Delia Ephron - Hanging Up

“Columbia?” says Bateson.

“No, no, downtown.”

Bateson and Kelly look at each other, stumped. Dr. Kelly actually winds some of her long sandy hair around her finger while she thinks. “New York University,” she offers tentatively.

“Right. He went to NYU. I can’t believe I didn’t remember that. I do know this is the month of May and it’s somewhere between the fourteenth and the twentieth, right?”

No one laughs. Bateson leans toward me across the table. “Are you close to your father?” he asks.

I hate this question. It’s none of their business. Their business is to find out what’s wrong with his brain this time. Their business is to adjust his medication so he functions. He just needs a new cocktail. He’s gone off his rocker before. He’s gone off many times. I will answer this question dispassionately. I will show that an inquiry about my feelings for my father triggers nothing. “I look out for my father but I am not close to him,” I say firmly. I smile to show that this cool answer is not only the truth, but easy.

“He wrote, ‘It’s too late.’ Do you believe that?”

“Really,” says Georgia.

It’s impossible to convey Georgia’s affection for the word “really.” She caresses it. She packs in multiple meanings: astonishment, disbelief, sometimes disgust, suspicion, pleasure, maybe even thrill, plus curiosity. All understated. She owns “really.” Also “possibly,” just because she knows exactly how to emphasize it.

“Do you think our father could possibly have meant what he wrote?” she asks me.

“You mean, can you be brain-damaged and cosmic all at once? I think so.”

“But what did he actually mean by it? Too late for what?”

It occurs to me I don’t know what he meant. “I guess help. It’s too late for help, right? But then it could be too late for anything to change, or for anything to happen, or just, too late.”

She says nothing. I assume she is mulling this over, but maybe she is just editing some copy on the computer while she talks to me on the phone. Sometimes Georgia switches off right in the middle of a conversation—she starts doing something else or thinking about something else. I have to work to get her back.

“He pinched Dr. Kelly. On the tush.”

“Really,” says Georgia.

Maddy shrieks when I tell her about the pinching. “What a riot.”

“It wasn’t a riot, believe me. You weren’t there.”

“You told me I could go away. You said you’d take him to … what’s this place called?”

“UCLA Geriatric/Psychiatric.”

“Is it like a hospital?”

“More like a loony bin really, sort of a cross. Anyway, I don’t care that you aren’t here.”

“It’s my only vacation. We work ten hours a day, five days a week.”

“Maddy, it’s okay.”

But she’s on a roll. “We work fifty-two weeks a year, Eve. Fifty-two weeks!” I think about putting the receiver on the table. If you check out of a conversation with Maddy and then return several minutes later, you are usually in the same place. The identical thing happens if you watch the soap opera she’s on and then don’t see it again until two weeks later. “The only reason I can go on vacation now is that Juliana is supposed to be in the Bahamas so her boss can have an affair with the temp.”

“Who’s Juliana?”

“My character? Eve, don’t you even know that? God, don’t you ever watch the show?”

“Of course I do. I just didn’t realize what you were saying, Maddy, it’s no big deal.”

“You know it’s not easy to get to the phone here. It’s not easy to get to anything in Montana. You can drive forty-five minutes just to buy milk.”

I call Georgia back. “Maddy says it’s a forty-five-minute drive to buy milk in Montana.”

This is one of my favorite things—to serve as a conduit between my sisters. What is the joy in hearing something absurd from one if I can’t pass it on to the other? But this time I’m just using Maddy’s comment for an excuse, so I can unload more to Georgia.

“Imagine Dad pinching that doctor. It’s so sad, repulsive, I don’t know. I think he winked too. Is that all that’s left to you when you’re old? Eating and flirting?”

“He’s a pathetic old man,” says Georgia. I am certain I hear her shudder.

“That’s for sure. Dr. Kelly looked like Doogie Howser’s younger sister.”

“Well, Eve, she obviously wasn’t the doctor. Obviously, obviously. She’s a resident. What you have to do tomorrow is call and speak to the doctor. The real doctor. Find out who’s in charge of the whole place and insist that he or she speak to you directly. You know it makes a huge difference whether you’re speaking to the top or the bottom.”

“Maybe you should call.”

“Darling, I would, but you’re right there. I’m in New York, so if they have to call me back, it’s long-distance, which is a big thing to doctors, I have no idea why. Besides, I’m totally backed up on this tenth-anniversary edition. I keep thinking, On the one hand, I am so lucky my magazine has lasted ten years, on the other hand, why am I putting out a special edition, it’s a nightmare.”

I am hit suddenly with an exhaustion I get only when I converse with my sisters. I feel as if my mouth and ears are going to fall off my head. “I’ve got to go,” I say. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” I hang up. The phone rings. “Hello?”

“Mom?”

“Hi, Jesse, where are you?”

“It’s not my fault.”

“What?”

“It was an accident.”

“Goddamnit.” I burst into Joe’s study. “Jesse had another car accident.”

“Is he all right?” Joe spins around in his desk chair, knocking into phone books from different cities, stacked like building blocks around him.

“He’s all right.”

To make room to sit, I shove over a bunch of radio tapes that are littering his couch. “He’s on his way home. He had to tie his car door closed with rope. His insurance is going to go through the roof, but maybe we can convince the driver not to notify his insurance company. Would you take care of this?”

“I’m going out of town next week,” he reminds me.

“So you have time. Besides, they have phones in Iowa.”

Joe just looks at me. He knows and I know that I am going to make this call. We’ve been married too long to have a conversation we’ve had sixty times before and already know the ending of.

I hear a car and peek through the blinds to see Jesse pulling up to the curb. He slides over to the passenger side and gets out. He strolls to the door, his shoulders moving back and forth enough to cause, with each step, the slightest ripple of muscle across his T-shirt.

“I’m home,” he yells, but not too loudly. There’s a bit of dread in his voice.

“Come in here. We’re in Dad’s study.” I hear the refrigerator open and close, and then Jesse appears, swigging water from a large plastic bottle.

“What happened?” Joe asks.

Jesse slaps a hand against his head and lets his mouth hang open a second to let us know he’s been through hell. “I was sitting there, okay, just opening the door, when this guy comes around a curve at about, I swear, sixty.”

Joe slips his fingers under his glasses and rubs his eyes. He’s tired in anticipation of this discussion. “You were parked?” he says wearily.

“Yeah, I was parked. That guy should look where he’s going. Thanks to him, I couldn’t take Ifer home.”

“Who’s Ifer?”

“Only my best friend, Dad. God.”

“Ifer is Jennifer, but there are so many Jennifers in the class that she calls herself Ifer. I told you, you forgot.” This is something I do to Joe when I am feeling cranky. Make him feel guilty for not remembering all the fascinating things I tell him.