Hanging Up. Delia Ephron

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      “Are you all right?” I started breathing heavily too, inadvertently, in unison. I could see Joanne, the girl with the fiancé, coming down the hall to use the phone. Minutes went by. She stared at me so I couldn’t help but notice that she was waiting.

      “Dad?”

      No answer.

      Joanne used her diamond ring to knock on the door. I twisted in my seat so I wouldn’t have to see her.

      “She’s gone,” my dad said finally.

      “Mom’s gone?”

      “Yeah.”

      Fine, I thought. Great, she’s gone. Thank God. No more drinking, no more fights. “Dad, don’t worry. I’m sure she’ll be back.”

      “She ran off with that redwood.”

      “What?”

      He hung up.

      She ran off with that redwood. She ran off with that redwood. His words played over and over in my brain. Joanne rapped her rock against the glass again and glared at me. She ran off with that redwood. I stuck my tongue out at Joanne and yanked open the door.

      I didn’t sleep that night. The next day, I couldn’t focus on anything. I had invented a system, five minutes of study, five minutes of daydreaming, which allowed me to relive necking each weekend with my boyfriend, Mark. But as I sat at my desk trying to study, then trying to think about Mark, my mind kept veering off to Mom and Tom Winston. Had she pined for him for five years, or had she been seeing him secretly the whole time? Did they meet at exits off the freeway all along the route from Westwood to Big Bear, or did they have a favorite rendezvous, a favorite room? Did he pin her on the bed the way he pinned those little frogs when he cut them open?

      “It’s for you,” Joanne yelled. “Telephone.”

      Maybe it’s Mom. Maybe she’s calling so I’ll know where she is.

      I took the receiver and, holding it away from my head, stood outside the booth and listened. There it was again, but dimly, the long-distance sound, plus noise, horns, traffic. “Hello?”

      “Evie?”

      I slammed the phone against my ear. “Maddy, where are you?”

      “In Malibu. In a parking lot. Guess what? I’m moving in with Isaac.”

      “What do you mean? You can’t move in with Isaac. You’re only fifteen. What about school?”

      “I don’t have to live at home to go to school. God, I knew you’d say that.” Her words turned into a wail. “Just leave me alone, all right? You don’t have to live with a drunk.”

      “But I thought Mom moved out. Dad called last night. He said she left.”

      Now she was crying. Gulping sobs. Big fat teenage tears. “Not Mom, dummy. Dad. Look, I’ll be at Isaac’s. He doesn’t have a phone. Bye.”

      Dad? What was she talking about?

       Two

      The door is unlocked from the inside, an orderly opens it, and Angie wheels my father in. This place is not old, really, just battered. The painted plaster walls have scrape marks on them, probably from wheelchairs. The wooden trim around the doorways and windows, that homey touch signifying extra care and concern, is gouged, and the walnut stain is scratched and thin. “UCLA Geriatric/Psychiatric”—the words are discreetly printed on a rectangular plastic plaque next to the door, which the orderly relocks after us.

      The wheelchair squeaks on the linoleum as we go down the hall. We pass first an old-fashioned telephone booth built into the wall—it is nearly identical to the one in my college dorm years ago—then a room filled with rows of chairs. Assorted chairs in assorted colors, but mostly they have metal legs and metal arms, with cushioned vinyl seats and vinyl pads on the armrests. Old people are sitting in some of them. They are facing a television set, which is on. Straight ahead is something I will begin to call the cage. It’s an office that has a small opening fitted with a protective grate, like the kind in front of bank teller windows in dangerous neighborhoods. The nurses hang out here. There is glass on the sides so they can see out into the patient rooms that surround them.

      My father twists around to look at Angie. It’s a strain for him to turn because he’s so fat. He takes up all the space in the chair, and when he turns, his shirt strains, almost to popping open. “What’s Claire doing here?” he growls.

      “I’m not Claire, I’m Angie.”

      “You know Angie,” I say. “She works at the Home, where you live. She’s helping me bring you here.”

      Angie wheels him into a dining room. An older man in glasses and a woman, both in medical whites, come into the room, closing the door behind us.

      The woman introduces herself. “I’m Dr. Kelly,” she says. She looks like a high school cheerleader. That young and wholesome. “This is Rob Bateson.”

      “I’m the social worker,” he says cheerfully. “Why don’t we sit down?” He gestures toward the nearest Formica table.

      Angie wheels my father to the table and then stands back, waiting for the rest of us.

      “I’ll sit next to my father,” I announce. This is an unnecessary statement. In the almost twenty-five years since my mother left, my sisters and I have taken turns calling the doctor about him, putting him in loony bins, drying him out, buying him clothes. And when more than one of us are present, we even take turns sitting next to him. But today, at UCLA Geriatric/Psychiatric, my father’s final incarceration, there is no one here but me.

      I hear a squeal as Dr. Kelly jumps, throws my father a dirty look, then catches herself. She smooths the back of her pants, where he obviously has just pinched, then takes a chair, sits, and smiles calmly.

      I’ll be out of here in a half-hour, I comfort myself. This is a trick my son has taught me, the way he gets through classes he hates.

      They start asking my father questions. Your name? “Lou Mozell.” Age? “Thirty-nine,” he says.

      “Eighty-one,” I say, smiling.

      Where were you born? “The Bronx.” College?

      “Harvard,” says my father. “I graduated with honors.” They write all this down dutifully.

      “What month is it?” My father has no idea. “What day of the week?” He looks up at the ceiling, studying it as if there were something to see.

      “Look,” I say, “this is ridiculous. My father lives in a Home. Every day is the same. How does he know whether it’s Monday or Wednesday? And this is Los Angeles. The sky’s always blue. Even I don’t know what month it is half the time.”

      “These questions have been tested,” Dr. Kelly says, an edge to her voice.

      “Well, СКАЧАТЬ