The Last Word On Nothing

The other day my dad, who is 93 and losing his mind in dribs and drabs, asked me over the phone if we could FaceTime with his parents. I didn’t lie. I said, well, the technology is advancing quickly but it’s not quite advanced enough to reach them where they are. (True!) Maybe someday?

I mean, why not.

And I thought about what it must be like to be in his head, totally believing that his parents are out there somewhere waiting for our call. Trusting their voices would fill the room (and their faces the screen?) if we only had the right number. I suspect in his mind’s eye they are youngish people still. Maybe this: His mom in her flowered housecoat (faded from so much wash and wear) shuffling around the kitchen waiting for the brisket to cook and boiling the flavor and snap out of string beans in a big pot on the stove. His dad, a physician, coming in the back door looking dapper, as working men at that time always looked (it was the hats), loosening his tie and peeking under the pot lid at the flaccid beans and giving his wife a quick kiss for her efforts, like in some mid-century commercial for Maxwell House or Rolaids.

The phone on the wall, a black rotary Bakelite, is ringing. It’s us! There’s no video, of course, but there is a large receiver to cradle between shoulder and ear and a springy cord that stretches to the sink or stove, for multitasking. (Remember ducking under those cords? And fighting to untangle them so they’d hang right?) My dad called his mother Ma. “Ma? It’s Martin.” I’m not sure what he called his dad, now that I think about it. He was always “my father” when dad talked about him. “My father was an incredible human being. My father was a wonderful physician. My father made house calls and everyone loved him.” His father, my grandfather, died suddenly of a heart attack in his 50s, long before I was born. My dad always teared up when he talked about him. “I wish you kids had met my father,” he’d say. Not “I wish my father had met you kids.” Always the other way around. His father was that special.

Maybe my dad called him Pa, to go with Ma? I need to ask him, ASAP. I hope he remembers.

Anyway, maybe that’s what fills his mental FaceTime: His parents going about their lives, making dinner, anticipating his call, happy to hear his voice. Alive and well with many years in front of them. God, I hope so.