THE SWEET SHRUB INN

CHAPTER 2: THE NEWS

Saturday, July 27

The next morning, I am nursing a slight hangover sporting my University of The Midwest t-shirt and baggy pajama pants that have cartoon Yorkies all over them.  I sip on my coffee and remind myself that Caleb Marshall was hardly the love of my life and that it is actually a good thing that I am no longer wasting my time in a relationship that was going nowhere.    Besides, when had I decided that it was ok to have a relationship where I was constantly the one carrying the conversation and having sex that could only be described as "ok" or "fine"? Not that I have that much to compare it to, but still...

The truth is, I really wish I had been the one to end it.  I wish I had been the one to recognize that we were "stagnant" and called it quits.  Given, I wouldn't have done it on our first anniversary in his favorite restaurant just after our entrees had been delivered.  Because, despite the fact that there is a navy blue Hermes tie resting atop two-day-old leftover Chinese food in my kitchen trash can, I am not a complete ass.

So life has thrown me the proverbial curveball.  Nothing I can't handle.  Nothing I don't understand.  I will spend Saturday afternoon cleaning my place accompanied by the sounds of angry girl music.  I might shed a tear or two, but I will not collapse into a blubbering mess of a woman.  I am fairly certain.

A few hours later, I am attempting to put my duvet cover back on the duvet in my master bedroom and I have convinced myself that my singing voice is almost as enjoyable as Meghan Trainor's when I hear my cell phone ring in the kitchen.  I climb out of the godforsaken death trap that is operation duvet cover replacement.

It's a Mississippi area code attached to a number I don't recognize.  When I answer the call, I have no idea that life isn't content to just throw me a curveball---it wants to kick me in the teeth.

"Hello?" I answer with unmistakable question in my voice as if I'm not sure that's still the proper way to answer a phone. 

"Cora?" A woman's voice says and it's somewhat familiar, but I can't quite place it. I decide maybe it's just the Southern accent that's familiar and not the actual voice.

"Yeah, it's, uh, that's me."

"Oh good.  I wasn't sure this was the right number.  Well, honey, this is Miss Donna Shelton. I'm a nurse down at Taloa General.  Listen, they brought your Daddy in last night, and he said we should call you."

Who had asked someone to call me?   I was too confused trying to place this daddy person. 

Daddy? 

I tried the word out in my head like it was from another language.  That didn't sound right.  I don't have a Daddy.  I have a biological father, sure, but Daddy is a name daughters give to the fathers who call them princess and suffer through numerous dance recitals over the years.  The ones who subtly threaten teenage boys who show up to take their daughters to prom and teach their daughters how to drive a stick shift. And my biological father would never ask someone to call me on his behalf.

"What happened?" I ask, still feeling disconnected from the conversation. Behind, as if I'm missing something.

"Well, see.  This is the third time he's ended up here in the last six weeks.  He's been gettin' real disoriented.  Forgetful and sometimes a little hostile, even."

Hostile?  If she's talking about my biological father. That one made sense.

"Cora, honey," she sighs and takes a few seconds, and I'm not sure if the sigh is one of frustration because I'm not picking up on her meaning fast enough or one of hesitance because she's trying to give me bad news.

"We think it's Alzheimer's.  We think your Daddy has started to show signs of early-onset Alzheimer's Disease."

Both words bounce back and forth quickly in my currently too slow mind.

Daddy.  Alzheimer's. 

"I don't mean to pry and I don't know your situation, but he lives on his own you know.  And, well, if there's someone else I should be callin', you can just let me know."

The fact that she's offering to call someone else indicates that she most likely does know my situation.  Or someone has informed her.  Also, she lives in Taloa, where everybody knows just about everything about everybody else, so the chance that she isn't aware that my father and I aren't remotely close is slim to none.

"No, there's nobody else to call," I admit resentfully picking on the fabric of my Yorkie pajama bottoms.  Because there really isn't.  My father has been very successful at alienating or infuriating just about everyone he's ever met at some point.  The fact that my mother once dated him for a few months as a twenty-four-year-old still baffles my mind.  And the idea that I am related to him has never made sense to me.

"Some of the folks from Taloa Methodist Church are gonna come visit him.  Maybe take care of some things back at his house.  But, I don't suppose you can come down for a visit?"  Donna says, infusing even more sweetness into her tone.

A visit?  A visit to my hometown that I haven't been back to since my best friend, Coop's wedding two years ago and before that, since my mama's funeral?

I don't go home.  Coop comes to Chicago twice a year to visit me. Well, she did anyway until she and her husband, Duke,  got pregnant at least.

I'm still doing my intern hours, but I've been lucky enough to work with clients who need a discounted rate. I have appointments with three clients on Monday and one on Tuesday--one of whom is Allen Weatherstone, a hypochondriac with misophonia who suffers from bouts of insomnia and occasionally binge eats.  In other words, not the type of person you can simply cancel on.    Especially without being able to offer a date for rescheduling.    On Wednesday, I'm scheduled to sit on a junior panel at this year's Conference for Behavioral Sciences. But even if my week was wide open, hopping on a flight to my hometown is the last thing I want to do.  Actually, it is about nine steps below the absolute last thing on Earth I want to do.

"I, um, I'll take a look at flights for Thursday.  It's the earliest I can get there," I report wondering not so deep down if I should feel guilty for waiting five days.

Then I remember that my father has never once bothered to inconvenience himself for me over the years.  In fact, other than the birthday cards my mother bought at Rite Aid, drove out to his house and made him sign.  And four summers where she insisted I lend him a hand on remodeling projects around town, I have received little to nothing from the man.  Well, unless you can abandonment and trust issues. 

"Of course.  I'm sure you stay real busy up there in Chicago.  Is it as cold as they say it is?"  Donna inquires presumably to lighten the conversation.

"Well, it's July, so not right now," I answer unthinkingly not meaning to sound condescending.

"Oh,right.  I guess I just picture it snowin' twelve months a year that far up North, but that's silly." 

Fair enough, I think. Just like a lot of folks up here picture us sitting around in hoop skirts fanning ourselves without air conditioning and saying things like "heavens to Betsy" every few minutes.

"Well, it does get very cold," I offer, still partially unaware that this woman is doing her best to make small talk because there are still two words rattling around in my head----Daddy and Alzheimer's.  And I'm not equipped to deal with either of them.

"I'll let him know you're comin' to see him on Thursday," Donna says clearly pleased with the resolution.

"No," I say too quickly.  "I mean, um, just let me confirm my schedule, look at flights.  I just don't want to say I'm gonna be there on Thursday and then not be able to come when I say I'm gonna." 

Or, just in case I chicken out and decided not to show up at all.