My parents wanted to FaceTime the other day. My mother and my father individually texted me in the morning three minutes apart from each other.
Hey Lc, hope your day is going well. Can we Skype tonight? I love you. xoxo <3
Hey bud. How are you doin? Skype l8er?
So we set a time, and about fifteen minutes after that time, we were talking over the unromantically convenient medium of an iPhone and an iPad. I sat on my bed, alone in my closet of a room, curled around a cup of tea, balancing the phone on my knee.
My parents sat on the floor in front of the fireplace in their pajamas. I could still see the holiday garland hung across the mantel. My father was wearing his round tortishell glasses and was holding a half empty glass of red wine. I could tell the iPad was situated on the coffee table.
How are you, LC? Where are you? Are you in your room? Can I see it? You look tired. Do you feel okay? Is it cold? How are your hands? Are you eating enough? Are you running? You run that far? Off campus? Is that safe? Do you want me send you a can of pepper spray? Because I can do that. Pop-pop told him some story he heard on the news and he’s all freaked out. Don’t listen to him, he’s joking.
I could hear feet running down the kitchen stairs and one by one each sister had a turn to say hello. Catch up. See faces. Then they scampered up the stairs again to finish math worksheets and cultural geography projects that involved scissors and tape and puffy paint and poster boards.
Occasionally, a blurry mass would cover the screen, and I would coo my dog’s name as he obliviously walked past.
I am good. It’s not too cold. My hands are fine. Yes, I’m tired. But I feel fine. Yes, I’ve been running.
(lost connection, reconnecting)
I said, yeah, I’ve been running. And it’s safe. Why are you just freaking out about this now? I’m fine, really I’m fine. Seriously, I’ve come up with a backup plan. Plan B. It’s perfect. If all else fails, I will move to Nantucket and live in a light house in Madaket. I’ll be the next Madaket Millie. It will be grand. I will live in the lighthouse alone with an old dog and I will guide sailors home when the fog rolls in. I’ll save lives. That’s what I’ve always wanted to do, right? Save lives? I could save lives this way. Living in my little lighthouse on Nantucket. It will be grand. Maybe someday I will have a restaurant named after me where people can order famous homemade guacamole and lemonade served in Mason Jars. They will order from picnic benches. Their dogs can come too. They can come and curl up underneath the table while their owners eat the guacamole. The waitresses can bring out bowls of water for the dogs. It will be grand. Maybe whoever is the new Mr. Rogers will travel to Nantucket and do a television special on me. On me and my lighthouse and my dog and how I save lives. We’ll become friends, the new Mr. Rogers and I. Maybe they won’t air the episode because all of my answers to his questions are two words long and my eyes dart back and forth whenever the cameraman turns towards me. Maybe my dog will be a labrador named Cosmo.
My father took a sip of wine and pushed the bridge of his glasses higher up his nose with his forefinger.
Let’s hope we will never have to resort to that.
