You almost didn’t return the call. You are in Clearwater, Florida working for NBC Sports and you are at the Super Target buying a pair of slacks. You have been invited to a cocktail party at a country club and you had not packed anything other than jeans or cargo shorts. It is your father’s cell phone number that pops up on the caller ID display.
“Hey Dad,” you say.
Silence.
“Dad?”
Silence. The call ends.
You put the phone in your pocket. Shuffle through a few pairs of grey slacks. You find your size and toss it into the basket.
You pull the phone out and dial his number.
“Hello?” he says. It is a question. His voice is frail and weak and you know this voice – you know what it means.
“Dad are you okay?”
“David,” his voice is cracking, you can hear the panic in it. “Is that you? I can barely hear you. Is that you?”
“Dad can you hear me?”
“I can’t remember anyone’s numbers,” he says. “I don’t know...who am I? I can’t remember anything. I woke up... I don’t know what’s happening.”
You are two thousand miles away from him, in the men’s department of a Super Target ,and this is when life decides to fall apart.