You daughter is dead. How do you begin from there. But I wouldn’t know what to tell him. He has been leaving messages for more than a month. I saved them all but then accidentally erased them, so can’t call him. The landlord said she died suddenly while careening around the curve, her body floating out with the tide. I moved in here with Fermata back in January, and since then the calls keep coming. He’s searched for her; he’s found her. Something about the past, longing. If she could contact him, would she, if she were here? Only her brightly colored Fiestaware remain, the plates with their dangerous red and orange dye, brightening up our kitchen walls.
“Sonia, all these years I’ve regretted. Please call me, you father. Anytime.”
“Sonia, this is your father. I started thinking lately about how much time is left and we just don’t know, do we. I’m fifty-three and my father died last year. I hope you are alright. Please call me. I’ll only be up there for a week.”
“Sonia. I think about your mother and the lost opportunity. I didn’t want to leave; she wanted me out of her life. It was not my choice. I was young and irresponsible. When I found out about the cancer I tried to help, but she had her sister take you in, and you had to practically raise yourself. I know you don’t want to relive those years, what you saw your mom go through, how she died. But it’s an opportunity for us now. I’ll be up there soon. See you.”
“Sonia, its dad. My brother Jack is in a nursing facility so I won’t be up for another week. I need to get him settled. He wants to give me the house, and I’d like to talk about that with you. Please call me.”
“Hi, its your father again. I’ve spent years searching for you. I’m up here now. Won’t you please call me. The number I’m staying here is 527-6231.”
“Hi Sonia. On the way up I passed a sign that said ‘this highway is being cleaned by dollhouses and trains,’ and I thought of you. When you visited me in Santa Cruz we took a drive. And I asked you, which would you prefer as a Christmas gift, a dollhouse or a train set. I drove us into town and got you an HO scale set to take back with you. Beautiful—black, shiny. Remember? Your aunt let you come down by yourself on the bus. That was the last time I saw you. I’ll only be here a few days more. If I’m not here, please leave a message.”
“Sonia, this is your father. I was afraid to search for you because you might not respond. I know you don’t have much to remember your mother by and my family would love to meet you. When you were younger you looked a little like my half-sister Streza, full curly hair and natural smile. Please call me before I leave.”
“Sonia, I am leaving tomorrow. You may not want me in your life now but if you decide to later, it will make me very happy. If you can get over your pain—I know delving into the past is not a casual affair and that you are probably content to let it lie undisturbed, receding farther and farther behind you. I would like to talk to you before I leave. Please.”
“Sonia. I went to a park yesterday, on my last day up there, and a mother was combing her daughter’s wavy brown hair, the fingers separating bunches. She bent over the girl’s head and braided carefully, not too tight, while she talked to her, asking her questions about school. I know you don’t have your mother, but you can have a father and a family. Please, if you ever want to call, don’t hesitate.”
“The branch that can only be in one place on earth, is out my window, and it’s all I can see. After the accident I don’t have a platform to land on, like birds do, with the knobs and branches. Jack visits me and hopefully this won’t take long, but they won’t say much. And I can’t remember returning home. All I remember is the mother and daughter in the park. I look forward to hearing from you. I know that children always have the scars their parents do. Thank you for listening, my dear.”
“They served fish and potatoes for lunch. The plum trees are budding, stumps where there were leaves. Almost gone, almost bare now, the few dry bug-eared leaves, yellow around the edges, are ready to be blown away. It’s winter already but doesn’t look like it. I can’t help think how we’re leaves ourselves, tumbling, recovering, dying, sometimes loveless.”
“The sun has broken out for a few hours and pushes me along a path, towards a future I will always remember. Or—wait— The leaves form a gold circumference on the patio outside, the only way I can tell time. How much time is left? Years, a month, a day? Your mother’s favorite music was for the “Mikado.” Koko and Yum Yum didn’t have much time, did they. Well, I hope you are well, my dear. Be in touch.”
“Sonia, dear. I dreamt last night of a natural disaster, water seeping through the soul, walls cracking, crooked lines splitting plaster. I must have been thinking of Koko and Yum Yum again because there were kimonos of varying colors, mostly blues, translucent. A collections of someone’s, I don’t know who. The kimonos and storm wove together like fluid.”