Page 11 of Simmer Down
...I’m sorry to call you like this, but it’s serious. I went to the doctor and I need you to call me, okay? As soon as you can. I love you, sweetie pie. Talk to you soon.
Even with his diagnosis looming over him, he somehow kept that gentle tone. If it had been me who had just been given the worstnews of my life—that I had stage four pancreatic cancer and months to live because nothing could be done—I don’t know how I would have reacted. But I sure as hell wouldn’t have that same composure he did during that phone call.
Somehow he was thinking clearly enough to know that going into the details of his diagnosis over voice mail wasn’t a good idea. So he waited patiently those four hours until I fished my phone out of my purse after a night of barhopping. The entire staff at the Portland restaurant I was managing at the time was out celebrating after hosting a stressful corporate party. I was about to indulge in my third shot of tequila when I happened to glance at my phone, the voice mail alert flashing on the screen.
And then when I listened to his message—his voice a mix of love and worry—the floor fell out from under me.
Tears tumble down my face, soaking the pillow underneath my head, but I don’t sob. I don’t want to make any noise that would disturb Mom. Instead I swallow back every almost-sob that grips the base of my throat and stare at the ceiling.
Despite my tipsy state that night, the serious tone of his voice mail sobered me up real quick. I never knew my fingers could fly across a phone screen that fast. And then I was crouched down in the hallway of some random bar because the corner by the bathrooms was the quietest spot I could find.
And then he answered. Hearing his voice was comfort and terror all at once.
“Nikki-Nack!” He practically sang his nickname for me on the other line. I could tell he was smiling.
“Dad, what’s wrong?” My voice broke before he said anything because, despite the joy in his voice, I just knew. It was so, so bad.
Shoving my face into my pillow, I let out a soft cry. After that call, I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t focus.
The only thing I was certain of in that moment was that I needed to be with him for however long he had left. That night, I packed my bags and told my boss at the restaurant, who was an old culinary school pal that brought me on to manage, what had happened. He and my other workmates were nothing but sympathetic and understanding. Told me to take my time and that when I was ready to come back, to contact them. I threw together a post on Craigslist to rent out my room in the house I shared with two of my friends so I wouldn’t leave them high and dry. The morning after, I was gone.
I thought I’d be back. Portland was where I went to culinary school and earned a business degree. It’s where I learned the ropes of the restaurant industry. I loved my work and my life there.
But that was before I saw how rapidly Dad declined and how gutted Mom was at losing her life partner. I couldn’t fly back to Oregon and just pick up where I left off. I couldn’t leave Mom to fend for herself, grief-stricken and with next to no savings after spending most of it on medical treatment for Dad.
My mind flutters to that last week he was in the hospital, when I sat next to his bedside, holding his hand. I bite my tongue, staving off the next sob that surely won’t be as quiet. Behind the dark of my closed eyes, I remember how he smiled up at me from his hospital bed, despite the unimaginable physical pain he was in.
“Take care of your mom, Nikki-Nack. Okay?”
I nodded, promising him I would.
And then his smile turned wistful and sad. “Do a better job than I did at the end.”
I scolded him, told him he had no right to say that, that he always did an excellent job taking care of her and me. Every word was true. He always had a steady job, worked long hours so she could stay home with me until I went to grade school. And he was even able to save enough to make her dream come true: retire in Maui.
It’s almost funny how one trip to the doctor, one phone call, one evil cluster of cells changed all of that.
But I promised him. Taking care of Mom and carrying out his food truck dream is the least I could do after every single wonderful thing he did for us.
I play the message once more, wishing I could call him right now.
I take it back. I don’t want the conversation; I want my dad. I want him here right now. If he were here, Mom and I wouldn’t be bickering so much. If he were here right now, we wouldn’t be stuck in a food truck together for eight hours most days, working our tails off to earn back all the money we spent to keep him alive just a little bit longer. He passed away three months after he was diagnosed.
Deep breaths ease me to a point where I can think clearly once more.
One thing’s certain: I could never survive a pain like that again. It’s why I impose days off for Mom like a drill sergeant. It’s why I have no friends, no dates, no social life whatsoever. I can’t handle another death, another loss, another person leaving me.
Minutes later I sit up in bed, forcing myself out of that familiar hole of agony and despair that gets harder and harder to crawl out of every time I let myself dip in. I wash my face, brush my teeth, and hope I’ve exhausted myself enough to sleep.
•••
It’s a tedious climb over the hill separating Big Beach from Little Beach, especially in the darkness of predawn. The steep incline of lava rock and sand are the perfect elements for a trip or tumble. But I’ve made this walk countless times in the year and a half that I’ve lived in Maui. I could do it blindfolded by now.
It’s the only way to avoid the worst of the crowds, to come on aweekday right as the sun rises. Predawn visits to Little Beach have become my go-to getaway when I need to clear my head. Having spent my whole life in Portland, I never thought I’d ever be the kind of person who found nature soothing. But the peaceful vibes of Maui’s beaches are what keep me sane. I need that today more than ever.
Last night’s argument with Mom and the crying session in my bedroom has my entire body in knots. When I woke up an hour before my alarm clock this morning, I knew I needed to ease the tension within me if I had any hope of having a decent day at work.
Before leaving, I left a note apologizing for my outburst last night on the kitchen counter and wished her a pleasant day off. I know we’ll move past this argument—we had worse arguments when I was a mouthy teenager. But having this day apart from each other will be good for the both of us. I can distract myself with work, and she can busy herself with her day-off hobbies. And then we’ll start over again tomorrow.
