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       Mortality
       February 27th, 2018
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       My phone rings. Mom's face stares up at me. I hesitate.
       
       Dad's been sick, the kind you don't get better from. It's too soon
       for this to be the call, right? 
       
       I breathe.
       
       "Hello?" I cringe.
       
       "Hey." It's my dad's voice. Why is it dad's voice? He hasn't
       called in a year. Mom makes the calls and he jumps on the line. Is
       mom okay? What are we going to do if mom goes first?
       
       "Hey there. What's going on?" Don't say it...
       
       He struggles to get his voice to go. It's not quite a wheeze or
       a cough, more like priming an engine. A few false starts, pulls at
       that motor, and finally he gets it.
       
       "Can't get anything to load on Google. TurboTax deal expires
       tomorrow."
       
       Computer trouble, thank God. I used to dread these calls from my
       parents when I was younger. Glorified tech support for the family.
       Now it's a relief. It's a chance to talk with him, to have
       a subject that isn't the illness, or politics where there is no
       middle ground. It's something I can help him with. He'll take
       pride in my knowing the answer.
       
       "Do you have Teamviewer installed still?"
       
       Silence on the line. Is he there? I think I can hear him still,
       but he's not answering. He did this when I was young and he was
       annoyed with explaining things ad naseum. He'd remain silent and
       work on something and let me watch, figure it out myself. Is this
       that? Is he silent on purpose?
       
       "Dad, you there?"
       
       "Yeh," it's almost a word, almost a cough. He can hear me, but
       he's not answering. The sickness?
       
       "Do you still have that program I installed last time I was there?
       The one that lets me control your machine and see what you see?"
       
       Silence.
       
       Patience. This, this is the good stuff left to us. I tell myself
       not to get frustrated, not to get angry. Don't waste it.
       
       We go back and forth like that until I'm miles past where
       I thought my fuse would end. It is frustrating, but I'm not
       letting myself be frustrated.
       
       Mom can help, I think. She can interpret what he's doing, give it
       voice. If I can just see what he's looking at--
       
       I text mom:
       
         Is dad working on the computer? He's not saying anything when
         I ask questions?
       
       A moment later she's over dad's shoulder reading him my text.
       Cringe. Well, maybe he'll answer.
       
       "I'm here." he says, and I wish it were true.