The twists and turns of life are complicated. Sometimes things happen that are difficult to explain.
We search for answers. Finding them can be overwhelming, as you will see in . . .
Little Did I Know
I’d been putting off cleaning up the garage for months. Well, maybe years. I stood eying the piles of accumulated “wealth,” wondering why we’d kept these treasures for so long. Some were mine, others were Carla’s, and then . . . there were the family mementos I couldn’t live without—the stuff I’d “inherited” after my parents moved to heaven. Well, it’s time. Just roll up your sleeves and get started, I thought.
As I shuffled over to the first pile, the phone in the kitchen rang. Guess Carla will get it. But it kept ringing.
So I turned and hustled into the house and grabbed it just as it was about to go to voicemail. “Hello,” I gasped, somewhat out of breath.
“Hi, Marco. It’s Dad.”
“Yeah, right. My dad died eight years ago, so you’re not him. Nice try.”
“Marco, don’t hang up!” the voice screeched.
I pushed the off button and stood there looking off into space. Then the back door opened. Carla stared at me with a weird expression on her face.
“Marco, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Well, maybe.”
“What?”
“Didn’t you hear the phone ring?”
“No. I was working in the vegetable garden and had my earbuds in my ears listening to music. Who was on the phone?”
“My father.”
“That’s impossible. He’s dead.”
“You think?”
“Must’ve been one of those crank calls.”
“Probably. I didn’t stay on long enough to find out. But what else could it be?”
“Well, just forget it. What time do you want to eat dinner?”
“Same time as always—around six.”
I pulled myself together and headed back into the garage. I grabbed a box off the first pile that I stumbled upon. I removed the top and almost had a heart attack. Staring me in the face was a picture of my father taken at his eighty-fifth birthday party, a year before he died. I began to shake. This is crazy, I thought.
Fearing the worst, if I opened another box, I decided to work on the cabinet holding our old garden tools, most of which hadn’t been touched in over ten years. I grabbed a small shovel and cried out, “No way!” Etched in its handle was the name, Antonio—my dad.
The door from the house opened. “What are you yelling about?” Carla inquired.
“You don’t want to know.”
“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have asked. So, are you going to tell me?”
“All right. When I opened the box on the top of that pile over by the workbench, my father’s eighty-fifth birthday picture was the first thing I saw.”
“So, what’s the problem?”
“You don’t think that’s a bit eerie, after the call I received.”
“Coincidence, yes. Eerie, no.”
“Then I picked up a shovel and my Dad’s name was etched in the handle.”
“Now that’s eerie.”
“What do I do?”
“I don’t have a clue,” Carla said. “Let’s have dinner and try to forget any of this happened.”
“I’ll try. But it won’t be easy.”
When I entered the kitchen, the table was set and the smell coming from the food brought me back into the world I savored—the one that put the extra twenty pounds on my six-foot frame.
Dinner was wonderful. I smiled and chanted, “Darling, you’re the greatest cook ever. I’m feeling better already.”
“Help me clean up and we’ll find a movie to watch.”
“Sounds like a plan I can handle.”
Carla started putting the leftover food, which wasn’t much, in the refrigerator, and I loaded the dishwasher.
She gazed at me and smiled. “I love you,” she said, glowing.
“I love you, too.”
“I’ll finish here. You go find us a movie to watch. And take the phone with you.”
I left the kitchen and headed to the living room. I was about to pick up the remote, when the phone rang. “Hello.”
“Marco, it’s Mom. Dad said you hung up on him, so I’m calling. We need to talk to you.”
“This is ridiculous. He’s dead and your dead, too. I don’t know what game you’re playing, but I’ve had it. Goodbye!”
Carla came running into the room. “Why are you shouting? You’re white as a sheet. And who was that on the phone?”
Trembling, I sputtered, “My mother.”
“That couldn’t be,” Carla said, now very concerned. “She’s dead.”
“Don’t you think I know that?”
“Someone’s playing you.”
“But who? And, what for?” I queried.
“I don’t know. But there’s nothing we can do about it tonight. So let’s watch a movie and relax before going to sleep. Things will be better in the morning.”
“How do you know?”
She didn’t answer me. After the movie, we got ready for bed and I hoped for a better tomorrow.
I slept peacefully—almost too peacefully. I felt trapped, entombed in my own bed.
When I arose the next morning, I noticed a newspaper on the nightstand beside the bed. I had no idea where it came from.
The light coming through the blinds of the window illuminated the first line of the article at the bottom of the page. It read, “Our community is in deep mourning over the loss of our beloved neighbors and friends, Carla and Marco Perez, who died in a horrific car crash, early yesterday morning, on Highway 65.”
Stunned, I didn’t know what to do. Then the phone rang. I shook at the thought of who might be on the other end of the line. But I was dead. So why should I care? I reached over and picked it up. “Hello.”
“Marco, now do you understand why your father and I contacted you?”
“Yes, Mother,” I said, my voice quivering.
I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned around, expecting to see Carla. To my surprise, Mom, with Dad standing next to her smiling, whispered, “We’re here for you and Carla. We will help you find your way.”
With tears in my eyes, I replied, “Thank you.”
Copyright © 2022 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.
