this all fits into my life, a life I created without him.

Instead of trying to go back to sleep, which is never going to happen, I pull on some clothes and leave my apartment, heading to my mother’s.

The house is dark when I get there, with it being a little after four in the morning. There’s no way she’s awake, and I’m probably going to scare the shit out of her. I’m supposed to be asleep in my bed in my apartment, but here I am, standing in the kitchen of the house I grew up in.

I wait a few seconds, listening to the sound of my own breathing, hearing my heart pulsing in my ears, wondering if turning the alarm off will wake her up.

But it doesn’t.

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