OMG! 
At 4:35 this afternoon the screen on the landline phone flashed,
“Grandpa Ben.”
Again!
So many thoughts flashed through my mind.
MAYBE the misdial last Thursday and my, “I love you!” caused my Daddy to remember that he loves me and he is calling to do our dance of denial and pretend everything is fine.
Last Thursday I wondered if the call was to tell me he was dead.
Turned out it was an accident. A wrong number.
My daddy called me on accident
and even though he refused to talk to me,
it was so good to hear his voice.
I told I love him, twice, before he hung up on me.
It felt complete. It felt like the last time I would hear his voice. The last time he would hear mine. He had refused to answer my calls or letters ever since my sister called him about her son moving in with my family.
I am thankful for that “wrong number.”
It was not my father on the phone, the voice was his womanfriend.
She told me they were in San Marcos. San Marcos is where I grew up.
My father and his friend have traveled to San Marcos several times a year for the past twenty years. NONE of those times did they let me know so I could make any arrangements to see them. This was the first time they had ever informed me that they were in Texas.
So many thoughts flashed through my mind.
“OH! They heard my, ‘I love you!”
They are going to visit after these twenty long years.
Once there was a ceremony at Texas State honoring my dad. My dad told me about it and we discussed my family attending. He had not met my youngest two children. He promised to call with the date. It was extra exciting because my second son, Josiah, was in school at Texas State that year. Waiting for the phone call, I forgot about it. I did not realize we missed the ceremony until my nephew told me about it after he moved in with us. He remembered asking his mom where we were. She told him we were busy. He remembered asking where Josiah, who was in school at Texas State, was and she told him Josiah was also too busy to attend.
I wondered if my dad did not want us there or if my sister was supposed to invite us and she did not. I wonder what she told our father about why we were not there.
In her mind we were in a competition as she believed that our parents “loved me” best. It became her life’s ambition to be loved more than me. I did not get to ask him because by the time I found out my sister had told our father about her son living with us and my father cut off all contact.
So many thoughts flashed through my mind.
They are in San Marcos.
But, my father’s womanfriend does not tell me they are coming to visit.
She tells me that my father is dead.
He had a heart attack at the Texas State function and died when they removed life support in the hospital.
The womanfriend tells me that my sister is in charge of cremating him and she said they would spread his ashes in Maine. She did not say when that would be. It had only been an hour when she called.
Later I thought I would like some of those ashes so that my family and I can have a ceremony. I did not think of that, to ask, when I was on the phone.
I was a little numb. Last Thursday I wondered if he were dead.
Today it did not enter my thought.
I am thankful that my father’s womanfriend called.
One of the last things my sister screamed at me all those years ago was that she would not tell me when either of our parents died.
Yes, I am thankful that my father’s womanfriend called.
I told my father’s womanfriend that I was sorry for her loss.
She said thank you.
No mention of the wrong number four days ago.
No mention of how moved (or unmoved) he was by my declarations of love. No mention of the years of shunning me.
Just, thank you.
Good-bye. We hung up.
No drama. Just the facts.
It was very appropriate.
My father, who I have not seen in over twenty years is dead.
I did not finish the letter telling him how good it was to hear his voice.
BUT
– damn it! –
I got to tell him I love him.
I know he heard me.
I heard his voice
and I spoke my truth before he died.
I love you.
For that, I am thankful.
My father was a hard and cruel man.
In my early twenties I declined illustrating a story my sister wrote.
Because I would not illustrate the story my father swore,
“I will get even with you if it is the last thing I ever do.”
That promise haunts my husband.
David brought it up this afternoon.
He is concerned.
My father did not mellow with age.
Still, I loved him. I choose to remember happier times.
I tried to convey my love without being sucked into his vortex of bitterness.
I usually failed. When he cut me off completely after my nephew moved in, I missed him, but I did not miss the drama.
My father did a great many good while he walked this planet. Sound scientific research and publication that continues to yield results in reservoir management. He was a brilliant teacher and a life long learner. He wrote well. He helped students and random strangers. He loved investing and the stock market. He was kind to most of his nieces and nephews. He adored my sister’s oldest child who was killed by her drunk boyfriend seven years ago.
I used to tell myself that my father loved me in his own way.
He chose to live his final years treating me cruelly.
In spite of that, I loved him
and last Thursday I was able to tell him one last time.
I will NOT tell you to reach out
to those from whom you are estranged.
Only you know whether reaching out is safe.
Too many times my heart has been wrenched by the easy answers of another. It has taken years to create a place of relative safety for my heart to begin to heal.
No, I will not tell you what to do.
I will tell you
what my Grammie Hannan
(my father’s mother)
told me,
“IF they don’t like you,
it is THEIR LOSS!”
Grammie Hannan ALWAYS had my back.
She still does.
Peace to you and yours. 
Sincerely, Gwen
